Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Lorde owns "Perfect Places."

All of our heroes fading

Now I can't stand to be alone

Let's go to perfect places

July 3, 1966

"When do you plan on seeing Mr. Franklin?" Darry inquired, placing his breakfast dish in the sink. "I thought you wanted to get your book out there."

Ponyboy shrugged. "I haven't told Dally yet."

At that information, Darry sighed deeply. He'd gone with his kid brother to ask Tim Shepard if it was alright to use his name, as well as his brother's, and the dark-haired hood hadn't seemed to mind all that much, so long as Ponyboy didn't reveal too much about his personal affairs, to which Ponyboy assured him that he hadn't. Darry had found the situation quite humorous—asking a gang leader for his consent to use his name in a coming of age book. To be honest, Tim looked as though he thought it was a little comical, too, but surprisingly, he'd seemed interested. But Dallas was a different matter, considering that he played a prodigious role in Ponyboy's book, one that had a completely different outcome than the events that had actually taken place.

"When do you plan to?" He turned back to face his youngest brother, who was still seated at the table, poking around at his eggs. "You want me to ask him for you?"

Ponyboy shook his head. "That's okay, Darry. I'll do it . . . soon."

"Well, you'd better, if you want that book on the market, kiddo," he replied, and smiled. "You know, I'm awfully proud of you, Ponyboy. I know Mom and Dad are, too."

At those words, the younger boy perked up instantly. "Thanks, Darry." And he grinned, too. He needed to hear that without even knowing he did. "They're proud of you, too. And Soda."

Before either of them could respond, Soda trailed in, a tired look in his eyes. "Hey, Pone," he greeted, and yawned while pouring himself a glass of chocolate milk. He glanced at Darry as the older boy placed a plate of eggs and the jar of jelly in front of him. "Mornin', Dar."

"So," Darry started, finishing off his coffee, "Mary is really coming here later?"

Soda's eyes immediately lit up. "Sure is. Speaking of which, I told her just to meet me at Giberson's and I'd bring her here once my shift ended. That okay, Darry?"

The oldest Curtis brother shrugged. "Sure." And then he looked down at Ponyboy. "I'm gonna run to the store and pick up a few things. In the meantime, Pony, would you mind cleaning up some around here?" His gaze drifted passed his brothers into the laundry room where a pile of clothes from the emptied hampers was placed on top of the washer. "Maybe do some laundry . . ."

"Yeah, okay," the red-headed teen answered, and mimicked Soda's yawn. "Would you quit doin' that?" he asked in a playful tone. "It's contagious."

Soda offered him a toothy grin. "What can I say? I'm a contagious guy."

Evie stood outside Mrs. Mitchell's hospital room, a nervous look in her eyes. She'd spoken to her only twice, and that was when Ella was there, but she was worried about her friend and what was going on, so she decided to speak to Ella's mother, if the woman was alright enough to do so. She didn't want to worry her or stress her out, but Ella's behavior had been . . . concerning, and Evie considered her one of her better friends, so with a newfound courage, the brunette tapped on the door, before slowly stepping inside.

"Evie," Mrs. Mitchell said, a smile gracing her lips. She didn't look well, but she appeared to be feeling better. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks," she answered. "You're looking a lot better. How are you feeling?"

"I am better, and I'm feeling it, too," came the response. Mrs. Mitchell liked Evie well enough, thought she was a good friend to her daughter. But it was a surprise that she was visiting her on a mid-morning Sunday like this. "You aren't working today, are you?" she suddenly asked, surprise laced in her voice.

The girl shrugged lightly. "I'm covering, actually. I usually work during the afternoon shift, but my co-worker called in sick, so I'm here this morning."

"That's kind of you."

Evie smiled, though it was hardly visible. "So, um, how's Ella doing? I know she's been upset with everything, but I haven't seen much of her these past few days."

Mrs. Mitchell's brows furrowed. She knew that her daughter had been working hard, even though she'd told her to take it easy and not worry so much. But Ella had always been a terrible stresser, and she worried about every single little thing. Mrs. Mitchell didn't want Ella to worry, and more times than none, she'd tried to tell her that she would be okay, that everything would be fine—even if they both knew that it wouldn't be.

"She's worried," Mrs. Mitchell eventually answered. "Ella is a bit of a worry-wort." There was a brief chuckle with that. "She was always a scared child, but she's strong." Her eyes met Evie's. "When I became ill last year, she acted the same way."

The teen nodded. "I understand. I've just been worried about her, and you."

"If only there was a way I could ease her worries." And she shook her head. "Don't worry about me, Evie, I'll be just fine." She winked for good measure. "Dr. Andrews said I'm a tough cookie. No cancer is going to knock me down."

For a split second, Evie's eyes widened. "You have cancer?" There was a pregnant pause, the words slipping out of the teen's mouth without thought. A desperation lurked beneath them, her chest seeming to clamp as she thought about Ella. No wonder the girl had been so upset. Her mother had cancer, and Evie knew that—even though Mrs. Mitchell was trying to reassure her that nothing was wrong—there was more to it. She knew Ella was a strong girl, not particularly tough, but Evie couldn't imagine how she would feel if her mother fell ill with cancer. But she bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, it's alright, Evie," Mrs. Mitchell interrupted. "I have ovarian cancer. But it's okay. I'm okay." And although her voice was firm, it sounded as though she was trying to assure herself.

Evie nodded, her hands folding together, a nervous habit of hers. She wasn't sure what to think, or what she could say to the woman, but she felt awful. She could see Ella in her mind, her worried expressions and tired eyes, the frown on her lips seeming to become permanent. Glancing at Mrs. Mitchell, she could see her friend's face looking back at her—they shared the same blue eyes and brown hair, but where Ella's was still full and thick, Mrs. Mitchell's was short and wavy, the top and sides beginning to gray with age.

She licked her lips. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Me, too," Mrs. Mitchell responded, and then a thoughtful look crossed her face. "I just wish that I could do something for Ella . . ." Her eyes squinted a little. "I'll be out of here tomorrow. Dr. Andrews said I'll be free to go after today."

And then Evie perked up. "I know it's probably not my place to ask, but . . . well, some of our friends are having an Independence Day party, and Ella was invited—"

"Yes," Mrs. Mitchell cut in, a grin spreading across her lips. She nodded at Evie. "Make her go. Drag her if you have to." She shook her head lightly. "Make her have some fun."

Evie returned the smile, genuinely, her hand reaching out to hold Mrs. Mitchell's. "I will." Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, she made her way to the door, looking back in for a second. "Thanks a lot. I hope you get better soon."

There was a small twinkle in the woman's eyes. "Thank you."

Fire. Sirens. Gunshots.

Dallas jerked up quickly, instantly regretting his actions. An immediate headache brought on by another hangover made him feel green. Also, the childish face of Angela Shepard was looming in front of him, and his brows furrowed as he realized he was in the Shepard's living room, the uncomfortable lumps of their couch digging into his back. He glared at the kid in front of him, instantly becoming irritated with her very presence.

"What the hell are you doin', brat?" he bit out, dropping his head back onto the pillow.

Angela scowled. "You were mumbling shit in your sleep. I was trying to wake you."

The blond rubbed at his face, annoyed with Angela's thin but raspy voice. Glory, but she'd always had an annoying voice, and dealing with a hangover and listening to her made him want to puke his guts up—Lord almighty, what in the hell time was it? And how in the hell had he ended up at the Shepard's house? Hell, he must have been out of it real bad to crash at their place—nobody in their right mind wanted to wake up to any of the siblings, or worse yet, deal with their mother or their step-daddy, no sirree bub. Dallas could deal with Leon, though, he wasn't as bad as his own father, not even close.

"What time is it, kid?" he asked, sitting up slowly.

Angela shrugged. "Ten or something." And then she glared at him, hard. "You know, I ain't a kid, Dallas, so quit callin' me that."

"Yeah, right," he mumbled. "Ain't a kid, my ass. What're you? Thirteen?"

"I'll be fifteen, dumbass." She sounded surely proud, and for a moment, Dallas was reminded of Pony, who had always been sensitive about his age, though that was mostly because he was the youngest in the gang. "And ya know what else? I may only be fourteen now, but at least I don't act like you, fallin' all over my big brother drunk as a skunk and practically incoherent . . ."

She trailed on, and Dallas wanted nothing more than to tell her to fuck off. His head was pounding the longer he sat there and listened to her ramble on and on and on, like a broken record. With as much speed that he could muster, he stood up and lightly shoved her aside, telling her to shut her trap before he whacked her upside the head, not that he really would, and they both knew that. Even Tim, who had gotten pissed off at his kid sister, never laid a hand on her. He'd knocked Curly around some, not enough to really mess him up, but not Angela.

Speaking of Tim, the older hood rounded the corner, and Dallas had to rest his hand on the side wall to keep himself from falling into him. He had no inclination of how he'd gotten to that house, or why Angela was yapping away about Tim bringing him there—he had no recollection of anything from the night before. What he did know, however, was that he felt sick, there was a party that evening, and Steve Randle was racing Paul Hopkins down the Ribbon later that night. That had perked his interest, and he straightened himself a little as he nodded at Tim.

"What happened last night?" he asked, sounding dehydrated. He licked his lips, his mouth drier than the Sahara Desert.

Angela sighed in the background. "You were acting like a drunken imbecile."

"Angela," Tim scolded, "beat it, would ya?"

Rolling her eyes, the black-haired girl took off toward her room, muttering shit under her breath. Her bedroom door slammed closed a moment later, the sound causing Dally to grit his teeth. Tim's sister was a real pain in the ass.

"So?" Dallas scowled, waiting for an answer.

Tim's arms were crossed, an almost disappointed expression crossing his face. "Found ya under the bridge with Cherie Peters."

And the blond almost snorted. "Cherie?" He tried to remember any of that, but all that came to mind was a blank. "I must've been real out of it to go with that broad."

"You were," Tim responded lowly. His gaze was boring into the younger teen. "The hell is goin' on with you, Winston?"

The younger teen sneered, not liking the tone in Tim's voice, as if he were making an accusation. Now, Tim and Dallas always had a unique friendship—messing with each other just for kicks, getting drunk together, stealing one another's girlfriends . . . the list was never ending. Thing was, though, that no matter how they fought, they would always be there for each other in the end. They were two of a kind, and there was no denying it. The difference was that Tim had more responsibilities than Dallas, who was more of a free spirit, wild and impulsive. Tim, on the other hand, needed organization, and he was strict and disciplined, stern and somewhat controlling. But they knew each other, and they understood each other, so when Tim found Dallas three sheets to the wind, fucking off with Cherie Peters, he knew that something was up.

"What?" the blond asked, his anger beginning to flare and becoming present through his voice. "Ain't I allowed to fuck off every now and again, Shepard—get my rocks off? You tryin' to play guardian to me now?"

The black-haired teen rolled his eyes, his hard face expressing bitterness. "I thought you were done with that broad."

"I am."

"Sure didn't look it to me."

Dallas raised an ashy brow. "Why? You interested in her or somethin'?" The question was dripping with sarcasm, a condescending look in his eyes. "Didn't think she was really your type, though."

The corners of Tim's mouth curved up ever so slightly, but his eyes remained blank. He wouldn't go anywhere near a broad like Cherie, not even for kicks, and they both knew that. But Dallas understood the silent look his buddy was giving him, and while neither one of them would ever say it out loud, they were both looking out for each other. While Dallas didn't mind any type of girl who offered to put out for him, Tim was more solid in his preferences—Cherie didn't fall into that category. Besides, he had a strict rule against druggies. It didn't matter to Dally, though, because he answered to no one, and he didn't have to set an example the way Tim Shepard had to, and they both knew that drugs and that kinda shit messed up gangs. Tim didn't run with that crowd, and neither did Dally, but Cherie was a good-lookin' girl who was practically throwing herself at him, so why should he deny himself any sort of pleasure? Dally was certain that Tim wouldn't have opened his mouth if Cherie was more like Sylvia—at least she didn't shoot up or nothin' like that.

After a minute, Tim shook his head, his posture slouching a little as he leaned back against the kitchen wall. "I heard one of your boys, Randle, was racing Paul Hopkins tonight."

"Sure is," the blond answered proudly, and grinned. "And won't that be somethin' for Hopkins when Randle blows his ass right off the line." He shook his head and mumbled under his breath, "Dumbass."

"Speaking of Hopkins," Tim said, his face once again turning serious, "The River Kings are starting to move in on my territory."

At this, the younger hood's brow raised with sudden intrigue. He hadn't heard anything interesting that regarded the gangs, or what was going on in town, in a while. Training for the rodeo and working for Buck had been keeping him busy for the last few weeks, and come to think of it, he figured it was time to get himself back in the know.

Tim always had the scoop about everything, and Dally knew that if he was the one relaying information, it was most likely true. The two of them always held a form of dislike for the River Kings, but Daxon Jones, the leader, and Tim were on mutual terms, or so it had seemed. But if he was allowing his gang to do business in Shepard's turf, there would probably be another territory warfare. It was well known, though, that Shepard's outfit had claimed the downtown backstreets and allies before the bridge, where it turned into King's turf. Brumly was a little ways down, and then there was the Tiber Street Tigers, who were in closer range of the Curtis gang, who were downtown, but not as far as Shepard's crew. Dallas's father's house was actually in Shepard's territory, which was how the two had come to meet so many years ago . . .

"Yeah?" Dally yawned. "What'd Jones have to say about that?"

"Don't got a clue."

He snorted. "Sure he don't."

Tim's arms crossed as he eyed the blond. "How would you feel about a doin' a job with me?"

Ella's lips were pressed into a thin line. "No, Evie," she said after a minute of listening to the younger girl talk about the party that evening, as well as Steve's race. "I can't go. I told you that I wasn't going to be able to make it—"

"I spoke to your mom," Evie interrupted. "And she gave me permission to use whatever force that I think is necessary to get you out to have some fun." Her eyes pressed into the older teen's. "Now, do I have to drag you by your hair, Ella?"

There was a silence that engulfed them, Ella's expression souring by the second. "You spoke to my mother?" she asked, sounding skeptical. "When?"

"This morning," the brunette answered quietly. "I covered a shift for Sarah Jennings, and I stopped in to see how your mom was doin'." She sighed. "We got to talkin', and well, she said that you should go out and have fun tonight." Her eyes scanned the inside of Ella's house as the older girl's arms seemed to tighten around her middle, her body pressing closer to the arm of the couch. Evie's expression dropped a little at the deflated posture of her friend, so she stepped further inside and sat down beside her. "Ella, I know," she said softly. When her friend's eyes met hers, widening, Evie could only sympathize. "I know about your mom's cancer, and I know . . ." She paused, her own voice suddenly cracking.

Ella's eyes were turning glassy, and suddenly, her cheeks were becoming moist. "I . . . I can't. I just—" She began sniffling, then, her hands covering her face in shame and humiliation. "I'm sorry, Evie, but I don't—"

And then Evie's arm was draped around her shoulders, the brown-haired girl only tearing up all the more. Ella's hand was gripping her own only a second later, and she felt her own eyes beginning to tear up, her stomach tightening with each passing second. All was silent, save for Ella's low sobs, and Evie could only do her best to comfort her friend. She wondered why this was happening to Ella, or why everyone she knew always had something horrible come their way. Evie didn't understand it, but she silently thanked whatever almighty power out there that she still had both of her parents, her kid sister, a good boyfriend, and decent friends. But looking at Ella just then made her feel overwhelmed with guilt—she shouldn't have pried her so hard, she thought, feeling ashamed.

"I could . . . stay here with you, or we could go see your mom together," she offered after several minutes. She smiled softly as Ella's hands uncovered her pale face. "We don't have to go to the party."

But Ella shook her head, wiping at her mascara stained cheeks. "Yes we do," she countered. "Besides, I know how anxious you are to see Steve race Paul, and I could never ask that of you . . . to keep you away from your friends and boyfriend."

"Your friends, too," Evie pointed out, and winked. "Besides, I know a certain somebody who will be there tonight, and . . ." Her brows wiggled a little.

Ella immediately chuckled, cheeks tinting pink. "Alright, alright. We'll go."

Outside, Evie was grinning largely, her eyes bright and eager, but inside, like Ella, some part of her was beginning to crumble and fall apart.

Ponyboy wasn't sure why, but he just . . . didn't like Mary. As promised, Soda had brought her back to the house with him after work, and then the four of them had left together to head to the Ribbon. There were all kinds of events going on, kids running around with sparklers, the sound of laughter, teens running off together . . . and then there was Sodapop, Steve, and Two-Bit, who were blowing off fireworks a little ways passed Darry's truck. Dally had shown up, but he didn't stay in one place for too long. Instead, he had walked off, dropping a few lit M-80's around people for kicks, even if it wasn't exactly funny to certain people, who had jumped a mile high when it went off just behind, or next to, them. Darry had scampered off to chat with a few guys he knew in high school, and Ponyboy had made his way around, hanging with Curly Shepard for a while, some guys from school, and then Ella, though she and Evie were sticking close by each other.

Then there was Mary, who barely spoke to anyone, only saying "Hi" when Soda had introduced her to everyone. She was small and petite with olive toned skin and big brown eyes. Her hair was long, falling down her back in dark waves. There were a few splattered freckles on her face, too, and she always seemed to have her hands folded in front of herself, as if she were nervous. She didn't seem the least bit intimidating—even Sandy had socialized more when she was around. Mary was just quiet and shy, and she could hardly look someone in the face, almost seeming to recoil or freeze up when too much attention was on her, like a deer in headlights. Soda had stuck close to her, only leaving her side when Two-Bit showed up with a few spare fireworks, an impish look plastered on his face as he ushered him and Steve away. Mary was left sitting on the back of Darry's truck, a bottle of Pepsi in her hand, a half-eaten hot dog beside her on its wrapping.

Pony had noticed Ella glancing over at Soda's girlfriend every few minutes, almost looking like she wanted to talk to her, and when Evie finally peeked over at the girl, too, they shared a look and made their way over to her. Ponyboy just didn't want to talk to her, plain and simple. He figured he probably would sound immature and downright rotten, but he couldn't help it. Perhaps he was just assuming she was going to be like Sandy, but the expression in her eyes and the nervous vibes she gave off let the younger teen know that she wasn't brazen enough to pull a stunt like that. And the way she looked at Soda . . . her eyes lit up and her face glowed.

With a feeling of deep reluctance, he followed behind Evie and Ella, shoving his hands inside his pockets as he made his way over to where Mary sat by her lonesome. By the time he got there, though, Evie and Ella were already re-introducing themselves, but at the sound of his shoes crunching the sand pebbles beneath his feet, Ella turned around and offered him a soft smile.

"Hey, Pony," she said, and the red-headed teen wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of alcohol wafting off her breath, a sign that Evie had gotten her to drink.

He feigned a smile. "Hey." Nodding once to Mary and Evie, he figured that he ought to be somewhat polite to his brother's girl, not wanting to ruin his or anyone else's night. "So, Mary, right?"

By the time Steve and Paul had raced, Ella was feeling pretty good. Not good enough to forget her troubles, but relaxed enough to let them go for the time being. She had been hanging around Evie the majority of the night, until Steve had left Paul Hopkins in a trail of dust and smoke. Everyone was celebrating his win, Paul and his boys looking angry in the background. They had cleared out, though, and the only people left in their group were Steve, Evie, Soda, Mary, and Two-Bit. Darry had left, taking Ponyboy with him, and when he'd offered Ella a ride home, the girl had politely declined, as she had promised Evie she would stay. And poor Mary . . .

The dark-haired girl seemed so out of place, like Ella herself, and she felt bad. Ella had a feeling that Ponyboy was holding his brother's girlfriend with some form of contempt, but why he was, or why she had that feeling, she wasn't sure. He seemed to stiffen up whenever he was around her, and whenever she spoke, or revealed something about herself, his face would twist up with annoyance. Ella felt bad, really she did, because Mary seemed like such a nice girl. Apparently, nobody had heard of her because she had attended private school from a young age, and even though she was sixteen turning seventeen, she had just graduated that year. She was an aspiring ballerina who loved books and classical music, reserved and very quiet—the complete opposite of Soda. But it wasn't missed how the two would catch each other's eyes and smile like a million bucks.

As the night simmered on, Ella felt better than she had in a while. Perhaps Evie had been right—she really just needed to get out, even if only for a few measly hours. It had definitely done her good, she noted, the alcohol in her system having done some wonders for her relaxed and mellowed mood. She was watching the guys goof off, well Two-Bit mostly—Steve had an arm wrapped around Evie's shoulders while they sat in front of the small bonfire, and Soda was trying to get Mary to dance with him to the music playing from somebody's car down the lot. Ella was leaning on the side of Steve's truck, her arms placed over the ledge, chin resting on her folded hands as she watched her friends with a small smile.

If only things could be this perfect forever, she thought. If only.

"Hey, sweets."

The girl nearly jumped, her Utopian state of mind abruptly fading away as she jerked to the side to see Dallas Winston standing beside her, a cigarette secured between his lips, a devilish expression in his blue eyes, which seemed to be almost enlarged by firelight. Her lips parted as she stared at him for a second, surprised to see him after a month. His hair was a lot longer, she noticed, his skin darker from the Summer sun with a tinge of red from working outside so long. Feeling her cheeks heating up, she turned back ahead, trying to ignore the goosebumps trailing up her arms from his presence so close to her.

"Hi, Dallas," she replied, fingers enclosing around the ledge of the truck. "How've you been?"

The blond smirked. "Better." He glanced down at her, then, taking in her appearance with a blank look; golly, but did this girl know what the sun was? In a flock of sun-kissed skin and lightened hair, Ella stuck out like a sore thumb with her pasty complexion and Cousin Itt-like locks. She appeared worn, though, just like Shepard had mentioned, her eyes dull and tired. "How's your old lady?" he decided to ask, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Ella's head jerked in his direction, surprise evident on her face. But then she assumed that he'd heard through Steve from Evie, or Ponyboy. "She's okay," she answered, her voice filled with disbelief. "She won't be in the hospital much longer. The doctor said she could leave tomorrow afternoon."

Dallas nodded. "Good."

They were silent for a moment, and Ella chewed her lip nervously. She stole a glance up at him quickly, realizing that he was surveying the scene in front of them with a mischievous expression, no longer interested in speaking with her. Still, Ella didn't want him to go just yet, so she attempted to strike up a conversation, her hands turning clammy.

"How's your Summer been?"

He made a sound like a grunt. "Been fine." Digging around his pant pocket, his lips curved up, eyes seeming to spark to life as he held a small object in his hand. "Wanna see somethin' funny?" And too late did she realize what he meant by "funny", for Dallas was already lighting the small wick, a grin spreading across his mouth as his lips curled back.

Ella's eyes went stark wide, jaw spilling, as the firecracker went soaring through the air, disappearing in the darkness and landing somewhere by their group of friends. It took all of a few seconds, if that, before it exploded, causing shrieks from both Evie and Mary, laughter from Soda and Steve, and a bag of chips blowing open and catching fire beside Two-Bit, the contents flying across his lap and all around him, sending a bottle of Pepsi to the ground.

"Winston, you little son-of-a-gun!" Two-Bit shouted, although there was laughter clearly audible in his voice; he wasn't the slightest bit mad.

Dallas was chuckling quietly to himself, and he turned to wink once at Ella before taking off, leaving her standing there once again by her lonesome, her lips turning up into a genuine smile.

All the nights spent off our faces

Trying to find these perfect places

What the fuck are perfect places anyway?

Feedback is always appreciated!

Thank you for reading! :3