A/N: Oh, this one's nothing special. (shrugs) Just a little AU about Pony dying instead of Johnny.
Title is from that one poem. You guys know the one.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders in any way, shape, or form!
!~~~T~H~E~~O~U~T~S~I~D~E~R~S~~~!
So Eden Sank to Grief
"Tell your friend that in his death, a part of you dies and goes with him. Wherever he goes, you also go. He will not be alone." – Jiddu Krishnamurti
Tonight's the rumble. But I'm not going. I can't. Fightin's no good. It's useless.
Just look where it's gotten you.
You're in the hospital, dying from pneumonia, the doctor says. Your breathing's really shallow, there are dark shadows under your eyes, and your skin is as white as a ghost. You're dying, and it's very hard for the gang to stomach that. Especially me. It's all my fault, after all. You're only here because of me.
The rumble is for you, y'know. Bob, Randy, and their friends were drowning you in that fountain. I brought out my switchblade and knifed Bob in his side. By the time that fight was over, both you and him were alive.
But while Bob's all better now, you aren't, despite the doctor's best attempts.
Maybe if I had acted sooner, or better yet, if I had instead brought you home instead of the park, then you wouldn't be here.
You'd think I'd be fighting in that rumble on your behalf, but I can't stomach the thought of violence anymore. I could stand my parents hitting me, as long as your front door was open. I could stand the Socs jumping me, as long as you and your innocence remained untouched.
But now you're dying. (And it's all my fault.)
No, I'm not fighting. I'm leaving that to the guys, and I trust them to beat the Socs for me, for us both. They're pissed, your brothers especially.
Instead, I'm keeping you company, making sure you stay alive until the guys get back. There's a strong chance you'll die during the rumble, though, so if you do go, at least you won't be alone.
I enter your hospital room, located in the ICU. The Intensive Care Unit. Jesus, you're only fourteen. Barely a teenager. You shouldn't be in the freakin' ICU. (But you are.)
You're in your bed, your pale skin matching the sheets enveloping your weakened body. You seem like you were sleeping when I arrived, but as soon as the door opens, I see your green-grey eyes open, and you smile at me.
"Hey, Johnny," you greet me. You sound exhausted, like you want to sleep. (If you sleep now, though, you'll never wake up again.) I suspect you were fighting to stay awake, waiting for me.
But I don't say anything. Instead, I just sit down in the chair next to your bed and smile back, despite how much it hurts me to do so. "Hey, Pony. How are you feelin'?"
It's a stupid question, because I know the answer. But if you do die in the next fifteen minutes, I can't have you stay silent. I need to hear your voice one final time.
Your smile fades, "Tired." You pause. "I saw the article."
I'm alarmed, because we were trying to hide it from you. "Who showed you?"
"Susie." Of course. Your nurse showed you. You two get along really well. I wonder if it's because she reminds you of your mom.
That article, from yesterday's paper, says you must appear in juvenile court for running away from home if you ever recover, all thanks to that social worker you despise getting all over Darry for hitting you that night. We agreed to keep it from you so you wouldn't stress out and just focus on recovering. (But you're dying, so I guess it doesn't really matter anymore.)
"Don't worry," you say, after seeing me stay silent. "I don't blame Darry at all. I was the one who didn't listen."
You think it's your fault you're dying, I realize. Oh, you cannot be farther from the truth.
Because I understood how you felt then. I felt the same way the first time my father hit me. You needed time to cool off, and you even told me that you planned on going back home.
(It's my fault. I'm the one who didn't protect you.)
All of a sudden, a string of harsh-sounding coughs racks your weak body. When it stops, you sink back into your pillows, looking worse than before.
That's when it occurs to me that you really are about to die. You're seconds away. And that's a thought I can't wrap my head around. I need you. You're my best friend.
"I promised the guys I'd keep you alive 'til they got back," I softly plead with you. "Please, fight for just a big longer."
"I'm trying," you reply. You sound even worse now. "I really am..."
You don't have enough strength to keep waiting. I know that, and judging by your expression, you know it too.
You swallow a lump in your throat (it looks painful), before quietly telling me, "I wrote letters for you and the gang. Make sure the guys read theirs and follow the advice I give them."
'Make sure they keep living', is what you're asking me.
"That's a real big ask, Pone," I say. I can feel unshed tears in my eyes.
"I know," you admit. You're not going to make it. You sound really drained now. "But I trust you. If anyone can keep the gang on track, it's you."
You're remembering Two-Bit's 'We couldn't get along with you' to me. I know you are. You're thinking that you're just the gang's tagalong, the kid everyone puts up with simply because you're related to Darry and Soda, and that everything will mainly stay the same once you're gone. You're wrong. (Even now, you don't use your head.)
You, Ponyboy Curtis, are the one we can't live without.
But despite the light I can see fading in your eyes, I can also see confidence. Trust that I'll understand what you're feeling and trying to really say. And I do.
If you want me to make sure the guys don't shut down, then I won't disappoint you.
I can only nod, and you give me one last weary smile to show your gratitude. Your smile fades, though, and you whisper to me, "Don't you shut down either." It's the loudest you can get, and I have to strain my ears to hear you correctly. "Show Frost that something gold can stay."
Right, that Robert Frost poem you shared with me once. You want me to stay myself, don't shut off my emotions. Stay gold.
"I will," I whisper back.
And with that, you close your eyes. Your pillow sinks a little as you take your last breath, and now you're gone.
You read about people looking peacefully asleep when they're dead, but they don't. You just look dead. Like a candle with the flame gone.
But you have a smile on your face. You died content. Too young, yes, but you don't look like you have regrets.
It's five minutes before the others finally arrive, and I cry the whole time. It's evident that they didn't bother to dress their injuries before coming here, 'cause I can see Two-Bit's face, the way Steve is clutching his side, and how Dally is favoring one arm over the other.
The gang's all here, desperate to see you one last time. I try to say something, tell them that they're too late, but I can't make a sound.
All I can do is shake my head and watch your brothers break down.
!~~~S~O~~E~D~E~N~~S~A~N~K~~T~O~~G~R~I~E~F~~~!
The gang ain't the same without you. You've always been more emotional than the rest of us, but seeing you feel things freely let the guys know that it was okay to show emotions, to feel things. Now, without you, they are indeed shutting down, numbing their emotions because you're not around anymore to influence them to share them.
I said you were the most important person of the gang, and I was right, though I wish I had said it to you out loud.
You were the most important because you represented something the rest of us had to protect. You were different, yes, but it was because you were different that made you special.
I'm not much better. I promise you that I'd 'stay gold', that I would not shut down and make sure the others didn't either. But I'm sorry that I haven't been able to keep that promise. I haven't even gotten around to reading your letter, the one you said you wrote and gave to Nurse Susie to give to me and the gang.
See, when you died, part of me died with you. And no matter how hard I try, I can never get that part of me back.
And it's not just me. Dally seems like a machine these days, Steve is even more angry at the world (not even Soda can calm him down), and Two-Bit's completely lost his sense of humor. I don't think we can even call ourselves a gang anymore. We don't act like one.
Your brothers are the worst, though. Sodapop's inconsolable, and Darry wears that helpless look from your parents' funeral every day now. Before, their lives revolved around you, because their primary mission in life was to keep you alive, to make sure you got the chance to go to college and make something of yourself, the chance you'll never get now. And now that you're gone, they don't know what to do. They're lost.
(We all are.)
It's been two weeks, and nothing's gotten better. I'm sorry. I promised you I wouldn't let this happen, but I failed you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything.
But today is different. Your letter has been sitting in my jacket pocket, waiting to be read, this whole time, and I don't know what possesses me to read it now. Maybe it's because I miss the sound of your voice.
'Hey, Johnnycakes', your handwriting says.
Seeing your confusingly neat, medium-sized cursive is comforting, and I read on, somehow hearing your voice read it all for me.
'I know you didn't read this right away, but that's okay. I don't blame you for waiting. To be honest, I'd be the same if our roles were reversed.'
So, you knew I wouldn't read your letter as soon as I got it. You knew I'd be in mourning. But you're not mad. You understand why. I smile, because of course you, the emotional one of us and someone who lost both parents, would get someone's hesitance in moving on from a loss.
I read on, 'If you're reading this, it means I'm gone now. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. I tried my best to hang on, to keep fighting. To be honest, I'm scared. Not of the physical act of dying, but of what comes after, if anything does come after death. What if I die and Mom and Dad aren't waiting for me? What if the afterlife isn't paradise, or even fire and brimstone, but an endless black abyss? I guess I'm more afraid of being alone than actually dying.'
My heart goes out to you, even though you're dead. I can never get back the part of me that died with you, but that's okay. You can keep it. That way you won't be as lonely.
'I'll be okay,' you continue, and I resist the urge to scoff. You're dead; that's far from being okay. 'I'm just going to miss you guys. I've been thinking about that poem, and what you said it was about. You said that Robert Frost meant you're gold when you're a kid, like green. When you're a kid, everything's new, like dawn, and it's just when you get used to everything that it's day. You said that the way I dig sunsets was gold, because I was being myself, doing what I loved doing. So, stay gold, Johnny, and make sure the others stay gold too.'
I did say all that. You told me that you always remembered that poem because you never got the meaning behind it. But I did.
'I wrote each of you a letter, because what all I need to tell you is different from what I need to tell the others. Soda and Darry's letters are the longest, though yours is in a very close second. I have a feeling I won't get to say goodbye in person, so I'm grateful that I was able to write these letters and get every word down on paper.'
I swallow a lump in my throat. It doesn't surprise me that the letters you wrote to your brothers are the longest of the six. I imagine you had a lot to tell them.
'Do me a favor, Johnny, and don't ever go back to your parents' house. Go and stay where you're wanted. My door is and always will be open to you. I may be gone, but Soda and Darry feel the same way about you as they always have. Don't feel guilty about invading our house, or feel like you're replacing me, because you're not. You're family, and to be honest, you're all Soda and Darry have left. So take care of them for me, and remind them to look at a sunset every now and then. I'll miss you, Johnnycake. Stay gold. Your buddy, Ponyboy Curtis.'
Move in with your brothers? You're okay with it, as it says so in this letter, but are your brothers okay with it?
'P.S. Yes, my brothers are okay with you moving in. It's something I asked of them in both of their letters. And even if I hadn't asked them, they'd take you in without second thought. Don't doubt how important you are to them, or the gang. Remember, you take up for your buddies, no matter what they do. When you're a gang, you stick up for the members. If you don't stick up for them, stick together, make like brothers, it isn't a gang anymore. It's a pack. A snarling, distrustful, bickering pack like the Socs in their social clubs or the street gangs in New York or the wolves in the timber. Please, don't let that happen to you guys. Stay together.'
So they are okay with it, according to you.
'P.P.S.' reads the final line of your letter, 'My sketchbook is yours. I know you have a talent for drawing. So embrace it.'
I'm crying by the time I'm done reading. I wasn't expecting you to be so encouraging. If your P.S. is any indication, the others received a letter just as uplifting.
And you're right. We've been through too much together to let your death be what breaks us.
Feeling inspired by what you wrote to me, I get up from my seat in the vacant lot and I make my way to your house. Before I know it, I'm knocking on the door, and I freeze as I realize what I'm doing.
What if your brothers haven't read their letters yet? What if they're not ready for company yet?
The door opens, and Sodapop is standing there. It's too late to turn back now, so I offer a hesitant smile and softly greet him, "Hi."
Soda softly greets me just as quietly, before ushering me inside, ranting about how cold it is and how I shouldn't be outside in such freezing weather. He sounds a bit like himself, and it makes me smile.
Soda leads me to and makes me sit on the couch, before he goes to the hallway closet to get me a blanket. Darry's sitting in your dad's old armchair, looking lost, but he perks up a bit when he sees me.
"What brings you here, Johnny?" Darry quietly asks.
"I finally read Pony's letter," I softly tell me. My answer catches Soda's attention as he returns with the blanket in his arms. Both of your brothers are listening to me intently, all because I said your name. "He asked me to not go back to my house, and to stay...with you." You said you asked your brothers to take me in. Now here's the moment of truth. Did they read their letters yet?
Soda sits down next to me, and offers a smile, "You're always welcome here, Johnnycakes. Stay as long as you want."
"Thank you," is all I can say.
"You're welcome," Darry says. "As long as you don't blame yourself. You did protect him. It's those Socs who decided it'd be fun to drown him."
I smile, "I won't, but if I'm not allowed to blame myself, then neither are you."
To my surprise, Darry finally cracks a smile. "That's what our letters told us," he explains to me. "Ponyboy told us both that the blame game was never to be played in this house again. His words, not mine."
It makes me feel better, knowing you told both of your brothers not to blame themselves for your death, especially Darry.
"He also told us that a chocolate cake must always be in the icebox," Soda adds, "and if there isn't, then one must be made immediately." This makes me chuckle.
It also makes me realize that you told your brothers to keep living, to do all the things they used to do with you, not to torture them, but to make sure they don't forget how to live.
"Is there a cake in the icebox right now?" I ask, genuinely curious.
Your two brothers look at each other, before turning back to me. "Nope," Darry says.
"I guess we know what to do," Soda says.
And that's how the three of us end up in the kitchen, baking a cake like you told your brothers to do. For the first time in two weeks, I feel myself relaxing. Baking a cake with your brothers makes me feel like we're a gang again. Your death still leaves a lingering sorrow in the air that won't go away, but none of us can deny that we're having fun baking together.
The moment the cake comes out of the oven, we hear someone call out, "Anybody home?"
"Kitchen!" Soda says.
And Darry quickly adds, "Don't slam the door!"
The person slams the door anyways, and Two-Bit appears in the kitchen door frame.
"Two-Bit? What are you doin' here?" Soda asks.
"What? You ain't glad to see me?" Two-Bit asks. "You wound me, Curtis." He places a hand over his heart and pretends like Soda shot him.
Two-Bit's joke brings a smile to Soda's face, "Of course we're glad to see you, ya clown. It's just been..." Soda pauses before relenting, "...a while." He doesn't want to say how long it's been since your death, 'cause it will just bring down the mood. I can't blame him.
"I know," Two-Bit solemnly replies. "But Pony...asked me not to stay away. We're still buddies. Let's keep it that way."
What you told me about when a gang is no longer a gang, I realize then, is something you told Two-Bit too. And if you told Two-Bit, then there's a strong chance you also told the same thing to Steve and Dallas, and Soda and Darry.
"Thanks for comin' over," Darry tells Two-Bit. "We're glad you're here. The cake's not ready yet, but if you're willing to wait-"
Two-Bit cuts in, "I'm always willing to wait for cake, Superman!" Darry smiles at him, just as another knock comes to the door.
It's Steve. Soda immediately lights up at the sight of his best friend and surprises him with a hug. Steve's not one for hugs, especially in front of other people, so the fact that Soda hugs him anyways says a lot about how much pain Soda's in over your death. The fact that Steve doesn't shove him off says even more about how hurt Steve is.
"It's good to see you too, buddy," Steve mutters. "Sorry I didn't come by sooner. I needed some time."
He needed time to grieve, I mentally finish his thought.
"But now that you're here, you're staying, right?" Soda asks. He sounds like he doesn't want to get his hopes up. I briefly look over at Darry, and he looks just as hopeful as Soda does.
"Of course," Steve replies. "Can't get rid of me that easily!"
"We should know," Two-Bit jokes. "We've tried before."
"You sonofa-" Steve throws a punch at our group jokester, who dodges the swing easily. Pretty soon, the two are wrestling in the floor like they used to. I hear Soda laugh out loud, before I turn to Darry, who's shaking his head with a fond smile on his face.
I start to laugh too, but I pause when I see a figure standing outside the door. I move over and open it, and sure enough, it's Dally, the sixth member of our gang. He's hovering outside, but he's not facing the house. He's looking at the setting sun, watching with a gaze that smoldering yet thoughtful.
"Dally?" I quietly greet.
"Hey, Johnny," he answers, just as quiet.
"What're you doin'?" I ask. "It's much warmer inside."
"I know," he says. "I'm doing something the kid made me promise to do."
"Pony asked you to watch a sunset?" I realize. You've already taken me to see one. It was beautiful. All the colors blended beautifully in a way that took my breath away. I've always wanted Dally to see a sunset, but I was never sure how to ask him. (I guess a letter from a dead friend was the way to do it.)
"Yep."
I sit down next to him, "And? What do you think?"
"He's right," Dally replies. "It's an awful pretty sight."
I smile, knowing that's all I'm going to get out of him. I pause for a moment, letting Dally watch the beautiful sight in front of us, knowing how special a moment it is for him. When the sun falls and the skies makes way for dusk, I finally speak, "Come on inside. It's warmer. Much warmer."
I'm not just talking about the temperature, and I know Dally knows that.
"Not sure I should," Dally replies.
"He'd want you to come inside," I tell him, my voice soft, as I finally attempt to keep my promise to you. I don't say your name, but I don't have to.
Dally's quiet, the dangerous kind of quiet, as he see his face twist into an angry expression. "I hate them. Those damn Socs. They got off too easy if you ask me."
Bob Sheldon and Randy Adderson both confessed to your death, your murder. I went to the trial; I had to, since I was involved. They both spoke the truth, as did their three friends. They were charged with involuntary manslaughter. Apparently, Bob's parents tried to get him a lighter sentence, but Bob strictly told them off. He made a mistake, and he would pay the price for it. Randy also told me that he too was sick of the violence.
I respected them both for coming clean and realizing that their 'harmless fun' ended up killing a fourteen-year-old kid, but the guys weren't so understanding. They hate Socs even more now, and the thought of the cycle of violence continuing despite seeing where it got you makes me sick.
Dally continues, "But keeping the gang together is more important."
So that's what you told Dally. You did tell him the same thing you told me and Two-Bit.
I can't believe you never saw how important you really are to us. You're not even here anymore, and yet you're still the one bringing us together.
I smile at his words and nod, "It is. Now, come inside. The cake's almost done."
"Sure thing, Johnnycakes," Dally replies. "I could go for some chocolate."
And he follows me inside, where the others are starting a poker game while we wait for the cake to cool off enough to frost.
The minute the cake is frosted and done, it's cut into six even slices. Soda pours some milk for all of us, but before anyone can dig in, I start talking.
"Ponyboy made me promise to make sure we all stay together," I softly tell them. I see the understanding on their faces, and it confirms to me that you did indeed tell the others about when a gang is no longer a gang, but most importantly how you don't want us to end up like a distrusting pack of wolves. I continue, "It's okay to be sad, but it's no excuse to stop living."
"Well said, Johnnycakes," Two-Bit says. The smile he wears is sad, because he misses you as much as I do, but part of it is also happy. Seeing around the others is making him feel much better.
Darry then holds up his glass of milk, as if suggesting a toast, "What Pony told you all in those letters is entirely your business. All I ask is that you all follow everything he asked of you to the letter. It's the best way we can remember him."
"Agreed," Soda's smile is sad, but his eyes are filled with the soft determination he's always had. He also holds up his glass of milk.
The six of us clink our glasses together, and that's when I know I can relax now. You'll always be a sore subject for us, but I finally feel like everything will be okay.
!~~~T~H~E~~O~U~T~S~I~D~E~R~S~~~!
A/N: If ya'll didn't figure it out already, Johnny's talking to Ponyboy here.
I'm sorry I can't just let these characters be happy. S.E. Hinton wrote "The Outsiders" based on what she knew about life at the time, because she wanted to write a realistic story about teenagers. I really connect with that, since I also try to write in a sense of realism in all of my stories (not just those of 'The Outsiders'), especially in my characters, so at least one of my readers can connect with a character because they look at them and say "Hey, I can see myself in their shoes".
