The house is bustling with people. Sandy and her toddler, Kelly, are welcomed in with easy arms by Soda and Darry. Steve and Evie have brought over some casserole that doesn't look too bad, and while Darry cooks outside, Ponyboy is inside the kitchen, checking on the cornbread and trying to keep himself together.

It's been over a day and Dallas still hasn't shown back up. He had spent all night and day trying to reach inside of him, tugging and calling for Dallas, trying to pull Dallas back to him. Trying his damndest to find a way to contact the hood again, to get him to reply.

Anything. Everything.

Nothing had worked. There was a distinct absence in the air, in his very being now where Dallas had begun to occupy that was now achingly, distractingly empty. It wasn't like when Dallas had died; it felt worse, the more Ponyboy sought him out. That he had been there, in his grasp. He has been with Ponyboy for weeks now in a way he had never been and Ponyboy couldn't reach him, couldn't pull him back and this time…

This time the darkness of it all, the inevitability of it all was different. Reality hadn't felt the same since Johnny had died. He had denied it over and over again, until he had been forced to acknowledge it, had been made to choke down on the gruesome reality of Johnny's death and Dallas' last act of defiance, his words echoing in his ears. That had at least made sense in the end, two human deaths.

As Ponyboy stirs the food in front of him, he is trying to adjust to reality shifting beneath his hands again in a way that he never anticipated. He's trying to get his bearings, trying to remember the right way to operate, but he can't. He can't focus on Darry and Two-Bit's outside conversation, on Steve's skeptical glances to Sandy or Kelly, perched in Soda's lap.

He should be here. He should be present, happy.

Instead, he felt as if the more he gripped the ladle, the more reality might finally fix itself. Dallas would appear at any moment now, any second. He'd come back, and he'd haunt Ponyboy again, like he had before. He'd be there, and things would be—

Normal?

It's insane that this is normal now. That Dallas Winston, haunting every step of his was normal now, that Dallas Winston had somehow burrowed his immortal soul into Ponyboy's, and now that he was gone, it wasn't normal. It had become his normal and now he was panicking, trying to go back, to pull Dallas back and— and—

"Pony?" Two-Bit's hand claps his shoulder, pulling Ponyboy back to the present. He cocks an eyebrow at him, his hand already gripping a glass bottle of beer. "You doin' okay, bud?"

"Yeah, Two," Pony gives him what he hopes is a convincing smile, "Can you look over this real quick? I gotta go."

Two-Bit cracks a smile, "Sure, man. Just don't mind if I dip my finger in one or two." He pushes Ponyboy out, and it's hard to keep his legs steady, making it down the hallway, each footstep faster than the last until he's finally in the bathroom. The door is locked behind him, and his body finally rebels, and he retches in the toilet.

When he comes up for air, it occurs to him that for the first time in weeks, he finally feels warm. The thought makes his eyes sting with tears, body shaking even more as he stands up, makes his way to the sink.

Ponyboy shuts his eyes, fingers clenching the sink tightly. He can hear Kelly and Soda in the living room, the slam of the door as Evie and Steve walk in. The voices of them all cascade over him, and he wants to scream, wants to vomit again.

There's nothing in his body to give.

He looks up at the mirror, at his own reflection and can't help but notice how pale he looks. How his eyes seem less vivid than before, how his hair, usually in those greased curls, is loose. The pendant hanging from his neck, how one hand looks strangely bare, without the ring on it now. His entire body seems off the more he looks at the mirror, and Ponyboy takes a deep, shaking breath.

Wildly, he thinks of those stupid, kid rituals of calling Bloody Mary. Thinks of looking at his strange reflection and saying his name three times, to will Dallas back.

The first syllable almost leaves his lips—

—and then there's a bang on the door. "Ponyboy! You done? Kelly's got to use the bathroom."

"Yeah, yeah, hold on!" Frantically, he flushes the toilet, turns on the faucet and rinses his mouth out twice with the mouthwash and water. His hands run through his loose hair, trying to push it back, and then he flings open the door to Sandy and a very antsy Kelly.

"Sorry," he shifts past them, shooting Kelly one smile, and takes his place back in the kitchen.

He can do this. He has to do this.

And Ponyboy does. For all the sickness he feels, for all the soul stirring emptiness inside of him, for all the world that he pleads for Dallas to come back in all his difficulty, he forces himself through Thanksgiving. He makes jokes, he cooks, he eats, and he acts like the self they expect as well as he can.

When he goes to bed, he hopes that he will wake to the feeling of cold, that he will see Dallas, beside him.