So this came to me after I heard the song Brother by Kodaline. I know this is a bit long, but that's just the way I ended up writing it. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoy.
Eastside Tulsa Oklahoma was considered the rough side of town. It was the home of hoodlums, deadbeat dads, and drug addicts. It was the place known for constant robberies and stabbings, violent crime was somewhat an everyday thing. It was a neighbourhood where hubcaps and unlocked cars were never safe. An area where carrying a switchblade could be the difference between coming home and ending up in the hospital. A neighbourhood where, despite all the crime, calling the cops was unthinkable. And, in the middle of it all, it was a place that belonged to seven rowdy boys. Brothers.
Three boys lived in a little house on St. Louis Avenue. They got a better deal than any other child on the block; both parents were home and were loving. Ponyboy and Sodapop were the crazy names of the youngest and the middle child. The oldest, Darrel, was named after his father; everyone just called him Darry. Inseparable, they did almost everything together. Whether that was because their mother didn't want the youngest excluded is still debated to this day.
Darry was six, Sodapop three and Ponyboy just born when they first met the boy who lived across the street. It was quite an introduction. The boy was running away from his mother, stark naked. He managed to make it up and down the street a few times before the woman finally caught up to him. The two older boys watched from their porch, dying of laughter. Little did they know, that was not the last time that boy would make them laugh. The mother later came over and apologized, and that's how Keith Matthews joined their little group of three.
The three of them (Darry, Sodapop, and Keith) built towers that touched the sky and forts that overtook the living room. They played with the hose out in the backyard and their little feet tracked mud everywhere. They raced their little model cars across trackless floors, pretending that they were really behind the wheel. And when Ponyboy was old enough to understand what was going on, he joined in their fun.
Soda was jealous of his older brother, who had someone to play with a recess. Darry and Keith stuck together at school since they were closer in age. Leaving Soda alone. Or, maybe not.
Steve Randle entered the scene on the second day of first grade; he had missed the first. Sodapop ended up going to play with him on the carpet, zooming around with the model car he brought from home. They both liked cars; liked playing with them and watching them on the street. Their desks were next to each other, though that year not much work got done. It took only a week for them to decide they were best friends.
So, now the four became five. They fought over spots on the couch, wrestling each other until people hit the floor with a thud. They threw the football in the backyard, sometimes trying to drill the other person as hard as they could. Clothes became stained and floors always got dirtier whenever they were together. Teeth were lost in unplanned junior wrestling matches, and tears were shed over failed attempts at bike riding. Everything they did was almost always together.
Ponyboy brought Jonathan Cade home just shy of his sixth birthday. Johnny had just turned eight. They met at the park, both being pretty anti-social and sitting off to the side. Ponyboy was there with his brothers and friends. Johnny was there with nobody. After working up the courage to go talk to him, Ponyboy really liked this new kid. Johnny was quiet just like him, and they got along just fine. It took all of ten seconds to accept him into the group. The new boy was shy and quiet, and everyone knew it was because of the bruises they'd see on his cheeks. And after some gentle encouragement, he'd smile. He was only smiling with the group.
Just like that, five became six. Things went on. They learned to ride their bikes, tearing off up and down the battered old street. Time was spent down at the rodeo, and everyone secretly picked out their own little horse. They ran around the neighbourhood, playing serious games of cops and robbers. Campouts were organized in the backyard, multiple nights spent sleeping under the stars. It was the year Keith was dubbed Two-bit because of his smart mouth. The year Johnny Cade became Johnnycake after learning how much he loved Mrs. Curtis' homemade chocolate cake. It was the year the Curtis house stopped being the Curtis house and just became home.
Dallas Winston came to Oklahoma from New York after his mother had enough of him at the age of twelve. He hated this little rundown town. Just hated it. He met the gang down at the lot, interrupting their little football game. Even though he scared most of them, they let him join in the game. After a while, he'd admit that maybe Tulsa Oklahoma wasn't all that bad. Those guys seemed pretty cool.
Six finally became seven and they all thought it'd last like that forever. There were more football games, baseball games, and bike rides down the street. Wrestling matches got rougher and the boys got tougher. They became aware of class divides, learned never to walk alone when outside of their own little crime-ridden neighbourhood. Afternoons were spent roughhousing and joking around at the pool. Chocolate cake became the norm, and so did eating it at that rickety dining room table. Summer after summer blew through Tulsa and those seven boys continued having fun.
Highschool was started and things changed. Bikes were eagerly replaced with cars, and drives easily became the thing they most loved to do. Fights became commonplace, just not with each other (usually). It was girls that turned their heads now. Switchblades found their way into back pockets, and suddenly it was ok to walk alone. Paths diverged. Lines they had grown up knowing became blurred as a football player weaved his way through them, entering in and out of two groups. A joker began stealing everything that wasn't nailed down while wanna-be mechanics took to stealing hubcaps. Trips were made to the police station, always one of the seven who needed bailing out. Quiet kids steered relatively clear of the action, opting to spend time on that couch they used to fight over and watch tv. Despite all of it, the different paths and new friends, they always found themselves back at that little house on St Louis.
Cigarettes were smoked as friends sat to shoot the shit. Grades went up... and then down with every semester. Beers were opened for the first time, shared around the group with some feeling of rebellion. Two of them got jobs, only because it paid better than stealing hubcaps. Superman was added to the name of nicknames; all brawn and no brain was rejected with a swift punch to the jaw. Each one of them spent a night on the couch, it was rarely empty. Nights were spent tearing up the strip. Wild nights often filled with bright lights, girls, and fast cars. Smiles and laughs were never far from those seven faces.
Then all of them were blindsided. A cold January night, and the two people they all considered parents were gone. Three boys were left shattered, and no one was there to pick up the pieces. Or so they thought.
Money would turn up on the kitchen table right before bills were due. The fridge never ran out of beer or chocolate milk, though Darry hadn't gone out to buy more. They took Ponyboy out with them without complaint, not taking no for an answer. They looked out for him when Sodapop dropped out. The house was always clean when a social worker was due to visit, though none of the three could pick up a broom. They practically lived in that house, and their friends were thankful because it no longer felt so big.
They stayed, and joked, and smiled, and... eventually... so did Darry, Ponyboy and Sodapop. They celebrated birthdays and holidays and each time their smiles were a little brighter, their voices a little lighter. With time and their friends, they managed not to hurt so much.
Dynamics had once again changed. Instead of the football player, Darry had become the parent. He drifted in and out of the role, being one of the seven one minutes and then bringing them down to six the next. But, like always, they adjusted. Things were good for a few months. A new normal.
They found him in the old lot. The place where they had played as innocent kids, laughing and screaming as they chased each other. But not even the hundreds of happy memories could erase the one of Johnny laying there like that. They had gotten him home, as comfortable as they could make him on the couch. Four of them went out, and all of them came back with bloody knuckles.
He was jumpy then, more so than before. Everyone was careful of him, made sure not to sneak up on him. They walked him home, or anywhere else he wanted to go. They looked out for him, just like they had always done.
Once again, they adjusted and got used to the new normal. It wasn't all that different from the old one, but they were all on edge. That jumping had them scared, though nobody would openly admit it. Things went on. Dallas was in and out of jail, Two-bit was repeating junior year once again, Steve and Soda were still inseparable... but that day in the lot was still fresh on everybody's mind. So when their youngest began hollering for help, it took less than a minute for everyone to run over. He was fine so they played it off, but they were incredibly relieved. That knife could've done some serious damage.
On a Sunday night, the world changed again. Two girls changed a perspective just ever so slightly. A boy learned what it felt like to die. Another one learned what if felt like to drown. Two of them learned what it felt like to kill someone and, after getting some advice from their crime-experienced friends, what it was like to be on the run.
Four boys sat in the living room, feeling utterly hopeless. They looked for hours, finding nothing but a wet sweatshirt and a friend who claimed he knew nothing. Two boys razzed each other on their newly grease-free short hair. They worried about what would happen when they got back, sitting on that old couch they wondered if they'd get split up. They played cards and smoked cigarettes, reading a book on the cold hard floor of the abandoned church. They begged him to tell them where the two were. The two begged him for news of home.
A trip to Dairy Queen, a cigarette, an old wooden church, school children, and a fire. Two boys admitted to the hospital with injuries, one sitting in a waiting room waiting for his siblings. A visit to the hospital, a fight in an empty lot, a quiet death in a hospital and a violent one under the streetlights. All seven of them were in the cemetery that day. Five of them stood on the side absolutely helpless. Two of them were in the caskets. In one day, they went from seven to five.
It took longer to bounce back from this one. Jokes weren't heard and smiles were non-existent for a while. For one, writing it down helped and he could almost remember without completely breaking down. For others, drinking helped... or driving fast... or working hard... They all found a different way to deal. Then they all read that theme, and something changed. They leaned on each other and found another new normal. Once again, laughter and smiles wormed their way back into the rundown house.
There were still those moments where they'd be reminded of a small boy with a scared expression, a tough hood who could take on almost anything, and in those moments it hurt to breathe. But those moments became few and far between overtime and things resumed.
Sitting on the porch steps in an old, burned, brown jacket, Ponyboy had his first beer with his brothers. They continued tearing up and down the strip, sticking closer than they ever had. They shared their smokes, with the exception of one, and talked about the days when they were still little. Girls were present, but for some, they changed more than the songs on the radio. Life went on, and they kept living. Football and baseball and roughhousing... knocking lamps snd coffee tables over... crashing on the couch whenever they needed... all of it continued.
They knew it wouldn't last forever, they knew it. All of them had too much experience to know the universe would just let them be happy, but the draft still shocked them. Two of them went to Vietnam. One was forced and the other followed him willingly; they were best friends after all. Inseparable since grade school.
They went off to war and life at home continued. Letters were sent from home on the weekly, letters were sent from Vietnam any time they could spare a moment. They avoided gunfire and shelling. They avoided bills and deadlines. Soda had to worry about bullets, Ponyboy had to worry about Angela Sheppard. They prayed for the first time in a long time, to go home. They prayed every night for them to come home.
Two went to Vietnam, one came back. Another blow was dealt to these boys, who went from seven down to five and from five down to four. Only three of them were able to go to the funeral, and they stood beside an empty casket. Steve Randle came home four months later to a place that no longer felt like home and his best friend's two-year-old son.
They watched as he drifted away from them. Stuck in the surge of waves that came from injecting heroin into his veins. They watched helplessly because they were drowning a little themselves. He could barely keep the lights on, much less raise a two-year-old. He got a job, hoping to take some of the weight off his brother's shoulders. He finally graduated high school only to bartend, splitting his paycheck between his two families. While they managed to pull themselves out of the water, he kept on drifting. It took a screaming match, a punch to the face, and a car crash for them to really try to help him and for him to accept it. Thankfully, their four stayed four.
Things got better, like they always did. They grew closer, stepping in to help each other our wherever they could. Instead of tearing up the strip or playing football in the lot, they worked jobs and babysat. Instead of wrestling with each other in the living room, they built towers with a toddler. Somehow, in all of this, those little rowdy boys grew up.
He marked up his skin at twenty, despite the protests of his older brother. Pepsi-Cola written in red on his wrist; JD in black just below that. They were a part of him, and he wanted to keep it like that. When he got married at twenty-four, she understood. She didn't tell him it looked weird like others did. She smiled and, eventually, used one as the name for their son.
He got married at twenty-seven to a woman who loved his nephew like her own son. She, and his younger brother, surprised him with his father's wedding band. I'm proud of you was engraved on the inside, and he was told it was his brother who suggested it. He cried.
He didn't get married, but he loved his girlfriend more than anything. Even more than that switchblade he'd had as a kid. They lived in sin in a little apartment three blocks from home.
He was surprised she married him, especially after all he put her through. The wedding was bittersweet, he was over the moon to be marrying her. The girl he loved since high school. Someone else was supposed to be there, and he wasn't. He couldn't be. But they were, and if it was up to him, they would've been the only people.
They raised their kids together, a big family barbecue every Sunday night. It just made sense, especially because they had essentially collectively raised Soda's little boy. This time, they were the adults grumbling about tracking their little muddy feet all over the floor. They dealt with the stained clothes and scraped knees after failed attempts at biking. They soothed tantrums when towers got knocked over and teach were lost in junior wrestling matches.
They demonstrated how to play football and drove them down to the eastside pool. And they watched as their kids followed in their footsteps, creating their own little group.
Years went on, and they stayed together. Supported each other through the teen years, especially those that had girls. They weathered screaming matches and slammed doors. Homework checks and sports games. Together they watched their kids drive off to University, supporting whatever choices they made.
They encouraged one's decision to join the marines, like father like son, and cheered so hard at his graduation. They collectively worried about him when he was shipped out to the gulf, and threw a huge party when he came back unharmed.
Four became three after his drinking habit finally caught up with him at sixty-five. Honestly, they thought he was incredibly lucky to have lasted that long, especially with how much he drank when they were younger. The funeral was big, bigger than they would've thought. Three of them stood at the podium in the church, they were asked to give a eulogy since they had known him the longest. Like everything, they did it together.
He got famous on twitter after his grandson accompanied him to the tattoo parlour. Not many sixty-year-olds get tattoos apparently. Two-bit joined the list of names on his wrist, and just knowing that hurt him more than the needle did.
He slipped up for the first time in thirty-nine years. It put him in the hospital, and they were relieved when he left. It scared everyone shitless, and it was the last time he ever slipped up.
A six-letter word is what hits them next. Pancreatic cancer's already a death sentence, so he opts out of treatment. Instead, he spends his last twelve months with his family. They travel, they play football, they to concerts for as long as they can. He dies in 2015. From three, they're down to two.
He always thought nothing would hurt more than Soda's funeral, but he was wrong. He sat up front with Steve and Patrick. With Billy, Matt, Katherine, and Lily. They had known for months that this was going to happen. They accepted it, and they moved on. They focused on spending time with him, on making the best of what they had. And they all wondered why it hurt this much.
He's trending once again on twitter, and the comments are all wondering why he's getting superman tattooed on his list of names. Because, to him, Darry was always superman.
The heart attack wasn't sudden, in fact it was his third in three years. Everyone knew it was coming. It isn't incredibly sad to everyone, only because it was natural. It's sad to him, though he's almost thankful. There was time when Ponyboy thought the heroin would do Steve Randle in. Ponyboy sees his own son, holding his six-year-old in his arms. He wonders how much of her other grandfather the little girl will remember.
He gets his last tattoo and everyone in the parlour is expressing their condolences. By now they know why he's getting them.
From seven they went down to five. From five to four. Then four to three. Three to two. Now, he's the only one left.
In a little neighbourhood on the wrong side of town, there were seven rowdy boys. They played together, fought together, cried together, laughed together. Four of them grew up and had families of their own. Three of them never grew up at all. Five of them had kids. Two of them never got the chance. Three of them died in a hospital. Two of them died of natural causes. Two of them died bloody, violent deaths. They died at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five, and finally at ninety.
But it was ok. Because nothing, not even death, could keep those seven boys apart for long.
Sorry if that was hard to understand.
Oh also, Patrick is Soda and Sandy's son. She gave him to Pony and Darry when he was two. Soda died before then.