Christmas is spent in a quiet affair between them all. There's a meal, there's an exchange of presents. There is loss between them all, deeper than their parents. Ponyboy feels like this year more than ever, he is going through the motions even if he wishes for more. This is the last year before college, the last time, and yet his mind isn't at the table or the presents or the warmth before him.

When they sit in front of the television set, with Soda's arm around his shoulders, with Darry on the other side of them both, he's not thinking of what's on the screen. He's thinking of the first time he saw Dallas materialize before him here. When he'd been sick and sweaty, when Dallas flickered before him with that disembodied voice.

He's retracing his steps, thinking about the time before then. What he had done, what it had been like before Dallas had shown up. Thinking of the ouija board, of the cemetery.

Trying to pull himself out of his own head only makes him feel… angry. He feels something burning in his gut, in his very being. Focusing on his brothers feels urgent, imperative. On Darry being with him on one side, of Soda being on the other side. No one arguing, no one pulling. Everyone here and now, and Ponyboy feels angry and bereft.

The grief he feels is different now, so different. If Dallas were here, if Dallas was with him, he could concentrate better, he could feel at ease. Instead without him…

His fingers hold on tighter to Soda's arm. He tries his best to be the little brother they need in the moment, that he needs for himself.

Yet, he goes to bed thinking about Dallas again. Dreaming as Dallas, the switchblade in his hand. Bleeding already, feet hitting the pavement one at a time, desperate and violent and thinking about Ponyboy as the bullets ripped through his body.

This time, he wakes up, has to get from under Soda's heavy (breathing, still breathing) body. This time he puts his shoes on, throws on Dallas' jacket after avoiding it for so long, and gets out of the house. He lets his legs pump for him, running through the streets, trying not to lash out (at who, at what, how), trying to do anything, everything to distract.

Except it's a bad idea. His legs are taking him down the road at a breakneck speed. The cold doesn't feel real to him as he runs, it doesn't feel like something to even care about when he's experienced it the way he has with Dallas. His legs are moving and moving and he's just ending where the dreams were taking him: to the phone booth. His legs are hurting when he finally slows to a stop, looking at the phone booth before him.

His hand shakes as the memory comes to him: Dallas' forearm bandaged up, with the scar; the desperation on his face, the switchblade, the blood—

Ponyboy feels cold and clammy even as anger starts to rise back in him, anger that didn't even feel as if it belonged to him. The urge to take up the phone, to hit the damn thing against it grows, to try and destroy the stupid fucking thing—

His hand is reaching out for it. The receiver is cold against his skin. He flexes his fingers against it; it's shocking how cold it is. How cold everything seems for a moment, even as the memory slices it's way through his mind, of picking up the phone, desperately dialing his home phone number.

Ponyboy lets go of the phone. Breathes in.

The jacket seems heavy on his shoulders. He thinks he can smell the old smoke on it. He turns on his heel, and this time, he half walks, half jogs to the house.

He tells no one of what he's done. When he gets home, he almost takes off the jacket until the thought occurs to him that before Dallas had shown up, he'd been wearing it for days and weeks on end.

Ponyboy grasps the sleeve, takes it off slowly. For all the warmth that he hadn't had for weeks with it now, it occurs to him that during the run it had been different. He hadn't gotten over heated. He hadn't felt a if he wanted to peel off the jacket.

It fit perfectly like it had before.

Ponyboy pants, eyes focused on the brown leather now, fingers clenching the material. There had to be more to it than that. There had to be; he'd worn the jacket for years now, on and off. And yet…

His legs burn in protest from the run. His hair feels longer than usual, sticking to his forehead. His fingers flex and unflex on the jacket, and Ponyboy rubs his thumb on it, mind working. Of course it didn't make sense before, some stupid kids weren't messing with Dallas' grave before this, not that he knew of.

Now, they had. He'd been wearing the jacket when the cold came. He'd been wearing the ring too, had smoked the old Kools…

"Fuck," Ponyboy mutters. The St. Christopher pendant, too. He'd been wearing it, letting it become like a second skin on him to the point he'd forgotten about it until he'd struck a match against it. He reached up for it now on his chest, the wheels turning now, furiously. Grips it tighter, as if the saint on it could imprint himself on Ponyboy's skin.

In an instant he stands up, goes to his room. He pulls open the drawer, and the skull ring is there, glinting almost grinning menacingly at him from where he had put it weeks ago. Ponyboy reaches for it; besides the pendant, it had been what Dallas had worn when he had died.

He considers it in the light, heart slower in his ears than it had been before.

Ponyboy reaches for it, pulls his fingers away only for a moment — only a moment to consider that this wouldn't work, that maybe it was insane to try and do this — and then the thought of having to be without Dallas for any longer makes his guts twist.

He grabs it, slips it on his finger on his right hand. It feels cold, heavy on his finger.

Yet, with the jacket on, with the ring, with the pedant, thoughts focused towards him, Dallas never shows up. The cold that Dallas brings, it never comes.

thanks for reading! love comments, kudos, and the like. next part will be mirrored starting next week.