author's note:
i rarely add in a note up top — however, this fic is a bit different from my norm. this is going to be a bit of a darker, layered fic than usual for my wheelhouse. take this as your big warning signs if the tags themselves are not enough for you.
this fic will be dealing with some very heavy concepts and issues. i've attempted to warn for them appropriately, and many of them have to deal with themes as dark as cannibalism, which will be depicted "on-screen" in the fic. much of it concerns a father and son relationship and the ins and outs of their relationship and how it affects them — specifically, ponyboy and his father atreus, and dallas and his father, texas. this fic will also be delving into ponyboy's perspective on it and if you're looking for a conventional take on what happens to him and how he responds, you might be disappointed. ponyboy is an empathetic character to me – perhaps too empathetic! – who has a lot of forgiveness in him. so let that be a warning for a future i won't spoil yet.
additionally, as doesn't currently have a function for this, johnny/dallas is not the endgame ship here. their relationship will be deteriorating and ending over the course of this fic. the endgame ship here will be dallas/ponyboy, so if you're concerned, there's your warning.
if you feel the need to tap out at any point, that is fine with me. i don't require a written reason why – i understand a quiet exit and people have limits.
as with most fics i write, i'm mixing book and film iterations with a tiny pinch of the tv-show when it comes to two-bit. since some people have asked before and i'm leaning on descriptions a bit more than normal, ponyboy as an adult to me is timothy olyphant, atreus is john cassavetes, jennifer is gena rowlands, texas is robert de niro, vincenzo is marlon brando, ace is mike faist and antonio is vincent spano.
last but not least, i'd like to thank several people here for helping me with this fic in various ways: littlemissgrenadine, monstrology, nantes and hearthouses. you're all great and thank you for everything.
thank you for reading this and please enjoy.
August, 1957 – Philadelphia
Red and blue lights flash outside, washing over the walls of the house in wave after wave. The sound of people gathered outside is muted against his ears, and when he breathes in, he thinks that he can taste the blood in the air, the taste of meat that shouldn't be meat.
Beneath him, the floorboards are staining with spilled salad, a pitcher that had shattered on impact with one painted on flower coated with a light brown sauce, and in the corner, near the refrigerator, there's a pile of vomit there that he believes is from his oldest son.
"Pappo?" The little sound of his youngest son tugs him out of his stupor, of staring at the floorboards that were going to need to be scrubbed for hours. He looks down at him, at those wide hazel eyes of his, at his brown hair that was curling around his ears and cheeks — cheeks that were stained a dark red that was rusting more and more by the minute, which went double for the smear around his mouth. "You're holding on real tight."
Talking is difficult right now, and he knows he should loosen his grip on his son. Of all of his children, he was born smallest and —
"Mr. Pelopides!" The words boom over a megaphone, startle them both. His son's eyes well up with tears, shrinking closer to him. "Please, we are only trying to help! Please, come outside. We do not want to have to use force!"
Liars, he thinks. They'd love to, if it weren't for his son. The thought of the harm being done to him, of losing him only makes his grip tighter. "Ssh, Daisy. Ssh, okay? I'm not gonna let you get hurt." It's easier to soothe him, to look at his son's eyes than to talk to the cops outside, with guns, with every intent to hurt, to tear them all apart again.
No one could hurt his family. No one was going to break them up, no one was going to take them away from him.
Daisy whimpers, and wraps his arms around him tighter. There's the sound of tires outside, and Daisy's voice is quiet, trembling, "Pappo, what about Mama?"
As if summoned, the megaphone crackles again and her voice comes over it, desperate, "Atreus! Atreus, please let him go. He's only six, Atreus!" Her voice is booming, full of upset, and Atreus doesn't want to hear her right now, remembers her pushing away from the table, the horror on her face.
No. He had to keep his Daisy with him. Had to keep him here.
Daisy's eyes get wider, looking towards the door, then back to Atreus. His fingers tug on his shirt — Atreus desperately reaches down, trying to prevent him from touching the blood on there. He's too late, the red stain a ghastly, dark smear on his little hand.
An uncomfortable feeling drops into his stomach. Atreus remembers what it was like, to reach out and touch a green dress, to see his mother's face...
Daisy starts to cry in earnest, and the sound crashes over his ears. His face, that was so like his mother's, that was so openly upset, torn apart and Atreus knows that he can't do this. He can't do this to his son, he can't keep him here like this, he can't deny him his mother like this.
He surges forward, kisses his son's face, his hair, everywhere he can. Daisy sobs, clinging to him, kissing his cheeks back, and latching onto his shirt as Atreus finally stands to his feet. In front of him, he can see the table in front of him better, no longer restricted to the minute world of the legs and the floor: the plates that were shoved away, scattered to the ground, smashed. In the center of the table was the worst of it, the cause of everything, and he only glances at it as he carefully makes his way to the sink.
Daisy couldn't look like this. Atreus wets the green towel he has, and carefully washes Daisy's face free of blood and tears. It doesn't feel the way he has in the past few hours, where he's been moving on a string, full of desperation. It feels as if his body is his for a moment, again, that he is Atreus Parthenos Pelopides again and not someone, something else that doesn't want his family to leave him (can't, they can't leave him.)
"Atreus!" The speakerphone crackles again. "Atreus, please, please just give Ponyboy back!"
Atreus puts the towel down, and looks at the carving knife, with the blood still staining the blade as he bounces Ponyboy in his arms. "I'm going to give you back to your Mama." The words are slow, heavy, and difficult to get out of his throat. "You be good for her, Daisy. You promise me. I won't — Pappo won't be here after this."
"Why? Don't – Pappo, I wanna stay, I want to stay," Ponyboy's voice hitches up an octave, and Atreus can't stand it as his hand tries to fist itself in his shirt.
"It's okay, Daisy. It's okay," Atreus hefts him up, ignoring the sounds of someone else on the megaphone. "Come on. Mama needs you."
Daisy keeps talking, keeps begging. Atreus knows that if he doesn't leave this kitchen now, that feeling will come back. He'll want to keep his son close, and never return him, and he walks slowly down the hallway, past the walls with flower wallpaper on them. Past the photos lining the walls that have his mother and father on them, past the shattered vase on the floor, to the door that's been shut.
Ponyboy tries to squirm away, cling. Atreus kisses the top of his head, moves the chair that's blocking the door, and his hand shakes. "I'm coming out! Don't fire, I've got Daisy!"
"Pappo, no, please —" Ponyboy begs, and Atreus opens the door. In front of him, assembled at the bottom of his porch steps has to be half of the Philly police department. Their cars are parked there, the lights on, and standing with the chief is Jennifer Curtis.
That's all he looks at: the terror on her face, the blonde bob, the way her mouth trembles looking at them. Distantly, he recognizes the fact that her dress is stained — with what, he isn't sure of. There's a run in her stockings, and one of her heels has been snapped off of her shoe, making her stand uneven on the expansive lawn. The world narrows itself down to her, down to the fact that he knows he shouldn't allow her to be so terrified of him, that he shouldn't have let this get so far with his youngest son.
Still. That black part of his brain, that part of him that had done all of this at all... he thinks about taking a step back. Retreating back into the house, taking the knife, never, ever letting anyone touch his boy again. Never letting them take him.
Instead, he finally walks down the porch, step by step, legs stiff as he goes. The scents of the people around him are mingled with fear, with anger, with trepidation.
If there's a weapon raised, Atreus doesn't see it. He only knows that he reaches Jennifer and carefully, he hands Ponyboy to her, even though his fingers desperately cling to his shirt, so much so that one of his buttons comes off from the force of it.
Jennifer and Ponyboy look up at him, and Atreus says, "I still love you, Jennifer."
Ponyboy reaches for him again.
A cop barks out, "Hands up! Now!"