alittlebitofloveliness

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Curly doesn’t haunt the narrative but he does annoy it as much as he annoys everyone in Tulsa

I love him for it

I do respect curly fans in that they’ll add that boy to everything. There’s 3 lines. He doesn’t speak. He is everywhere.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Drowning

There was nothing calm about drowning. 

Every book he ever read where someone drowned always described a moment of calm just before the character slipped out of consciousness, a soft peace as water filled their lungs and pushed the life out of them, a horrible but tranquil final sleep. 

Drowning was nothing like that. 

Drowning was blind panic and frigid water and trying desperately not to breathe until he choked on an inhale. It was panicking more when breathing meant burning, pain searing through his chest and his head and behind his eyes, his whole body rebelling against the wrongness of it. Drowning was harsh hands holding him down, muffled shouts and frantic splashing. It was fighting as hard as he could and the ralization when his vision started to fade that it wouldn’t be enough. It was bone chilling fear and mindless panic he felt to his core until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. It was going limp seconds before he passed out not because he wanted to but because his limbs had stopped listening to his brain and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. Whatever that paralysis was, it wasn’t any sort of calm. 

He still has nightmares about it sometimes. When he isn’t lurching awake screaming for Johnny to run or Dally to duck, it’s usually because he’s choking and paralysed, phantom water clogging his mouth and his nose and filling his lungs, leaving him a shivering, gasping mess. Sometimes Soda’s soothing hands feel like Bob’s brushing grip and he leaves bruises trying to get away from someone who has never done anything but the exact opposite of hurting him. Consciousness means breathing again, in the memories and the midnights, but Soda’s worried eyes burn almost as much as his lungs did when he was dying and it's a different kind of drowning, knowing he’s hurting his brother with the well of pain he doesn’t know what to do with. 

Sometimes he steps under the shower and he swears that the water knows, that somehow the well carries memories from the fountain and it’s determined to finish what it started, to work it’s way inside him by any means necessary and push everything that makes him Ponyboy Curtis out. Some days he fights it, lurching out of the shower and clawing at his skin until he regains enough of his mind to grab a towel and wipe the sting of the water droplets off of him. Other days he’s tempted to let the shower finish what the fountain couldn’t- but the panic still comes before any sort of peace and if Windrixville proved anything it’s that he is the worst sort of coward. 

There was no peace in drowning. It’s a shame then, that he’s been drowning for months now. 

Ever since the fountain it feels like the water that was forced into his lungs never really found its way out. Instead it’s a part of him, a little bit of poison that makes it hard to breathe or think or exist. Even in Windrixville, standing in an inferno, on the verge of burning to death, the acrid smoke filling his lungs felt just like water, pushing air from his lungs and the sanity from his head, making it hard to move or fight or think.

There is a weight now to his existence, a constant struggle that comes with drowning with your head above water. Fish on beaches flail and die trying to get back home, and Ponyboy Curtis chokes on air every time he sits down at the breakfast table and his best friend isn’t there to sit beside him. 

The whiff of the wrong brand of cigarette feels like it crawls into his lungs and fills them, memories of a hood with a dangerous grin and cold eyes filling him, leaving no room for his tenuous present the doctor called healing. He breathes and breathes and there is no air, no nothing, and he drowns and drowns and drowns without a drop of water in sight. You get tough like me and you don’t get hurt, except he got tough and he is still hurting anyway, gasping for air that doesn’t exist in some diner he didn’t even want to be at, all because Dally’s ghost won’t leave him alone. 

He knows his brothers are worried, sees the looks they shoot each other when they think he isn’t watching and hears the low murmurs around corners and through shut doors. It doesn’t matter anyway. They could be shouting right in front of him and he wouldn’t understand a thing. He’s drowning and the water in his ears makes everything muted, keeps his eyes blurry and his thoughts disjointed. 

Steve is quieter than he used to be, and Two-bit is louder, and their false cheer is never enough to drag him from the depths. Even his brothers’ gentle hands and softer words are not enough to pull him free from whatever he’s submerged in, cannot push life back into his lungs or pull the clogging veil of unreality from where it’s settled over his senses. Whatever he’s drowning in now, it’s worse than water for all it feels like it, keeps him alive but somehow isn’t air, and burns like fire without any of the smoke.

There’s no calm in drowning. He flails and gasps and chokes and tries, he tries, to claw his way free from the suffocating prison that surrounds him, but when it’s life that’s drowning you, it’s hard to bring life into your lungs without making everything worse. 

There’s no calm in drowning, and Ponyboy Curtis has been drowning for months.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep fighting. His limbs are starting to go slack. There’s nothing he can do about it. 

And this time, Johnny isn’t here to save him. 

[alittlebitofloveliness]

go see it! crash into the other lanes, if u wanna see the musical tour don't let website dumbassery stop u! /lh

- from a book lover who also loves the musical dearly lmao/

Lol I'm gonna look into it next week once I get paid and find out if my contract is getting renewed. I do really wanna see it and Toronto is a reasonable distance away (i went to see Beetlejuice a couple weeks ago) so if it's affordable I probably will :)

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Just found out that the outsiders musical will be playing in Toronto? I'd like to see it but the mirvish website is being rude and wont show me tickets

Maybe it's the universe telling me to stay in my lane. Started with book analysis, maybe I'm supposed to stay there

[alittlebitofloveliness]

it's likw gwtting a treat seein a series of ur posts on my dash :)) good to see u mate, hope uve been doin alright !

Awww this warms my heart sm anon, you don't even know. I've been alright, just busy. I so appreciate you reaching out <3

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Could you give me any beginner tips for writing fanfic/getting traction on Ao3?

This isn’t for me, rather it’s for my sister. She has started writing fanfiction this summer and has been posting weekly. She’s a great writer! But she’s kind of losing confidence because her work doesn’t get as many views/likes as she would like?

So I’m wondering if there’s any advice I could pass down to her?

Please and thank you

Here's the unfortunate fact about ao3 anon: you're never going to get as many hits or kudos or comments as you'd like. I've been on ao3 for quite a few years now. I've been in big fandoms and small fandoms, dead fandoms, and new fandoms in their absolute heyday. No matter how much or how little traction my works get it never feels like enough. My favourite works, the ones I'm most proud of and consider my absolute best writing are often the ones that get the least attention, and it's incredibly disheartening sometimes, so I really, really sympathize with your sister. I poured my heart and soul into my Angela Shepard series, and I most of those works don't have a single comment. It sucks, but it doesn't mean my writing is bad, it just means my target audience is, well, me I guess. Try and reassure your sister she isn't doing anything wrong. A lack of engagement doesn't mean her writing is bad, it's just an unfortunate reality of existing in fandom spaces and writing fanfiction.

That said, I do have some tips and tricks (or just info ig) that might help her reach a target audience more effectively:

Make sure she's tagging correctly. If she's new to ao3 she might be making errors such as adding hashtags (something users from wattpad sometimes bring over, which is unnecessary and a glaring sign you don't know what you're doing on the archive.) I'd also make sure she's tagging any romantic ships with a '\' and platonic ones with an '&'. On ao3, conflating the two can alienate an audience very quickly when they think your platonic pairing is supposedly romantic, or everyones favourite relationship is suddenly back to being just friends. It's also increases the chances of your fic being passed over, as people tend to filter out romantic pairings they aren't interested in reading, or platonic tags if they're looking to read romance. That said:

Don't overtag. There's a happy medium when it comes to tagging. You want enough to give adequate warnings about whats in your fic and to hit the main tags people tend to search for (ex: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, modern au, everyone lives, etc). However, if the wall of tags is longer than the description of the fic itself, it can sometimes be a red flag, and might have the opposite of the intended effect. Instead of drawing people in, it might just be the thing that turns people off.

Add a Summary! Tags are great, but they're not the same as a description and a work with no summary is going to be a lot harder to sell than one that has a blurb or an excerpt showing what the fic is about. The happy medium rule applies here too: it's hard to grab someones attention with just one line, so if you go that route make it a memorable one. But a wall of text before opening the fic can make some potential readers scroll right past. Think of the summary as a quick advertisement of your fic meant to entice readers. Catch them with a hook that makes them want to see more! (And for the love of god don't include one of those 'this is my first fic and it's probably not that good but give it a chance plz' notes. No one is going to pity read your story. You might think you're helping yourself but you're not. Believe in yourself and let your writing speak for itself.

Make friends. The best way to guarantee a comment or a kudos on your fics is to make friends within that fandom. Tumblr and discord are great places to find like minded people in the same fandoms, and a community rallying behind you is a great way to build engagement on your works. Often, one or two in depth comments from friends mean more than a million 'great jobs' and it's such a great experience to have people to beta read for you or bounce ideas off of.

Rare pairs means rare readers. I'm a rarepair connoisseur, but the truth of liking characters or pairings that are unpopular is that less people are writing and reading them. it's unfortunate, because there are some absolutely incredible works written for side characters and unconventional romances, but it's the truth. If your sister wants engagement over anything else, she might have to play to the fans a bit and try writing for a more popular pairing or character. To be clear I don't really endorse this! It's always better to write what feels true to you as a writer and not just what people want to see, but i'd be lying if I said I'd never written a fic I knew would have wide reach in a fandom specifically because I really wanted some praise.

Big fandoms means big engagement. The bigger or more popular the fandom, the more engagement your work is going to get. I was in the Young Royals fandom when it was first getting started and a lot of my early fics got a ton of comments. But my favourite story of all time was posted in that fandom more recently and it did not perform nearly as well. More readers means more engagement, it's simply a fact of life. I had to really adjust my hopes and expectation when I started writing for the outsiders because it's an old and small fandom, so it's way harder to get engagement, compared to some other fandoms I've written for in the past. It could just be the fandom(s) your sister is writing for just don't have that many readers in the first place.

I think that's all the tips I can think of off the top of my head! Engagement on ao3 is just something writers just don't really have that much control over. It sucks but it's true, and praise is addictive. Comments on ao3 create the same dopamine release as instagram likes, so the best advice I can give is to not focus on the numbers and focus instead on the joy of creation and sharing your hard work with the world. It's hard but focusing on the numbers is the fastest way to lose the joy that comes with writing fic.

Just out of curiosity, what fandoms is your sister writing for? If you want to drop the links and it's a fandom I'm into I'd love to check some of her stuff out. Either way, wish her the best for me. I'm rooting for her

Thanks for the ask xx

[alittlebitofloveliness]

thinking of you! hope you're doing well <3

You're a wonderful friend and I'm sorry I've been so absent lately. Thank you for your unending kindness <3

[alittlebitofloveliness]

girl WHERE HAVE U BEEN COME BACK PLEASE!!!

I'm coming back I'm sorry! My life is QUITE hectic and I'm struggling a bit with writers block but I have not given up on this blog or this fandom I promise!

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Just recently found your profile and I just gotta say, Grew in my Heart is one of the most heartwarming and beautiful things I’ve read in a while. The work you do is fantastic and thank you for sharing it with the community :) I hope you are doing well and that got creativity never falters 🫶

Awwww thank you! I'm so glad you liked it, that fic is so near and dear to my heart because in another universe it COULD have happened, y'know?

The creativity unfortunately has faltered a bit lately but I hope to have some new works posted soon xx

PS: If anyone is interested as hasn't read it here's the link

[alittlebitofloveliness]

If the outsiders was in modern day what do you think their college majors would be? (Shepard AND Curtis gang edition)

I'm gonna be so real with you anon, I Do Not Think these guys are going to college. Modern au doesn't mean not impoverished au, yknow? Yeah, there's some opportunities for scholarships and financial aid but apart from Pony (international development) and Darry (accounting) I just don't really see college/uni working out. Steve and Soda I still think would be tradesmen, Two-bit I could see working construction and Curly too, though both those guys seem like they'd be doing odd jobs forever, the kind of guys who always 'know a guy' because they've worked everywhere and know so many people. Tim will always have his hands full running a gang. Dally is dead, and Johnny is dead. If they weren't, Dally was always destined for prison, and Johnny (idk why) but I could see him maybe becoming a plumber or PSW. Angela I think would maybe go the trades route too, either being a hairdresser or working at a nail salon or spa. I could see her maybe doing a phlebotamist certification course, but it would depend how long it would take. Some places require 2 years of college which, again, I can't really see her doing, but some places have like 6 week courses and I could see her doing that and then gleefully sticking people with needles all day.

But yeah, I just don't see most of them going to college, sorry.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Not an outsiders post but it’s important for me to say this: it’s July 1st. I’m Canadian, which means it’s Canada Day. Canada Day is a celebration of colonialism and the genocide of the indigenous people of this land and having indigenous people attend/speak at Canada Day celebrations does not change that. Performative activism to make yourself feel better while you grill burgers and set off fireworks to commemorate the ‘founding’ of an occupying nationstate is not suddenly okay because you’ve found a way to make yourself feel better by ‘including’ those this country was built to oppress.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Hey sorry to bother you, but are you still planning on writing that johnny and ponyboy brothers au? No pressure or anything I would just like to know

Omg hi! I AM actually still working on it. Life is a LOT right now so it’s slow going but I’ve written the first couple chapters :)

[alittlebitofloveliness]

My absolute favourite tidbit we get about Ponyboy's appearance is that while he's small he's got 'a good build'. Like, he's just this fourteen year old kid who's stocky and probably has broad shoulders he hasn't quite grown into yet. My own little brother was like that for a while and he looked awkward and felt a little alien until he grew a bit and suddenly got a lot more proportional. When he grows up, Ponyboy will probably be closer to Darry's size than Soda's if I had to guess because Darry is consistently described as broad shouldered which seems more in line with what Pony would consider a 'good build' than Soda's taller, slimmer, leaner frame. But I digress.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

I hope your doing okay!! I know a while back you were talking about not getting a job you wanted and I just hope you’re doing okay.

I also really liked what you said a few days ago about career goals versus life goals, if that makes sense? It really resonated with me because I have had a hard time seeing myself outside like the next two years and it always felt like an actual future (let alone career) was out of the cards for me but something like owning snails or getting a house with a secret door seemed very doable and appealing to me. Way easier than pinpointing a career path any at. Idk if that makes any sense at all but after what you said, I was able to write down some of those life goals that I have and look forward to them.

Anyway, this turned out be way longer than intended but I just wanted to check in and make sure you were doing alright and let you know how much your words mean to me 💚💚

Hey! I read this, cried, had a moment and then forgot to answer it so it's been sitting in my inbox for way too long and I'm sorry about that.

I'm doing okay. I have found a job that isn't what I wanted and is only a two month contract but it pays pretty good and I get free coffee so it's fine.

Yeah, the career vs life goals thing was huge for me to frame my life around too, and I'm really glad it resonated with you. I think it's hard to feel like you have to have everything figured out or have some sort of plan when the future is always uncertain and life can take you so many different ways. I like knowing there's things I am working towards but not being entirely sure of my path towards them. I'm glad you've found some of your own!

Thanks so much for checking in btw. Your concern and your kindness and friendship mean a lot to me. It's nice to come on here and know there are kindred spirits living their life who, like me, don't have it all figured out but are trying anyway and doing alright. It's nice to not be alone in all this <3

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Dishes- Darry Curtis

This fic was my submission for the stay gold zine but we recently got permission to post those works so enjoy!

********

Darry’s mom used to love doing the dishes. 

She’d hated vacuuming. She used to make him do it when he got in trouble, or had Soda do it when he needed to burn off some of his energy. Pony rarely got stuck with it, but she used to make him scrub the baseboards instead. She hadn't minded laundry, or cooking, or scrubbing the floors- which he still couldn’t fathom considering how much he hated the loathsome task- but she’d loved doing the dishes. Even when the whole gang was around, or dad had some friends from work over for dinner and the dishes were piled near to the ceiling, she didn’t mind it. Dad used to always make the gang offer to help, and mom was never shy about making any of them do housework, but she never accepted the offer of help with the dishes. Instead, she’d push up the sleeves of her flannel, a soft blue one Darry had stolen from her room and hid under his pillow after she died, and with the radio playing softly in the background she’d scrub each dish until it sparkled and place it in the rack to dry. Sometimes dad would pick up a dry cloth and tease her while they worked in tandem until mom was laughing despite herself, but most of the time she’d do it alone, methodically scrubbing and rinsing while dad helped Soda with his homework and Darry and Pony read on the couch. 

He never understood before why she liked it so much. Then again, he’d always hated chores, any chores, the way kids always do. Now though, he’s starting to understand.

Doing the dishes is a constant, rare moment of time in which he belongs solely to himself. He can stand at the sink, looking out the window where mom’s little windchimes with the small blue glass dolphin still hang, and stare at the street seeing nothing for ten minutes. He can stand at the window and turn the radio to the station he used to play in his buddy’s car on the way to football practice and imagine, for a moment, what it might have been like, before, if they could afford college. Even on days when he’s worked a twelve hour shift and Ponyboy is busy being fourteen and insufferable, or Soda gets fined for speeding, doing the dishes gives him ten minutes of relatively uninterrupted solitude to silently fall apart, to panic and fret and put himself back together before he has to go back to being an adult instead of the kid he still feels like on the inside. 

Dishes are also consistent. There are always dishes that need to be done, even if Ponyboy packed a lunch for school or Soda went to a diner with Steve for dinner, there are a few glasses and mugs left scattered around, and Soda’s toast plates left just about everywhere. Damn that kid loved a good PB&J. It was almost concerning the rate he inhaled them.

Regardless, there were always dishes to do. Even the day mom and dad died there were dishes, because mom hadn’t got around to doing them yet. Steve had done them that night, once Soda had cried himself to sleep, because Darry had been at the coroner’s office identifying the bodies and there was no one else who could.

Last week, when Pony was missing and Johnny was in the hospital there had still been dishes to do, though he’d mourned the absence of half empty water glasses littered around the coffee table, glasses he knew he normally would have shouted about but that had left him sick to his stomach instead. 

Pony is home now, sick and pale and pitifully small looking, but home nonetheless and safe, safe where Darry can look after him, make sure nothing and no one- himself included- could ever hurt him again. But there’s still dishes to do. 

He frowns down at a barely touched bowl of tomato soup, half debating reheating it and trying to convince Pony to eat a bit more despite his complaints of not being hungry. The doc said if he lost any more weight they’d have to admit him to the hospital again, and Darry can’t handle that right now, not emotionally nor financially, especially not with his boss trying to cut his hours and the state breathing down their necks. He’s trying so hard to keep them all together, to keep Pony and Soda with him where they belong, and another hospital visit right before they go see the judge tomorrow would be yet another reason on the very long list of why he’s a shit guardian. He is a shit guardian, he knows this, is unequipped in pretty much all ways to try and raise his baby brother when he used to help him get into trouble instead of desperately trying and failing to keep him out of it. Yes, he’s a shit guardian, but that’s not the judge or anyone else's business, because even though he’s a shit guardian he’s still the best guardian for Pony and Soda because they’re family. They’re family and he loves them and they love him, and no matter how much they fight there’s no group home or foster dungeon that could care about them half as much as he does. 

He bites his lip, considering, before pouring the remaining soup down the drain. The doc said Pony needs to eat, but he also said not to push him, and Darry knows he already does a poor enough job of that at the best of times. Better to make him something hearty for dinner and sit with him while he eats than to bring the reheated soup back now and risk causing an argument. 

He places the empty bowl into the soapy water, followed by a plate empty of anything save cracker crumbs, and has just placed them in the drying rack when there’s a knock at the door. He freezes. 

No one he knows would knock. No one. Not the gang, or any of the hoods from around town that crashed from time to time. Tim Shepard did, but he knocked while he was opening a door in a way Darry recognized came from sharing a too small house with too many siblings, it wasn’t so much a knock as it was an announcement of his presence. The only folks who ever actually knocked were people that didn’t belong at their house, who shouldn’t be here. Police. Social workers. People who brought nothing but bad news and empty platitudes, who made his life a living hell. 

Heart in his throat he hurriedly tucks his shirt into his jeans, hoping against hope he hadn’t managed to stain it with anything while he was making lunch. He knows he’s got a rep for being a pretty cool headed guy, but the truth is that the social workers and the fuzz scare him silly, make him sick to his stomach with the power they hold and the unreal smiles they wear. He wrenches open the fridge, grateful he had the foresight to buy groceries yesterday instead of on Thursday out of worry something like this might happen, and snatches Soda’s latest ticket- illegal parking for fucks sake- off the countertop, stuffing it in his pocket on the way to the door.He takes a deep breath, smooths back his hair, and opens it. 

It’s not a social worker. It’s not even a cop. Instead, a tall teenager waits on the doorstep, a guy with carefully groomed hair and a brown shirt Darry knows just from looking at it must cost half a month’s rent. Once, back in high school, he’d gone to a department store when he was still buddying around with Paul Holden and Geralt Wayvey. He’d seen a real tuff blue shirt, peeked at the price tag while his friends were bumming around, and promptly choked, cheeks burning with a familiar kind of embarrassment. Even back then spending so much on a shirt seemed unfathomable. Now, the mere thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The guy on the doorstep shifts back and forth, visibly uncomfortable, but he looks up when the door swings open. Suddenly Darry is more angry than he can ever remember being because he recognizes him. This is one of the kids whose face was next to Pony and Johnny’s in the paper. He’s one of the guys who jumped them, maybe the one who held Pony in the fountain until he nearly drowned or held Johnny back from helping him. In either case, he’s definitely not welcome on Darry’s property or anywhere within fifty feet of his kid brother, and if he doesn’t leave in the next ten seconds he’s gonna learn that the hard way. 

“What the fuck d’you want?”

The guy cringes a bit, Darry notes with a dark twinge of satisfaction. Not so tough now, huh socie?

“I, er,” the guy clears his throat, running hand through his beatle style haircut, “I’m here to see Ponyboy?”

“Oh yeah?” Darry folds his arms, feeling the fabric of his shirt tighten around his biceps, and makes no move to step out of the doorway, “Why? You heard he was outta the hospital and came to finish him off?”

The guy flinches.

“No! No, I-I just- I need to talk to him. C’mon man, y’know the hearing is tomorrow, I want to make sure we have our story straight. He doesn’t deserve any more trouble for this whole mess. Tell him it’s Randy, he knows me.”

Darry holds his gaze for a moment.

“Wait here.”

He closes the door in his face before Mr. Supersoc can say anything.

Darry debates, for a moment, just leaving him there, letting him stand uncomfortably on the doorstep far from his own side of town until someone decided to jump him or he wised up enough to leave them alone. Lord knows there’s little love left in him for the west side and the polished hatred they turn out. 

There was a time when he didn’t hate the socs, looked at them just as people who ended up with more luck and all the easy breaks, was angry about it but didn’t blame them for their lot in life or his. There was a time once, before, but that version of him is gone, had died with Johnny and Dal. Now, there is nothing but cold hatred for the kids and the society that care so little for everything, even human life, and especially greaser lives. He cannot spare a mote of pity for the people who throw him pennies like scraps to a dog when he breaks his back hauling roofing six days a week, and who see his little brothers and his friends and his neighbourhood as expendable if they can’t be beaten or starved into making them a profit- and that asshole on the step who decided to grow a consciousness two weeks too late isn’t any different. He should leave him out on the doorstep. If it were up to Darry, he would.

But it’s not really up to him, is it? The guy had asked specifically for Ponyboy, and like it or not, Darry cannot make Pony’s decisions for him, no matter how much he might want to. He’d tried that already and look where it had got them. 

Sighing, he makes his way down the hall.

Ponyboy is sitting up in bed, shaggy, bottle blonde hair in disarray and smushed to one side, indicating he’d probably woken up from a nap not too long ago. He’s small looking, like he always is, and he looks even smaller now that he’s back from Windrixville, though he carries a look in his eye now that Darry recognizes, one he loves and hates in equal measure. It’s a look he sees in the whole gang, in himself, one he’d been hoping he’d see in Pony’s eyes because it means he’s wised up, that he’s no longer unable to see things for what they are, and yet now that it’s there Darry can’t help but wish maybe Ponyboy could have kept that look and that knowledge out of his heart just a little longer. It’s a foolish thought, dangerous, impractical, all things he prides himself on not being. That doesn’t make it any less true.

“Ponyboy?”

“Yeah?” The kid says without looking up from whatever book he’s got his nose buried in. If he’s straining himself Darry will skin him- he knows the doc keeps saying to take it easy. 

“There's a guy here to see you. Says he knows you.” The words taste bitter on his tongue. Ponyboy looks up then, head tilting quizzically, a quirk Johnny and Steve used to tease him for, one him and Soda share too because they all got it from mom. He doesn't meet Darry’s eyes. Pony never looked at him anymore, not directly. He’d glance at him under his lashes or out of the corner of his eye, but he never properly looked anymore, not wide eyed and curious and worshipping like he used to. Not anymore. It’s his own fault, Darry knows, just like he knows it’s his fault he will never be what Ponyboy needs. No matter how hard he tries, he will never be enough. He’s not mom, not Dad, hell, he’s not even Soda. There’s nothing about him that even makes him an adequate substitute for what their parents used to be.

He clears his throat, forces out the rest of his words. 

“His name’s Randy.”

“Yeah,” Ponyboy’s confusion hasn’t wavered an iota and Darry can’t help the panic that wells in him, knowing how easily Pony could be set off these days, how delicate his condition was even though the doc said it was best not for Pony to know himself, “I know him.”

“You want to see him?” Please say no. 

“Yeah,” Pony shrugs, his shoulders too wide for his frame, though Soda seems to think he’ll grow into them by next year, “Sure, why not?”

Darry nods once, tightly, and turns on his heel, making his way back to the front hall. When he opens the door, the soc is still on the front step, looking wildly out of place. 

“C’mon in.” 

He jerks his head, stepping aside so Randy can walk past him into the tiny front hall. The guy’s eyes catch immediately on Steve’s work trainers, the ones with the hole in the heel that are tossed haphazardly in the corner, then settle on the crack in the plaster of the ceiling that seems like an arrow leading directly to the water damaged walls. Darry kind of wants to hit him. 

“If you try anything,” he warns, leading him deeper into the house and unable to shake the feeling that this is a huge mistake, “or if you upset him in any way, I’ll gut you like a fish. He ain’t feeling too hot and don’t need any more trouble from the likes of you.”

“Jesus man, I already told you I’m not here looking for a fight.”

“Yeah,” Darry hopes he can feel the disgust rolling off him in waves, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Randy gives him an offended look as he steps into Pony’s room. Like he’s the one being unreasonable. 

Sighing, he leans against the wall as he hears Pony greet Randy and offer him a seat. They start talking in earnest then, and he considers, for a moment, eavesdropping on their conversation. It’s what he would have done before, before he hit Pony and Pony ran off and they got into this whole mess. Hell, it’s what Soda would still do now- but there’s dishes in the sink that still need doing, and a kid brother who deserves what privacy Darry can afford to give him, stuck in the house and laid up in bed like he is. Besides, as long as Pony’s in the house Darry’s close enough to get to him if that soc is stupid enough to try anything.

The dishwater has gone cold when he gets back to the kitchen, so he sighs and pulls the plug, watches the bubbles whirl down the drain and then refills it. It hardly seems worth it for the few dishes that are left, but mom always said they wouldn’t be clean without heat to burn the germs off, and he can hear her scolding him in his head anytime he doesn’t do it right. 

“...not dead. Johnny is not dead!” 

Ponyboy’s voice carries down the hall, warbly and strained, with enough petulance to send a lance through Darry’s heart. It’s the same terrified, hopeless cadence in which he’d raved in his delirium and still screamed himself awake from nightmares. It’s one of Darry’s least favourite sounds in the entire world. 

One second he’s standing over the sink and the next he’s in the doorway of Pony’s bedroom, hands still wet from the dishwater, and if he didn’t know better he’d swear he teleported there. 

Pony’s shaking like a spooked horse, tears falling down his face, pale and scared looking, having one of those fits the doctor said were normal when you got your head mashed in and lived through events that could have killed you, but Darry doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to them. All he knows is he knew this was a bad idea, and that he needs that soc gone so he can try and calm Pony down before he hurts himself again.

“Hey Randy,” he has to fight to keep his voice steady, “I think you’d better go now.” 

“Sure,” the guy says, without taking his eyes off Pony. Darry has to fight the urge to step in front of him, to shield Pony’s sickness from the soc’s piercing gaze. 

He bids Pony a farewell and Darry grabs his arm, all but dragging him from the room.

“Don’t ever say anything to him about Johnny,” he practically spits, and Randy flinches, jerking away, but Darry tightens his grip, squeezing hard enough he hopes it will bruise, “He’s still pretty racked up mentally and emotionally. The doc said he’d get over it if we gave him time.”

“Shit man, I’m sorry,” Randy says, and he sounds genuine which only stokes Darry’s temper hotter. He’s sorry, is he? Sorry, when this is all his fucking fault. “When I heard he was sick… I didn’t know he was that sick. Shit, he’s gonna talk himself into a murder charge tomorrow if he isn’t careful. Kept saying he was the one who stabbed Bob, seemed to honestly believe it.”

“That ain’t your concern,” Darry reminds him, “The doc knows he ain’t doin’ so hot, said he’d talk to the judge. You just remember to keep your story straight and keep Pony outta any accusations. Make sure your buddies do too.”

“No one wants any more trouble.” Randy promises, “No one is going to say anything but the truth, and even if they do, they’ll be outnumbered.”

Darry can feel his jaw clench. He knows better than to trust a soc.

“Yeah, whatever.” The familiar scent of cigarette smoke drifts down the hallway, and he sighs, running a weary hand over his face. Stupid fucking kid. Pony’s lungs weren’t amazing before he was in that church fire, and he’d been hacking and short of breath by turns ever since, but Darry still couldn’t seem to keep him away from his cigarettes for more than a few hours, no matter how hard he tried. “Look man, I got dishes to do and sick kid to look after so just fuck off, okay? You got to apologize and do whatever to fix your guilt so you can leave us alone.”

“Alright,” Randy nods, and the pity in his eyes makes Darry want to hit him, “nice meeting you Darry.”

He slams the door in his face, letting out a noise between a huff and a snort. What a weird fucking guy. 

He hears a cough from the next room and rolls his eyes, practically stomping down the hall.

“Ponyboy Curtis, put out that cigarette!”

“Okay, okay,” the kid’s hand is still shaking as he scrubs out the half smoked cig in the ashtray on the windowsill, “I ain't going to go to sleep smoking, Darry. If you make me stay in bed there ain't anywhere else I can smoke."

“You ain’t gonna die if you don’t get a smoke,” Darry reminds him, but it’s hard to muster true frustration when Pony’s lucid and acting his usually mouthy self, when just a few minutes ago he was a whimpery, shaky mess, “But if that bed catches on fire you will. You couldn't make it to the door through that mess."

“Well, golly,” Pony stifles a cough, “I can't pick it up and Soda doesn't, so I guess that leaves you."

The carelessness of the remark stings. How is he supposed to pick up their room and do the dishes and clean the bathrooms and work twelve hour shifts and go shopping and try and keep custody of him and Soda? How is he supposed to do more on top of already doing everything? He knows stress turns him mean and nagging, knows anger is a beast he’s always struggled to tame, and it must show on his face because Pony backtracks pretty swiftly.

“All right, all right, that don't leave you. Maybe Soda'll straighten it up a little."

Darry raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you could be a little neater, huh, little buddy?”

Pony looks at him then. Really looks at him, for the first time in months. First his head snaps up, eyes wide in surprise, and then they start to glow, that childish grin that always pulled a little higher on his left cheek than his right spreading across his face, and he looks happier than he’s looked in months. 

Darry’s heart catches in his throat. For a second he doesn’t realize what about scolding him to tidy up his room could have possibly made Ponyboy look like that, and then- oh. Little buddy. The pet name had rolled so naturally off his tongue he hadn’t even noticed, but looking back he can’t remember the last time he used it on Ponyboy. If the kid’s reaction is anything to go by, it’s definitely been far too long.

“Sure,” Pony says, and he’s still grinning so hard he can hardly talk, looking at Darry the way he used to before mom and dad died, like he’s some kind of hero, “I’ll be more careful.”

“Thanks, bud.” He doesn’t trust himself to speak anything more over the lump in his throat. Instead he clears his throat, reaching out to ruffle Pony’s hair, and grabs the empty glass from his bedside table before fleeing. Five minutes later he finally, finally finishes the dishes, just in time to start dinner. 

[alittlebitofloveliness]

This! He’s not a little kid. He rough sleeps outside often. He’s a good man in a rumble (ie he can fight and fight well despite being physically smaller than most guys his age). He’s very protective of Ponyboy- who is ages less mature and closer to being an actual little kid. Yeah, Johnny is small for his age and quiet and traumatized, but he’s still a tough as nails 16 year old greaser, who’s grown up far ahead of his time. Ponyboy even says that Johnny can look REALLY intimidating to people who don’t know him well. Johnny is not some poor little meow meow, he’s the kind of guy your parents tell you to steer clear from. And how much of Pony’s narration is intentionally framed to make him and Johnny appear similar specifically so Pony doesn’t feel as bad about his place as the baby of the gang? I think it bears reflecting on, because Pony’s inferiority complex greatly impacts how we as readers perceive both him and every other characters around him.

Sometimes I get mad at how the TO fandom treats Johnny as if he isn't the same age as Sodapop. No, he's not a little kid. No, he should not be THAT babied. And I mean being treated like a little kid not in a "he's my favourite character" way. Let him he a teenager. Let him be a little shit. Hell, I'd even go as far as to say that he might be more mature than Sodapop in SOME aspects and people still treat him like a baby that should be shielded from the outside.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

I’m a college student who grew up HATING and loathing school (mostly do to have horribly racist teachers)

I didn’t enjoy anything, all I wanted to do was just get by and graduate. But now that I’m in college I realize I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I don’t know if I’m good at anything or if there’s any job I could see myself doing. Which is absolutely terrifying to me.

The closest thing I’ve ever felt a desire to try or do something more was with art. But idk it’s only a hobby really. It’s not exactly like a skill set that I’ve mastered.

Do you have any advice on how you figured out what you wanted to do?

-Sincerely a very distressed person on the verge of crashing out

oh my gosh hon I’m so sorry you’re having a rough time right now!

let me preface this by saying I’m 20 years old and I’ve changed my major three times now. I’m not really qualified to be giving advice to anyone lol but I will say this: I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I want to do either- job wise that is. I don’t have a dream job or dream career or anything like that. Nothing even close. But I do have life goals

I want a fish tank full of goldfish and snails. I want to raise a kid. I want a spare room I can hide behind a bookshelf and call a secret library. All of these I’m SURE I want. So while I don’t have a dream degree or dream job I know what I want, so the job doesn’t matter. I don’t have a dream job but I have dreams. The job and money is the means to an end, yknow? I’m sorry if this isn’t helpful and I sincerely hope you feel better soon, but this is all I know. You don’t have to find the perfect degree or the perfect job, you just have to find something you like well enough to pay the bills and help you reach your goals, whatever they may be. And you don’t have to have it all figured out. god knows I don’t.

sending you so much love anon. Good luck!