( Ponyboy's POV. )
A chilly breeze slapped me across the face as I stepped out of my house, and at the moment I was thankful I'd gotten a haircut before we moved. Back in Arizona, it'd almost been down to my shoulders. I distinctly remember hating my mother for talking me into chopping most of it off, but a few short weeks later and I'd gotten used to it. It helped that it wasn't constantly getting in my mouth now, too.
Johnny had agreed to meet me in front of the bleachers, the same place we'd met up the last three times, which was a relief. I still didn't know where I'd get the money to pay him, but that was to be figured out later. I just had to cross my fingers and pray to whatever holy entity might be listening that neither of my brothers found out I was paying a kid to date me. My family had never been judgemental, but I didn't imagine they'd fancy the idea of me having a fake boyfriend anymore than my friends in Arizona had when I called and spilled the whole embarrassing story. But, being so far away, none of them could really leak the news to anyone that knew me here—which was definitely on the plus side for me.
I called out a farewell to my mom before I let the door shut on its own. She was overly opinionated about goodbyes and how they were necessary upon every exit, especially since dad died in that car wreck a year ago. My brothers and I missed him, but to her the loss seemed to be something different. Stronger, in some ways. She'd been driving that night and—not that she'd ever come out and say it, but—a big chunk of her blamed herself. Now, it was like everything terrified her. She was terrified to let any of us go out, she was terrified of spending a single day sober, she was terrified of relationships, she was terrified of therapy, she was terrified of being terrified.
To an extent, I understood, but beyond that extent, it started to seem like she was a little crazy. A little too passionate and a little too determined not to lose anyone else. Obsessive, almost. Though I'm only sixteen and a Sophmore in high school, so what do I really know about life?
Not a single thing about the real world, it seemed, as life liked to remind me pretty damn consistently.
( Johnny's POV. )
My solid black combat boots padded against the grass softly, the mud making a messy attempt to take my shoes captive. It was chilly, but the denim jacket that was draped over my body blocked most of it out. Coal colored strands of hair blew into my eyes and blocked my view, but I'd already realized there was no use in trying to keep them from doing so. I hadn't told my parents I was leaving, and that's how they liked it. Half of the time, they barely noticed whether I was home or not anyway. When they did notice me, it was usually to complain about one another or to rage.
I couldn't quite remember when their frustration turned physical, but I recalled how in a surprisingly clear light. Little details about the day failed to add up in my memory, but the big ones remained. They didn't give two shits about me or where I went, and I tried to convince myself that it was how it should be. I preferred it this way, right? Parents who cared were just suffocating. Everyone I knew who had functional families were bland or just as miserable as me, or so I liked to recite to myself every time the doubt crept in.
"Best to keep your distance," I always told myself. On a loop, that sentence was the one thing that had kept me alive for so long. I'd spent years trying to toughen myself up, and for the most part it worked. Being on the verge of eighteen, they rarely hit me anymore. It'd been bad when I was a kid, though now that I was gone a lot more, they didn't have much of a chance. Usually I hung out around the park, smoking cigarettes until I was sure my throat would bleed, and then I walked around downtown. It sounds cynical and insensitive now that I look back, but at the time, I couldn't wait until the cancer crawled up on me. Every time I thought of that outcome, I had to stop and ask myself; will it hurt? Occasionally I'd sneak past the school cameras and into the football grounds. I'd slept on the bleachers a few times, and I'd gotten caught more than I'd like to admit. They never thought much of it. Kids did stupid things all of the time, and almost everyone stayed out all night or snuck out of their bedroom windows at some point. To adults, and even many kids my age, I was just some low life douchebag who liked worrying his parents.
If only it were that simple, am I right? Once I get enough money, I swear I'll get the hell out of here. It just takes time. Time, and a bunch of effort. I hope I'll get there, but the more time that passes, the more faith I lose. I've always been pessimistic, born and raised. That's one trait I definitely get from both parents, but especially my mom. Nothing had ever worked out for me before, so why would this be any different? I was just burning through the days at this point.
The high school was about ten minutes from my house, give or take some, when driving. Walking, however, took another ten. I didn't have the best time schedule, so I ended up speed walking most days—which turned into sprinting, if it ever got to be too late to mosey around. I had a feeling that I'd never hear the end of it if I showed up late to meet Ponyboy, so I figured I should get out earlier than usual this morning.
It seemed a bit odd to be meeting in such a visible place, but he was all about our peers seeing us together. I guess that was only to be expected. Whatever his reason for choosing me for this little scheme, I didn't feel the need to ask. Yet, anyway. Not that I was complaining—the only thing I was in this for was the money, in hopes of leaving town right after graduation, but it was probably already obvious that we were rubbing our 'relationship' in.
"You're on time," he observed as I walked up. I cocked a brow, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. He hated when I did that eyebrow thing, simply due to the fact that he couldn't.
"You have that little faith in me?" I mockingly gaped, "I'm hurt."
"Get over it, hot stuff." He sent me a toothy grin, pulling me toward him. Playing the part that'd already been drilled into my head, I leaned in and lessened the distance between us. My hand swiftly rested beneath his chin, lips catching ahold of his in a feverish kiss. If my parents saw me, deal or no deal, fake or real, they'd kill me on the spot...
I felt the eyes on us at every turn and it sent chills of sheer anxiety throughout my entire body. But, not the sensual kind. The kind that meant I was uncomfortable. I pulled away from him, brushing some hair out of my eyes and glancing at the few people scattered about the courtyard. "You want a cigarette or something?" I asked, moving to look at him again. I'd been fine with the idea at first, but the apprehension wouldn't leave me alone. It poked at my skull until my head felt like it was going to explode. I was used to attention like this, negative or nosey; used to my fellow classmates watching me every time I did something or went somewhere, of course. However, it'd never been because I was with someone. Partially because I'd never explicitly been with anyone. Clumsy or drunken hook ups were one thing, but this relationship deal was something foreign all on its own.
He shook his head. "I don't smoke." I shrugged at his words, taking one from my pack and lighting it. It wasn't the first time he'd told me that, but I hadn't ever been good with remembering—well, anything, let alone something as simple as that.
"Why's that?" I puffed on it, shifting to sit at the bottom of the bleachers. He followed in my lead, a little too close for comfort, but I didn't shove him away. I didn't even flinch, sort of just allowing things to happen. It wasn't that he was forceful. He had been the perfect fake boyfriend so far; kind, gentle, considerate, he'd even offered to listen to me when he'd caught me in a bad mood once. It was just that getting close to people wasn't my forte.
"If I did, my family would kill me."
"Must be nice," I thought aloud, quietly.
"Nice?" He sounded incredulous. "They suffocate me. It feels like I'm ten sometimes. I swear, they stand right behind my shoulder at every waking second... just because I'm the youngest." I couldn't fight the urge, nor could I hide my intrigue. I'd mentioned people with functional families above, but that'd been a lie. I never talked to people about this stuff. It always seemed so taboo, so tense and awkward.
( Ponyboy's POV. )
He watched me with what looked like fascination, but I couldn't figure out why. It felt like a full out inspection as he leaned in more. "What's it like?"
"What?" He sighed, rolling his eyes as if I'd just asked the most stupid question in the world. He had a habit of making me feel like an idiot at every open convenience, but to be fair, I don't think he meant to. At least not all of the time.
"Having them around, having them care and look after you. Having them... I dunno, there, I guess."
"Oh. It's, um—it's cool, I guess? I don't know." I shrugged. He sat back, bringing the cigarette to his lips yet again as he looked forward, seemingly staring at nothing in particular.
"It's a simple question, man." He blew the smoke out and I turned my head, as to not inhale it. I was even pulling the extra card and holding my breath until the air around us visibly cleared again. "Calls for a simple answer, y'know?"
"I don't know," I repeated, sternly. "Sometimes it's nice, sometimes I want to run away and never look back."
"Yeah? What is it that makes you run away? Tell me, do mommy and daddy care about you too much, is that it?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"That's why I asked."
"No, you asked to be a dick and that's exactly what you did." I stood up, anger overflowing uncontrollably. What was his problem? Didn't he have a family of his own? Why the hell did he have to pry into mine? My fists clenched st my side, dull nails digging into the soft skin of my palms and rewarding me with a sharp sting. It helped for a second, but then I realized how he was just sitting there, unfazed—watching me calmly as though I'd just told him the weather was nice. That made my blood boil even more, chest tightening with the emotion until it momentarily constricted my breathing. He averted his gaze for a millisecond, sighing lowly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then seemed to dismiss it and got to his feet himself.
"C'mon, I heard they're serving french toast for breakfast." He cracked a small smile, putting out his cigarette and taking my hand in his to lace our fingers together tightly. He always changed the subject when things got tense, like he could start an argument but he couldn't handle actually being in one. I nodded slowly, a sigh of my own pulling itself free. I grasped his hand a bit tighter before we started walking. I was still upset, but there was no use in fighting. We'd only be around each other for a few months. Why stress about any of this?
"Okay."