sore ribs || the outsiders imagines

war broke lover // s.c.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of war/violence

They took him at the age of sixteen. Your sunshine, your laughter - the world you revolved around - they took away, all while the both of you were still young and fearless.

Fearless, yes. It used to be that way. You used to feel warm in the mornings and late at night, when the sun was still gone and the only warmth was provided by each other.

It used to be that way. Until the horns were blown and Sodapop Curtis was stripped from your side. He had no say, someone had to go - and it couldn't be Darry or Pony. Someone had to go, and it had to be him.

That's when the fear set in. Hearing his name get called through the draft list, listening in horror as lovers and mothers and sisters and brothers begged for them not to take their family. You begged silently up until then, up until the day he was put on a bus and driven far far away from you.

That's when it really sunk in - that you may not ever see him again, that he may not make it past sixteen years of age. You wept while you could, till your eyes ran dry and your throat could utter no noise. Sandwiched between the older and the younger Curtis brothers, engulfed in the sorrow that crept upon you eerily. The boys all cried a long, and when no one was looking, you held all of them tightly as they did so - letting it all out like they never could before. Like they never had before, even if they had.

You were still young - three years later, halfway through the age of nineteen. The moment you were old enough, you moved into the Curtis household to help out in whatever way you could.

Without Soda, money was extra tight - as if it wasn't before. But you and Darry both knew that Soda would want Pony to be successful, be happy and go to school if he wanted.

So you juggled jobs alongside Darry, saving up the money to help set up a future for Ponyboy. He'd do good in the world, just like Soda had always said before.

He stopped writing letters about a year and a half after he had been drafted. You hadn't heard from him since, no matter how many times you sent him mail or tried to contact the generals at his station. There was never a reply - never any certainty that he was alive.

Though they never said it out loud, in their faces you could tell that people pitied you. They all presumed he was dead, and wished that you would take the news easily when it came that he was. And if they didn't pity you, they despised you, for loving a boy who was sent to do nothing but kill. For being peace lovers, they sure wanted to give you a piece of their minds.

Days grew longer each year, until it seemed they would just cease to exist all together. You went on existing, day after day, week after week, lonely night after lonely night - until there were no tears left. No letters to write, no sob-story to tell. You had existed for three years without him - but you never lived. You never woke to his goofy smiles or danced with him in the kitchen late at night.

You had lived only for his letters, and once those were gone, living had become rigorous. You no longer lived, rather, you merely existed. You smiled only for his older and younger brothers, cared for them deeply, yes - but you never lived one second without him.

It was just day after day, no end to the cycle of wake up, do what was needed, then fall back asleep. You began to think that was how the rest of your life would playout. Until one day, the very bus that took him from you, came strolling back down the streets.

It had been a regular work day in the Spring, and you weren't supposed to be off for another three hours. You bustled down the isles of tables and customers, your heart aching as you watched a young couple talk over their meal.