so we all know life is a circle. thus fandom is a circle. we see things come back around like the de/twinkification of racetrack higgins. or cowboy versus artist jack kelly. or "mom" friend david jacobs and the perpetual need to make the newsies some kind of heteronormative family. and yet again we've found our way back to the anti katherine pulitzer arc of her "getting in the way" of jack and davey's popular subtextual/fanon relationship. (yes im late nevermind that.)
now, not being a katherine fan is different than being anti-katherine. not being a katherine fan means you might have criticisms like "i'm not sure how she serves the newsies narrative better than, say, sarah jacobs, as sarah is more aligned with the newsies contextually/societally and katherine is very distant and rich lol", or even "i'm not a big fan of how katherine seems to be tired of jack's shit for most of the play and then 'suddenly' finds romantic interest in him within one song".
but being anti-singular-young-woman-character because of a ship between the main two boys is. a tired take is it not? again with the circle, we've had this discourse already and its been cut out. since 2012 and 2017 we been talking about this girl and her value, but not in the context we should be.
(because the context we should be talking about it in is a newsies 1992 versus newsies broadway context, not an anti-katherine context, but i digress.)
katherine's value. what is there to mine from? she is an extremely young woman reporter, 17-18 years old, whose article makes the front page of the new york sun. since she writes under a pseudonym, i'm presuming she writes with skill well above her age to be published at all (yes, even writing vaudeville reviews). in past productions she either finds the newsies at jacobi's because she saw the walk-out (TWWK) from inside The World (UK), or jack kelly simply interests her enough for her to seek him out again (Broadway/Tour/Live). she is unsure about herself as a writer despite her skill which is made clear in her song. she is rich. she did not need to have a career and was encouraged not to. pulitzer is her father and she does not get along with him. she matches jack word for word, often with davey at her side. she mills comfortably about the newsies through the second act and has a friendship of some kind with specs specifically. she also literally says "that's a face [jack's] that could save us all from sinking in the ocean/like someone said 'power tends to corrupt'" essentially prophesying the act 2 betrayal. which is crazy.
you can draw your own conclusions from the above, but all of it is essentially canon? right? so maybe you don't have to be a fan of all of it, but you're really going to tell me absolutely none of this is compelling. that none of this is something you can interpret for yourself as complex. that albert is more complex.
this is not me saying you have to include katherine in everything, because that isn't what this post is about. this is about individuals choosing to dislike or devalue katherine by only viewing her in relation to her as a romantic interest, instead of a complex character in a period piece with a full arc. yes a full arc. it's the musical that's rushed not katherine.
@we-are-inevitable speaks on this extremely well in the comments of this post as well, more in connection to katherine as being a compelling romantic interest in the context of newsies speaking in the defense of love interests/often women characters. in this post i speak on how i would navigate jack/katherine as a director, and in this post i speak on how to direct something to believe in to make it, well, believable, aside from its awful writing for both kath and jack. because again, fandom is a circle, and i literally talked about how to "fix" jatherine in august 2024. at length
it does tickle me to think about will in college, telling all his friends about his childhood best friend who he was so in love with and how he treated him, and all of them going ”oh noo baby”. after which, of course, mike returns and everyone immediately goes WILL NO to absolutely no fucking avail. mike walks into the gay bar and will’s friends have to physically restrain him from going to kiss him senseless
Hi hi, I arrive with a little ficlet for prompt blueberry. Pretty PG stuff with a sweet indulgent dose of Snufmin :)
--- Blueberry Summer
"I want to go blueberry-picking," Snorkmaiden announced, sitting up.
"So go," Moomintroll replied lazily from where he lounged beside her.
"Aren't you coming with me?"
"No." He had no plans of moving. The summer breeze was warm on his back, and he'd molded the soft, pliant grass into a perfect Moomin-shaped nest. He didn't feel like stooping among the bushes in the heat, getting his paws stained purple with blueberry juice. He closed his eyes, fully intending to doze off until the dinner bell.
For a few minutes there was no noise but the bird song. Still, he sensed Snorkmaiden waffling. She wanted the berries, but she didn't want to go alone. Typical Snorkmaiden.
Most days he would give in and join her. But… not today. Just now, he really wanted to prolong the peace and quiet. She could do this one thing without him, just this once.
"I heard Snufkin was thinking of picking blueberries this afternoon," she said after a while, sotto voce.
In spite of himself, his ear flicked.
"So you are awake." She sounded smug. Cheeks burning, Moomintroll slowly, slowly uncurled from his oh-so-comfortable position. He stretched his arms with a huge yawn.
"Well," he sighed, "if you insist on it. I guess I'll come with you."
—
They did find Snufkin in the blueberry patch. And not just him - Sniff, Little My, Snork, and Moominpappa and Mamma were there as well. There was no need to pick the blueberries either, as they had already filled several baskets to the brim.
Clearly this was some pre-arranged gathering of sorts, but the truth didn't hit Moomintroll until Moominmamma lifted the cloche off a frosted three-layer cake.
"Oh, it is my birthday," he exclaimed.
"Did you forget?" Snufkin asked in amusement.
"No! But since no one said anything, I figured there was a surprise waiting at home. I never expected the surprise would be in the blueberries."
"There was a reason behind it," Snorkmaiden explained, scooping up a handful of berries and placing them artistically on the top tier of the cake. "Your birthday cake is lemon-blueberry, so we thought why not some fresh blueberries to go with it?"
"Also Moominmamma is going to make jam later," Sniff added.
Moomintroll accepted a glass of raspberry juice from his mother as the others fussed over the cake. The picnic blanket was strewn with daisies. The wireless played cheerful music at a low volume. There were plates of sandwiches and salad, and his friends had set lanterns all around, predicting that the party would extend, as Moomin family parties were wont to do, long into the night.
"Snufkin, don't you have a blueberry-picking tune?" asked Little My.
"Hmm? No…"
"Why not? You have a tune for everything else."
"You should ask him to make a tune for Moomintroll," said Snorkmaiden. "After all, it's his birthday."
Looking for an excuse to hide the mounting color in his cheeks, Moomintroll dipped his head to take a big bite of sandwich. To his surprise, Snufkin seemed equally off-balance, stammering through a weak reply about not being good at composing on the spot. (Which was rubbish - Snufkin could compose melodies in his sleep to make Apollo jealous. Not that Moomintroll was any expert in judging music… or could sing or play himself… anyway, everything Snufkin played sounded wonderful, at least to him, and that must mean something.)
"I do have an idea for a blueberry-picking song," Snufkin went on in a hurry, shaking loose pebbles and leaves from his pocket as he drew out his mouth-organ. He played a quick scale to warm up before launching into a merry, staccato tune, which reminded Moomintroll of grasshoppers jumping in tall grass.
Although they'd picked enough blueberries to last all winter, Moomintroll, Sniff, Snorkmaiden, and Little My ran laughing into the bushes, impelled by the song. Snufkin trailed after them languidly.
There were no more empty baskets, so they competed to see who could carry the most in their paws (or, in the case of Little My, who refused to be left at a disadvantage due to her smaller-than-average paws, in their frock). The bushes still teemed with berries even after the earlier harvest. He picked and picked, cradling the berries in the crook of his arm when he could no longer hold them in a single paw.
Sure he was bound to win, he glanced up, only to spot Sniff tossing blueberries into his mouth.
"Sniff! You won't have a chance to win if you do that."
"What do I care about winning when there isn't even a trophy or a bag of gold? This is tastier."
"I concur," Little My said, and bit into a ripe blueberry still on the bush.
Moomintroll turned to Snorkmaiden in appeal. But he stopped short on seeing the tell-tale spots of purple dotting the edge of her mouth. She blushed and covered her face. "Well, they just taste so good!" she giggled.
"Sniff's right." Snufkin sauntered over. He nudged Moomintroll with his elbow. "Besides, instead of picking berries, you can have a blueberry-eating contest."
Little My's lip curled in a smirk. "In that case, you lot might as well forfeit here and now. No matter how much you eat, none of you will ever outdo me when I swallow this."
And she produced the biggest blueberry any of them had ever seen. It was easily twice the size of the largest they had gathered, and bluer than a cornflower.
"A mutant blueberry!" Sniff let out an awed gasp.
"Gosh, can you even eat that? It'll get stuck," added Snorkmaiden.
"Cut it in half like a cherry tomato," Sniff suggested.
"No way." Little My's bun jiggled furiously as she shook her head. "I'm eating this baby whole in one gulp."
"That's not a good idea, Little My…" Moomintroll said, but he knew trying to warn her off the idea was useless. Little My always did exactly what she wanted.
Sure enough - "Watch me," Little My said flippantly, and popped the blueberry into her mouth.
She didn't chew. They all waited with bated breath, but Little My had gone still as a statue, unmoving except for a twitch in her brow.
"She's choking!" wailed Sniff.
"How can you tell? She looks the same as always," Moomintroll said. But as he looked closer at her face, he thought her skin did have a strange blue tinge. Her eyes rolled back and her paws rose to her throat.
Sniff squeaked, jumping up and sending blueberries flying. "Now she's drooling! She's going to die! Who knows the Heimlich?"
"What's the Heimlich?" Snufkin asked. "Just give her a good smack, here -"
He pulled Little My in front of him, drew back his arm, and gave her a few sharp slaps between her shoulder blades. She made a gurgling noise, but nothing more happened.
"Let me try," Moomintroll said, switching places with Snufkin. As the heel of his paw came down on her back, she jerked forward and the blueberry shot out of her mouth like a marble.
Snufkin gave an approving nod. "Good work."
"You enjoyed that," Little My glared at him, her voice hoarse but strong as ever.
"Hitting you? Of course not," Moomintroll protested.
"I was hoping I'd get a turn…" Snorkmaiden looked away wistfully.
"Me too," said Sniff.
"You're a bunch of violent louts. But I don't care. I won at least."
There was a sudden uproar.
"You didn't win!" Moomintroll cried. "You didn't swallow one blueberry! We had to Heimlich it out of you!"
"Well, are you going to try to swallow it?" she demanded.
They looked down at the mammoth blueberry lying on the grass, soggy and deflated.
They looked at each other.
"... Like I said, there isn't even a bag of gold to win," Sniff replied with a shrug. "I'm going to see if Moominmamma's cut the cake yet."
"I'll pass too." Gathering as many unbruised berries off the ground as she could, Snorkmaiden followed Sniff to the picnic blanket. "We've already picked more than enough blueberries. Some bird or squirrel will be very grateful we left the biggest one for them."
Everyone knew what Snufkin's answer would be. That left Moomintroll to bear the brunt of Little My's dagger eyes all alone.
"Alright, alright!" he groaned. "You win, by virtue of being the stupidest of us all! Even though it's my birthday and if anyone should win for no good reason, it should be me."
She grinned, satisfied. As she strode away, Moomintroll took some small comfort in the conspicuous dark stain down the front of her dress. That would take some work to wash out, and Mamma would make her do it herself too.
He must have seemed rather forlorn, because after a minute Snufkin wandered over and slipped an arm around him.
"Purple's not really her color, is it," he offered.
Moomintroll shook his head. "No, it isn't."
"I prefer normal, non-mutant blueberries anyhow. But not the teeny tiny ones. They tend to be extra sour."
"Exta extra sour."
Snufkin gave Moomintroll's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Race you up the hill?"
It bothered him a little, to be coddled by Snufkin. He expected it from Snorkmaiden. But he wished Snufkin would see him brave and decisive and grown up - someone to respect, not pet. His tail stiffened. "I don't know…"
"Oh, I guess your legs are rather short for sprinting."
"What!" Moomintroll cried, but Snufkin had already taken off. He was laughing so hard it was a wonder he could still manage to run. The wind blew his hat off his head and right into Moomintroll's snout.
"I'm winning, Moomintroll!"
Moomintroll absolutely did not yell out what the others later claimed they heard him yell at that moment. Snatching up the hat, he dashed after the old green trickster, who was only less of an annoyance than Little My because he was worlds lazier, and one day Moomintroll was going to smack him for it.
Yes, smack him. And afterward maybe Snufkin would let him kiss it better.
… It was his birthday, after all. "One day" might as well be "today."
Later, Little My would swear she had never seen a Moomin move so fast, or a Snufkin go from unflappable calm to abject terror with such alacrity. It was a good thing there were so many blueberry bushes around to conceal them once Moomintroll got a fistful of Snufkin's smock. It was less of a good thing that they'd eventually have to return, exhibiting the proof of their little misadventure in the stylish form of numerous purple polka dots.
But after that neither of them could ever manage to eat blueberries without breaking out in laughter. Little My drew a picture to commemorate her enormous blueberry find that Sniff claimed was greatly exaggerated. And "the blueberry summer" became a point of reference for the Moomins whenever they wanted to think on a time when they had been particularly happy and particularly content.
As soon as the two of you walked in the front door, you were immediately dragging him towards the sofa and pushing him down onto it. He said something softly but you didn’t hear exactly what, you needed to ravage him so bad you couldn’t think. You dropped yourself into his lap and grabbed a fistfull of his hair before fervently pressing your lips against his.
Tengen broke the kiss and let out a breathy chuckle. "You're eager, what's up with you?"
You hummed against Tengen's neck before peppering chaste kisses into his skin. "What, I can't appreciate a pretty man?" You bit down gently. "My pretty man, to be exact?"
"By all means, go ahead," Tengen exhaled shakily. "'S just different. Usually I'm in charge."
"Mm, not today," You murmured into Tengen’s jaw and shifted in his lap, smirking to yourself as you felt his grip on your hips tighten. “You’re not allowed to cover these up."
“Yeah? Why’s that?” Tengen breathed out as he leant his head to give you more room to work.
“You’re mine,” You bit down again, this time hard enough to elicit a hiss from Tengen, before running your tongue over the skin. “You’re all for me and I want everyone else to know it. I hate how other corps members look at you like they're undressing you with their eyes.”
“Quite the double standard, don’t you think?” Tengen said.
“Not really, no,” You grinded down on his lap and reveled in the low groan that rumbled through his chest. “After all, you’re my husband, not theirs.”
Let's go for a walk in the park under a summer sunset, and then write in journals in my bedroom and get tipsy on champagne stolen from my parents' alcohol cupboard
hey yall i wrote another darry fic, this time with a major tim shepard angle. it’s here on ao3, but the first 500 words are right here :)
--
1961.
Darry can admit it would've been smarter to ask for help. Though the asking would've been yelling, hollering for someone down the block to run outside and save him like he was some baby, so he'd refrained.
The shuddering noise of an expensive engine cuts off behind him, and holding his breath, Darry turns around toward it. A boy he doesn't recognize is in the front seat—likely someone's older brother, due to the fact no one in Darry's year is old enough to drive yet—with three other boys from his history class stuffed into the remainder of the Porsche. Darry sighs, squaring his shoulders as they tumble out of the car and hoot a couple of sneered greetings at him.
Darry's only been at Will Rogers for two weeks, and it's glaringly different than his middle school. Almost feels like a dang church, old and traditional and draped in high-ceiling'd ceremony. Students pray at their different altars, rich or popular or cheerleader or honors society. Maybe Darry's mistake was even just glancing at the sect he isn't in. Today he'd stayed late, hiding out on the bleachers and watching the older kids on the varsity team practice football. How their helmets shone in the floodlights above, how cohesively they ran through drills. At 14, it's easy for him to marvel at it in comparison to the teams he'd grown up on.
Perhaps the older brother was on the team and spotted him sneaking around?
"We just started classes and you're already such a know-it-all, Curtis," one of the boys scoffs. "You're supposed to either keep your trap shut, be kicked out of class, or not come at all. You're a greaser, right, or aren't you?"
Darry can't help raising his brows. They want to beat on him for being some kind of geek? Him? He's not grown completely into himself quite yet, but Darry ain't some small kid, that's for damn sure, it's pretty obvious he plays sports. He can be smart enough and still be a jock.
In the end, neither of those are his altar. Not the one he pays respects to.
"Sure I'm a greaser," he shrugs, raising his fists. He breathes out a sigh, heart pounding. "You wanna test that?"
Darry ain't been jumped before. He's always been tall enough, straight-faced enough, never allowing himself to look like an option to start brawlin' with. Guess his armor doesn't matter anymore.
His classmates run at him restlessly, arms circling around his waist before he has a second to think of a real move. The short, dry grass meets his back and pokes into his arms, Darry scrambling onto his side so they can't splay him out. He shoves himself to his hands and knees, finding a leg to grab and pulling the kid straight to the ground with a thud. The other two boys blink at him for a second in shock, before Darry plants his fist harshly into one of their guts once he stands up.
Whoever these soc boys are, they've pinned him wrong. He's no pencil-pusher; he just listens. And he supposes he's no jock if he has no team. So he's a greaser.
Darry rears his fist back again, but the boy he'd initially flipped onto the ground grabs around his forearm. He glances back for a moment, a moment too long, and a punch to his cheek knocks him backward. The boy gripping his arm rips Darry back hard enough to topple him, and he's back on the ground with his limbs being pulled and stretched and bent as the socs fight against Darry's wiggling and strength.
More than pretty, perhaps. There’s a stunning quality to it that takes Daveys breath away- and it’s more than Jack simply having the goddamn audacity. It’s this glimmer the boy gets in his eye, no matter his expression, as if he’s casting a spell merely with his voice. It’s a far too compelling sound to Davey’s ears that slowly eases his thoughts to quiet and his gaze to fall deep into Jack’s, encourages him to simply nod and agree.
And the worst part of it is that Davey doesn’t think Jack has any idea. Jack knows he’s a liar, and he knows he’s pretty in a sense, but Jack can’t seem to understand how damn persuasive he really is in a way Davey can never be. Davey will always need his words, need something he invents to be his backup, but Jack- can get away with things, with a glance and a smile and a glint that only Davey seems to know is one of a false diamond.
And Davey decides right then, at least for now, that he hates it.
5.8k words | darry/paul | pre-canon & pre-relationship | on ao3!
part of my ongoing, non-chronological parry vignette series!!
November 25th, 1963.
Darry knows how to get knocked around. He doesn’t mean to be too proud of it, but when his cohort of high school friends mostly punch each other for the pure shock of it, he can’t lie and say he doesn’t smirk when he takes a punch without a flinch and all the socs stare at him wide-eyed. Impressed.
But he isn’t trying to. Impress them, that is. Not when he’s partway through his junior year on the team, since by now Darry’s forced himself to feel settled. Had to. There’s just no use in exhausting himself by keeping his hackles raised all the time by now, jumping on every leering comment he overhears. He's got to keep his head on straight the best he can, be agonizingly strategic about when he talks back.
Besides. Paul helps.
It’s an overstatement, but there isn’t much Paul Holden even has to do to get other people to heed his command in the first place. Darry shrugs off a complaint he mutters about to the other, and the next thing Darry knows the player who’d said something about him or his family is being relentlessly teased for a whole other thing, and anything to do with Darry is forgotten. Socs are shark-like that way, sensing blood and unable to help following its scent. Paul just happens to own a goddamn blood bank or something full of distraction, manipulation, and lies.
Well. If it works it works, Darry supposes, especially if it’s in his favor. Only so much ground he can gain out here all alone, and he needs every inch he can get. Even if it’s half behind his back, with a shrug and denial of involvement.
Either way, Darry can take a damn belting be it of words or fists, and apparently their team's about to. They’ve done real well in the playoffs so far, they got just a couple more rounds till they make the semifinal, but McLain is a team chockfull of bruisers if Darry recalls. He’d played less last year, since he was just a sophomore, but he knew they’d lost. And not gracefully, either.
Paul finds Darry after the locker room huddle, his plastic-bulked shoulder a few inches away from Darry’s own matching set. His friend's lips are pressed together, eyes set forward. Rare sight. There’s only a few times Paul focuses on stuff real hard. He’s always thinking, but he’s not one to focus. Usually Paul just doesn’t need to- things simply come to him, more than in the regular soc-fortunate ways. But now? His dark eyes are lasered in on the field before them as they lean back against the brick wall of the dugout under the stands. They're hidden here from early-arriving families or students— Darry can hear their aluminum-twanged footsteps as people plod through the bleachers over and around them. Paul's lips twitch as he thinks, and Darry bets he's itching for a cigarette. A bad habit he’d accidentally turned the other onto.
“We really need to win,” Paul murmurs suddenly. Must’ve felt Darry’s eyes on him.
“I know that.” Darry always needs to win.
“I know you know. I’m just saying- I think- I think this game is gonna be big enough to earn our places for senior year, Dar. Captaincy, and all that. You know?”
Darry tilts his head. Every game is about something more than the game, much as he adores it. He wishes games could be about just the game, the athleticism, the teamwork and strategy. Ever since he got to Will Rogers it’d all been morphed into something else- nothing unrecognizable, but something else. He has to agree, though.
“It’ll look real tuff if we win this year, yeah. Specially since we got more play time,” Darry nods. “When’d you say those, um. The recruiters, when do they start comin’ to games?”
Paul hums, thinking on it for a moment before it flits away from him and he gets locked back into his previous train of thought. Darry scoffs.
“Paul. Hey.”
Paul blinks, glancing up at Darry. He shrugs, waving it away. “Yeah, no. Not yet. February, probably, then into next fall. I'll let you know, alright, just trust me.”
Darry rolls his eyes, but nods. Not yet, then, he still has more time. Good. He glances at Paul when his friend doesn't continue speaking, though.
Paul doesn’t have a worried face. He has tells. Darry doesn’t know quite all of them yet, but the boy is far quieter than he usually is before a game and that confident glimmer is closer to a faint pulse.
“Don’t be nervous,” Darry says. He’s found it’s better to state the truth to the other than ask for it.
It earns him a plastic shoulder pad to his sternum, but at least Darry knows he’s right. He shoves Paul off of him, trying not to smile.
“About what?” Paul scoffs, eyes on the field again now that people really start to pour into the stands. He starts to jog over to their half, and Darry keeps pace. “It’ll be fine, Darrel.”
They make it over just as their coach is going over their main plays again. Darry listens intently even though he knows what they are already, the words and strategy and order of events forming into a clean pattern in his brain. It’s how he absorbs information best, even with Paul in his peripherals glancing at the other side of the field every other damn second. Once they break, with the coin flip a couple minutes away, Darry turns to him.
“What?” is all he says, glancing where Paul’d been. He’s got to nearly yell over the sound of the crowds in the stands- it’s Thanksgiving break, and those games are always real popular. Darry knows his family’s there, and with the way Paul’s glancing around… “Is he here?”
Paul’s head snaps toward him quick as a whip, an expression like the one Darry used to get from him stitched into his face: Cold, dark and chipped like the frozen earth in December. Darry maintains a stare back, his own icy eyes narrowing. Paul’s frown twitches- he hadn’t meant to. Instinct.
“It doesn’t matter,” Paul huffs. “I- maybe. Not like I can find him in all this. Your folks here?”
Darry’s head tilts, but he admits that they are with a nod. He doesn’t know why he feels awkward about his family with Paul at this point, honestly. He’s met Paul’s dad. Clean-cut grown-up Soc with a capital S, but a nice enough man. Charismatic type, some sort of Hollywood producer. He ain’t sure why Paul doesn’t seem to get along with him, maybe other than the fact they’re practically the same. Darry’s damn miles different than his own dad and they get along real fine, so it’s probably being similar that’s tough.
“That’s cool,” Paul murmurs, already distracted from the topic. Darry sighs. “God, I hope they pick defense...”
McLain picks offense, and it’s a rough first quarter.
Darry warms the bench with Paul and watches closely as the game unfolds. They’re as brutal as Darry remembers from last year, and far too smart about it even in their offense. A well-placed shoulder drives one of Will Rogers’s linemen veering completely off his path, a false fall bowls over two of their bigger guys and sends them sprawling. There’s a couple flags thrown, but nothing other than a five yard penalty or so for holding. Flying right under the line of breaking the rules. Darry doesn’t like it- it’s unsportsmanlike, it’s plain mean and meant to get kids hurt. And that’s just their offense.
Being put on the field is like being put in a goddamn blender, especially since that’s sort of Darry’s position on the field, really. He keeps close to their QB, taking passes right through the middle of the mob or along the sideline and shoving through McLain’s defense with the help of Will Rogers’s offensive line. Paul on the other hand gets to prance down the dang field as a wide receiver while Darry gets clobbered every other play, but technically that means Darry’s got hands on the ball more often, so. He’ll take getting knocked around any day, specially ‘cause he’s damn good at it. The roar of the crowd cuts in and out of Darry’s senses as plastic hits, hands dig against his ribs, forearms drive him back against his chest. When he does get the ball a small part of him sweats, knowing what’s coming next if he doesn’t make it to the end zone. He makes it through a mere five yards at a time before arms rip around his waist and tear him down to the field in a strangled mass of limbs. Things twist, and bruise, and press, but he gets up every time even if he pulses with a little more pain after each play.
He half thinks he’s dreaming when the whistle blows at half, clods of dirt falling from his cleats as Darry trudges toward Will Rogers’s side of the field. He tries not to heave his breaths, but jesus christmas does he need this damn break. He lifts his helmet off, wiping his hand over his dripping forehead when he hears a screeched “DAAAAAAARE!”
His gaze snaps up, eyes scanning the crowd before they settle on a beaming, red-faced kid parked next to an extremely bored-looking ten year old. Darry smiles back, big and tired as he waves. Dad gives him a wink and a salute—keep at it, soldier—and Mom screams with Soda. They don’t always get to come to games with work and all, and Darry’s chest manages to soften amidst the field of hardened boys. He’s still doing the right thing, being entrenched in all this sochood for now. His folks look proud.
A heavy hand claps on his back, bringing reality back into the dirt.
“Don’t lose that focus, Curtis,” Paul murmurs at his side, though turns a smile toward the stands for Darry’s family. “You’re not the head in the clouds type. You want them to watch you win, right?”
Darry blinks, glancing back down at Paul, and the field, and the kinds of boys they’d let on the two teams, and how Darry isn't like any of them. Entrenched again. He nods slowly, casting one last look toward the stands before heading with Paul into the locker room.
Aggressive offense is the takeaway from Coach’s halftime talk to them all, which causes a small dent in Darry’s perhaps too-ironclad moral compass. Maybe he’s wrong, honestly, but it just don’t sit right with him. He wants to play to be the best, not simply win, but if aiming a discreet elbow gets him closer to that scholarship then- then.. it’s worth it, he guesses, even if it feels like a different voice than his own is trying to convince him. One that’s sharp, cold, and familiar, but not his.
“Finally,” Paul’s saying when Darry tunes back in. His friend’s eyes glitter in a way they hadn’t been at the start of the game. Seems reignited by the idea of a rougher second half, which doesn’t surprise Darry in the least. Paul always thinks he wants a fight, and he’s not bad in one by any means, but any time a boy in one of the other social clubs or private schools gets a good hit on Paul he’s always checking for blood, as if he’s shocked that he can bleed at all. “Now we can even the score, at least. Not losin’ too bad or anything but now we can win.”
“We coulda won anyhow,” Darry tries to mutter. Paul shakes his head, almost fondly, giving Darry an amused smile.
“College football probably has more…honor, or whatever you’re lookin’ for, Dar,” Paul chuckles. “For now we fight for everything. You forgetting that?”
He blinks, trying his best not to appear too put-off by the sharp comment. Well, Darry’s certainly the one that can’t forget, now isn’t he. And Paul knows that. He’s got to fight for every damn thing in his friend group, on the team, in this town. Still, after more than a year of it. His jaw clenches, even as he feels Paul’s eyes on him, but the other usually doesn’t mind when Darry’s not happy with him.
“I’m not,” Darry snaps, storming toward the field. He’s got a bad feeling Paul’s smiling.
Will Rogers launches into the second half, harder, faster, and sharper indeed, no holds barred. It’s about winning now, just the winning, and Darry white-knuckles the football when he’s got it and merely grits his teeth as his shoulder collides with the side of someone’s helmet. If there’s no whistle, no one saw. He forces himself not to have time to think about how much the notion twists him up inside, forces his brain to numb and his demeanor to winterize right along with it. He’s playing the Socs game now, not just a football one, and he has to win. Maybe even wants to now, with the deafening crowd and roar of cleats against grass and plastic against bone drowning everything else out for the time being. It's not hard to lose himself in the desperation of what's at stake, nor the aggressive blizzard of physicality he's absorbed into play after play.
Darry can barely tell against the defensive player he’s pushing against, but he watches as the football sails from their quarterback down the field, sees Paul running, sprinting, and harrowingly dodging just enough for the ball to find his hands. Darry watches him get tackled, taking note of where Paul goes down. His heart skips a beat. Dang, that’s gotta put them only ten yards from the end zone with just twenty seconds left. They’re at a tie with McLain, and it’d be great to get out of overtime and just plain win.
But with so little time left and so little distance between them and the winning point, there’s only a few ways this next play can go. And their best shot… would rely on Darry, making a close-up play and driving it straight through. His heart skips another few beats, and he tries to swallow down the doubt in himself that bubbles up in his chest.
He bats at Paul’s helmet as both teams go to reset. It was a great play, and an impressive catch. How quick he’d maneuvered around the other players, knowing exactly when and where to look for the ball, damn. The other is good at what he does, there’s no question.
“Nice work,” Darry nods. Paul meets his gaze, and Darry nods again, insistent.
Paul’s brown eyes don’t soften, they don’t really do that. Instead they gleam, and Paul smiles wolfishly at the praise.
“Your turn,” he says, like a challenge. Darry’s expression hardens, and Paul hits his shoulder in approval before finding his place in the offensive line.
There’s quiet on the field as they set, Darry doing his best to breathe even and steady as he leans down. His fingers brush against the cold grass, November having chilled the earth beneath them. Each tackle’s felt like landing against damn cement, even though meeting it’s been a sort of relief each time after running and sweating and smashing into other too-warm bodies. But Darry can’t meet the ground on this play, no siree. He’s got to barrel right on through.
The quarterback calls the play, and Darry’s position is in the hot seat as he’d correctly assumed. He tries not to let his heart pound too hard as he tightens up, muscles taught as he prepares to receive the hand off-
“-Hike!”
Darry starts forward a few paces, a hand out to his side to get the football from the QB. Ahead of him is pure commotion, a loud, slamming, shelled barricade of boys grappling. Familiar to Darry, at least. He’s always been good at getting in between a fight.
The leather of the ball slips into his hand, his other clamping on top to secure it and purely shove.
Darry swallows down his cringe as his shoulder definitely bruises another player’s cheek, the guy spiraling off his path as Darry keeps on pushing through the line. There’s maybe three sole yard between him and winning against the toughest team in their bracket, three yards from one more match closer to the goddang championship, three yards away from proving that what he’s doing on this team is worth it, it’s worth it, doesn’t matter how banged up and bruised and exhausted he comes home, as long as it fucking works.
Just as he’s starting to think he’s made it over, there’s a tug at his ankle. A tug, not someone’s leg or torso he’s tripping over, but fingers and a hand an a hard grip wrapping around his ankle in the middle of the game before wrenching back. Darry doesn’t get a second to scramble, doesn’t even get a moment to process before his cleated foot drags out from under him completely and he’s falling and someone’s cleat is coming toward his head.
The instant it hits home, everything whites out of his brain. It catches him right in the temple, harder than any plastic padding he’s crashed into for the past two hours and colder than the frosted grass beneath them. His vision is traveling further than he is, doubled and spinning while he falls.
He’s falling. Right. Got to get the point.
Doing his best to blink his vision straight again, Darry pulls his arms and the ball close to himself as he does, his shoulder meeting the ground. The play’s over, thank god.
Then something hits him in the chin and everything’s gone. Darkened. Quieter, quieting, until it slips into soft silence.
Is this some reward, maybe? A moment of relief before he either has to deal with prepped-for failure or dreaded success? His brain can’t come up with an answer. It can’t come up with anything, actually, oddly distant and as quiet as the blackness.
Noise filters in after some time, flashes of it. A hand at his shoulder, rocking him slightly. Someone’s yelling about… someone down on the field, maybe, but everything else just sounds like regular game noise. Staticky and monotonous, before-
Sound floods back in like a landslide, washing over him with rocks and sticks and noise that prods too aggressively at his waned attention. There’s screaming and confusion and celebration, a cacophony of high school sportisms. Darry tries not to let it bury him- there’s talking through the noise above, more than just the shouting and static.
Darry groans. Above him. He’s on the ground. Something’s still cradled against his chest, too.
“He’s just takin’ a while to get up, that’s all,” someone scoffs, and Darry hears hands shove against plastic. “Hey, cool it! Why’re you even worried about him, Holden? You don’t have to.”
“Of course I have to. That one don’t stay down,” Paul snaps, that’s Paul for sure. Biting and cold. “And Darrel won us the game, or are you blind. We’ll lose next week for sure if he isn’t fine. Take a fucking knee, you prick. That's your damn teammate.” And cleats and plastic then settle a few feet away from him.
Paul must think Darry’s asleep, or something, or else he wouldn’t so blatantly defend him like that. Paul diverts attention and comments, he flips others’ words on their head, twisting things around Darry but never has he really gone to bat for him. Of course I have to. Maybe Darry is dreaming.
“Paul,” he tries to say anyway. He thinks he does. It sounds so low in his chest that Darry can’t be sure it even reaches his lips. There’s a commotion, before two grassy thuds land next to him. A hand’s on the side of his ribs.
“Darrel?” Paul replies, urgent. “Hey, pal. Open your eyes, open your fucking eyes, okay? You’re fine. You’re fine.”
His eyes aren’t open, haven’t been open. Alright. He tries.
They peel open at the speed of the local DX’s garage, heavy and stuttered and resistant. Light enters like thorns, prickling his sight and making him wince and squint to stop the oncoming headache. But there’s Paul, blurred and brightened as he appears. Darry can’t really see his face just right, can’t tell how the other’s feeling. The urgency he’d had felt sorta frightened, but that doesn’t make a ton of sense to Darry. Scared of what?
Paul scoffs, his shoulders shrugging in disbelief. Darry feels the football get slipped out of his grasp, his hands agonizingly empty since he still doesn’t have an answer. He feels Paul's hand slip into his own, filling the space.
“No, you idiot, you won us the game,” Paul laughs. “We needed to win, and you won. Simple as that, alright? So let’s just- shit, you gotta stand up. Can’t just stay on the field anymore.”
Suddenly Darry’s lurched upward, Paul's hand squeezing his own as he still reels with the knowledge that they’d won the game. One of the most important games of the season and he’d cleared that point, and—
Darry squeezes his eyes shut as dizziness crashes over him, behind his eyelids still feeling like he’s spinning too. Paul forced him to his feet, he’s sort of sure, but he can hardly tell with how fast everything is just whirling around in circles. He can hardly see, or think, and everything's screaming at him to sit down. “Paul. Paul, Paul, I can’t, just-”
He stumbles, legs like a newborn deer’s after having been on the ground so long. But arms loop under his shoulders before he can fall, warmth against his back as Paul guides them back toward the grass- with a string of curses, but still.
“Okay. Fine,” Paul huffs, his hand at Darry’s back as they settle. It’s the only thing keeping Darry from spiraling to his back again he’s so disoriented, eyes screwed shut so he doesn’t puke or pass out or do something else stupid in public. Jesus, they’re in public. If he’d lost the game he’s sure his socy football quest would be over for good. Not his life, but certainly a few reasons for living it. “Fine. We can just fucking stay here. Whatever, Darrel, but you’re fine, okay? You have to be, I don't know how we're gonna-”
“Goddammit, stop,” Darry blurts, to Paul, or to everything, really. His voice is tired, and dry, or maybe that’s just how he talks when he doesn’t have to act. He doesn't want to still have to act, feeling messed up like this, just him and Paul. He shouldn't have to be fine right now. “Just… stop.”
Paul scoffs, but nothing else is said. Quiet rests between them while the crowd talks at top volume and vague concern. Darry rests his forehead against his friend’s shoulder to steady nauseous breaths before his family or a medic or someone can come down to the field. The last solid, lucid thing Darry remembers is Paul’s hand, as it shifts carefully up and down his back.
He wakes up to Sodapop’s hand running along his back instead, in his own room. Darry can recall watching his family come down to the side of the field, still sitting with Paul before they ran over and sort of took over, got him home, all that, but it feels like a dream rather than something that must’ve only happened an hour ago. His head’s pulsing something awful though, with each beat of his heart as blood flows to his bruised brain. Some sort of repetitive, cruel lullaby. Darry forces his eyes open anyway, squinting.
Paul Holden is sitting in Darry’s wood chair that normally lives at his desk, striped madras shirt unbuttoned with a casual white tee beneathh. A notebook and pencil busy his hands as he boredly draws something. It rests on his drawn-up leg, the other scrunching his posture up in a way Darry’s not sure he’s ever seen before. It makes Paul look…small. Or human. Darry stiffens when Paul glances up from the paper, half-lidded brown eyes catching his. Paul’s expression doesn’t change, but he sits up properly, closing the notebook- Darry’s arithmetic notebook, probably from his desk.
“Hey,” Paul greets casually, as if he isn’t sitting at Darry’s bedside for who knew how long. Soda’s hand stops its motion. “You remember we won, right?”
“Darry?” Soda says hurriedly. His brother’s hand presses against his shoulder and forces Darry to roll over and face the boy. Soda’s lip’s already wobbling, so Darry elects to give him a small smile. “You feelin’ okay now? In- in the car you looked real shaken up, and you wouldn’t talk or look at anyone, and you went to bed the second you got in here and it was- I-I dunno.”
Darry sighs, brows furrowing. The car ride is a dang blur, honestly. He must’ve got hit pretty bad, but he doesn’t remember that too much either, just his ankle getting grabbed and then Paul. Carefully, he lugs himself back against his barred headboard, keeping his gaze down so nothing spun too bad. It all feels a little tilted right then, like his bed’s sitting on a different angle than Paul and Soda’s at a different angle than everything else.
“I’m fine,” he says, holding an arm out. Soda finds his side, tucking himself against Darry and gripping the t-shirt he must’ve half-consciously changed into with tight hands. “Soda, really. Happens.”
“Well then just don’t let it happen again,” Soda mumbles.
“Well, it might,” Darry mutters. It’s just part of the game. He hears Paul scoff in amusement, and Soda’s head whips right up with a scowl.
“You can leave whenever yanno,” Soda says. “Darry’s all good with us, Paul. Thanks for helpin’ him."
Darry stifles a sigh. Sodapop has never liked Paul. Darry was home a lot less thanks to football and parties, and Soda probably blames Paul for that. But that was more Darry’s fault than Paul’s. His kid brother just had a feeling about it, likely, which could mean anything to Darry. Soda has feelings about every little thing- maybe he’s jealous that Darry spends more time out with friends than he does at home now, but that’s just growing up, ain’t it?
Paul’s gaze flicks to Darry in response, expectant in a way that makes Darry’s stomach ache as much as his head. Paul tilts his head, brown eyes curious. What will Darry do, as if they both don’t know. With Paul’s attention on him like that, words are pulled from his throat.
“No, I wanna talk to him,” Darry says, turning back to Soda. He gives him another smile. “You gotta go tell Pony that I’m okay anyhow, and I Paul's gonna tell me what happened after the game, alright?”
Soda blinks, opening his mouth for a moment before closing it, nodding.
“I guess that’s fair,” he mumbles. “You sure you’re gonna be okay? You ain’t.. remember comin’ home?”
Well. Is that concerning? Darry bites his lip. “Not… not really, no. But it’s alright. Just feel like I been belted somethin’ bad is all, really. Go find Ponyboy.”
Reluctantly, Soda nods again. He gives Darry one last squeeze before slipping off the bed, eyeing Paul once before before leaving Darry’s room and letting the door shut. There’s silence for a couple moments, waiting for Soda to get far enough…
“Gee whiz, he still fuckin' hates me,” Paul sighs, chuckling lightly. His smile’s only there for a moment, though. “But you- you really don’t remember getting here?”
“Only a little,” Darry frowns. “Feels like I imagined it or somethin', um. Dreamin’ about it right before I woke up, maybe.” Paul lets out a breath of disbelief at that, which’s fair- Darry’s imagination ain’t the strongest, so there's no way he dreamed it all. “You com back with- with..?”
“Swung by later,” Paul replied, shrugging. “Didn’t wanna step on what your folks were doin’ for you, but I told ‘em on the field what had happened. I just- you…”
Darry watches Paul frown, his friend's brows furrowing while he thinks and sits back in the chair. Paul runs a hand over his looser curls, gel-free after the game , shaking his head. “I never seen you like that before, Darrel. You gettin’ knocked straight out was already- somethin’, but you couldn’t even stand for a while. It was just, um. Weird.”
Darry blinks, considering. Guess that woulda been a strange sight to see, but Darry—and Paul—get knocked down all the time. That’s the sport. Maybe this time was more extreme, but nothing unfamiliar. And definitely nothing odd- some kid five games or so ago on another team got some kind of concussion too.
“Weird?” Darry echoes, his eyes tracking annoyingly slow to Paul’s. Everything feels a little pained, is the thing, even internal movements like flicking his gaze causing his head to pound.
“Yeah,” Paul scoffs. “And no one was- was stopping, you know? Everything just kept goin’ like you weren’t on the ground, like you didn’t just get us outta what was gonna be the worst overtime of the whole season. I had to get everyone to quit runnin’ around and pay attention again like they were chickens with their heads cut off. Jesus.”
Darry blinks again, his mind recalling the yelling and conversation that’d been going on above him like echoes through his skull. Everyone had just gone on like he hadn't been laying there. And Paul had been yelling, ordering things to a halt so that- so Darry wouldn’t be a literal footnote.
“You did?” he asks, quietly. He’s still trying to remember, but there’s a touch of something else to it. Paul doesn’t put much work into things that don’t serve him, ever the observer. Things happen and he operates from there, plans ahead but doesn’t interfere with the present. Yet he had for Darry, maybe even making a scene of it.
Paul scoffs. “No one else was. What? You think I wouldn’t? They were gonna fucking step on you, Dar, I swear. Stupid pricks.”
Darry looks at him then, lips a straight line. Think he wouldn’t? He hadn’t, till today.
“You tell me,” he says to the other, frowning. “If I hadn’t made that score, would you’ve done shit?”
Paul’s lips part, before he blinks, tilting his head. Considering. Darry blazes with anger, he doesn’t care if it makes his head throb worse.
“Get the hell outta my–”
“I would’ve,” Paul says, and his eyes are right on Darry’s glaring ones. “I shoulda said it real quick, it- I.. just know I haven’t been great. At this.”
Paul gestures between them, before crossing his arms again and looking away.
“I never been friends with someone like you before,” he states, and before Darry can criticize, “and you sure as hell’ve never been friends with someone like me. You still think I won’t look out for you, man. On the field of all places.”
Darry crosses his own arms, letting his legs fall in front of him rather than bunching himself up. Not wanting to look weaker than he already is and feels.
“This’s the first time you’ve ever defended me, Paul,” Darry retorts. “It ain’t like I need it all the time, I can handle myself. I just don’t see why you think I should expect you to do shit for me when you ain’t ever before like that.”
Paul’s expression scrunches. “You haven’t needed me to, Dar. Fighting your own battles is a good look on you, man, you don’t want me just- swooping in, like you can’t handle—”
Darry’s tongue startles loose before he can stop it.
“Maybe I do, you know!” he bursts. “Want- want that. Or just- somethin’. Jesus, Paul, just to know you give a fuckin’ shit about, about- just…more than how well I play.”
Paul stares at him, and Darry feels his whole face brighten with heat. He looks down at his fists curled tight in his bedsheets, at the notebook in Paul’s hand, at the foot of his bed. Anywhere except the other. He doesn’t know if he’s being fair or not, if he’s asking more of Paul than he’s been raised to do. But, christ, if Paul wants to be his friend, his real friend, then—
“I, um…yeah,” Darry finally hears Paul say quietly. He looks up, and Paul’s posture and gaze and tension in his shoulders do something he ain’t sure he’s ever seen on the other: Paul softens. All of him does, settles looser and gentler than Darry's observed before. The ice between them, that shared icicle they’d gripped and called friendship, begins to thaw. “Okay, Dar. I mean, I do. I do give a fucking shit, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You want a point for that?” Darry scoffs, but he’s less angered than before. Paul’s brown eyes look different than he’s ever seen ‘em, look like a sign of something good. Something new.
“Maybe just one, yeah,” Paul smirks. He shifts forward on the chair, dropping the twist of his lips for something more neutral. Glances away before finding Darry’s eyes again. “Look, I’m glad you’re okay, alright? I sat in a goddamn room with you passed out like a rock with your annoying brother for- a while. I do give a shit.”
Darry sighs, frowning to himself. His guard’s been up a long time, he knows that. Hasn’t been the most comfortable thing while certainly being the safest, but…he doesn't want it to cost him anything either. Or anyone.
“Alright. You do,” Darry agrees, giving Paul a small nod. “Just do it more.”
“Got it,” Paul nods, enough so like a child to make Darry scoff in amusement. Christ, they sure were raised different.
“You got any gripes with me?” Darry asks. “I aired mine. It’s only fair.”
Paul narrows his eyes, smiling.
“You and fairness,” he says, like it’s funny. “Let’s see. Yeah.”
Paul shifts forward again, now at the edge of the chair. He sets his hand on Darry’s shoulder, warm and present. Paul’s gaze is the same, a warm brown, new and unknown. It’s steady, too, oddly sure. Darry stares back.
“Trust me,” Paul insists, sounding out the words. His brows raise, and now Darry feels like the child. “Okay?”
His gut instinct is still not to. Paul’s a soc, a big-time Soc, someone who used to turn his nose up at Darry just last year. And he doesn’t get along with Sodapop, and everyone gets along with Soda. But…
Something about the way Paul’s eyes are the only things he can focus on amidst all this pounding in his head. Their soft brown, gentle brown, words he didn’t think Paul Holden could embody. Paul's never looked at anyone like this, let alone him. It’s steadying, it swoops in and holds him.
They’re…pretty. That’s what it is. Paul’s brown eyes are pretty.
He nods, falling into them just a little, and he thinks he sees Paul smile.
“Got it,” Darry echoes. Paul definitely smiles then.
