Chapter Text
The church was freezing. That was the first thing I noticed every morning—the way the cold seemed to seep right through the floorboards and settle into my bones. Sunlight was just starting to crawl through the jagged, broken colored glass of the windows, turning the dust motes into tiny floating sparks.
I didn't move much. I didn't want to wake Johnny. He was curled up in his denim jacket, his dark hair a mess against his forehead. In the quiet, without the shadows of the vacant lot or the fear of his old man hanging over him, he looked... peaceful. It was a look he never got to wear back in Tulsa.
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the one thing I’d taken from Dally’s room. It was a small, black leather notebook. I’d grabbed it on instinct, thinking Dally might have had some "out of state" contacts or maps in there, but it was bone-dry empty. Dally wasn't the type to keep a diary; he lived too fast to write anything down.
I found a stubby yellow pencil in my pocket and flipped to the first page. For a long time, I just watched the way the light hit the bridge of Johnny’s nose. I started to draw.
I’m not as good as some of the artists in the books I read, but I can catch a likeness if I try hard enough. I sketched the curve of his eyelashes and the way his jaw looked a little less tense than usual. I wanted to capture this—this one moment where we were safe, even if it was just because the rest of the world hadn't caught up to us yet.
Underneath the sketch, I pressed the lead hard against the paper.
Day One, I wrote. We’re at the church on Jay Mountain. It’s quiet here, spookier than the movies, but at least there aren't any Corvairs cruising the hills.
I looked at Johnny again. He stirred slightly, his hand twitching in his sleep. My heart did a weird little ache.
I don’t know what’s gonna happen to us, I continued, my handwriting getting smaller. I’m scared out of my mind, if I’m being honest. But looking at Johnny... I don’t know. I’m glad it’s him I’m with. I think I’d go crazy if I were here alone. He’s the only one who sees things the way I do. I guess I never realized how much I need him around until there was nobody else left.
I hesitated, then added a small line at the bottom.
He’s more than just my best friend. He’s everything.
I closed the book quick when I heard him groan. I slid it back into my pocket just as his eyes flickered open—those big, dark eyes that always looked like they were searching for something they couldn't find.
"Pony?" he croaked, his voice thick with sleep.
"Yeah, Johnny," I said, giving him a small smile. "I'm right here. We're okay."
I felt the hard edge of the notebook pressing against my hip as I sat up. It felt heavy, like it was weighted down by all those words I’d just carved into the paper. I knew if Johnny saw it, he’d probably just think I was being "deep" like I usually am with my books and movies, but my stomach did a nervous flip at the thought of him actually reading the lines I wrote about him.
"I’m gonna go see if that pump out back still works," Johnny said, rubbing the sleep from his face. "I'm parched."
"Yeah, okay. Don't get seen," I warned, watching him duck out through the heavy wooden doors.
The second the door creaked shut, I whipped the notebook back out. My pencil was moving before I even really thought about what I wanted to say. The graphite scratched loudly in the silence of the church.
He just left to get water, I scribbled, my pulse quickening. Even just watching him walk away makes me feel restless. I keep thinking about what I wrote before—about needing him. It’s more than that. It’s like there’s this gold thread tied between us, and as long as he’s in the room, I can breathe. When he’s not, the air feels thin.
I looked at the sketch I’d made of him and added a few more lines to his hair. I felt my face getting hot, and I was glad the church was dim.
I really like him. And not just 'hood' like, or 'brother' like. It’s different. I like the way he listens to me talk about sunsets without calling me crazy. I like the way he looks when he's thinking hard. If he saw this, he’d probably think I was losing my mind. Or maybe he’d get scared and leave. That’s the worst part—I can’t tell him. I have to keep it in this book because the world out there doesn't have room for grease-monsters who feel this way about each other.
I heard the heavy thud of the door and the slosh of a bucket. My heart nearly jumped out of my throat. I slammed the notebook shut and shoved it deep into my pocket, leaning back against the cold stone wall as if I’d just been staring at the ceiling the whole time.
"Water's freezing," Johnny said, setting the bucket down and wiping a stray drop from his lip. "You okay, Pony? Your face is all red."
"Just the cold," I lied quickly, my hand still clutching the notebook through the fabric of my jeans. "Just the cold, Johnny."