TWELVE | House And Home

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JOHNNY CADE
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On my way back to Ponyboy's house, I stop at my own and slide on cuffed jeans and a freshly washed white T-shirt. The house is warmly dimmed and silent, my mother and fathers bedroom is empty, so it is safe to assume they crashed at my aunt's place. They do that often as a last resort, usually when they know their in deep shit. I bet a pretty penny their disappearance has something to do with me.
The shirt I wear covers my belt and the jeans I wear drag on the floor. I shove my previous clothing into my backpack and slip Ponyboy's hoodie back on, cozying into his smell.

Ponyboy has a very distinct scent, that if I were to explain it to you, you just wouldn't get it — or maybe you would.
Ponyboy smells like a good day — good summer day, even. He smells like that tinge of honey in the air on a spring morning. (The honey you would put into your morning tea, cozying up to your lover and watching the morning weather forecast as you discuss the dreams you had the previous night, if any.)
Yet at the same time, he smells of trouble, but it's a comfortable smell to have. Maybe this is why I crave Ponyboy's embrace so much. He smells of punk, tuff cars and brutal honesty. He smells like a home, a comfort being. Ponyboy is a lot of things. He's a tutor, an academic champion, a track allstar. But he's also a fragile, honest soul who only wants safety. He's a smoker, a heavy one at that. He's a reader, loves, loves his books. He tells me things. I think this is why I love him so much, because he's actually a person — he's true to himself.

When I open the gate to Ponyboy's house which forms a barrier between home and the outside world, it makes a loud rattling sound and I get scared it will wake up Darry, or Soda, or maybe even Ponyboy (if he is asleep). I wince at the noise, slowly closing it, but me slowing down the process doesn't seem to make much of a difference as it is still just as loud, only being slower. I groan at the gate, the noise ticks me off. I gently open the door, should I do this? No clue! But Ponyboy's friends do this all the time — humbly crash here — so I assume it is okay.

To my surprise, when I enter the home, Ponyboy is passed out on the couch. I smile at the sight, he waited for me. I feel a foreign thing brew in my stomach, a different kind of butterflies, these butterflies are more reassuring. If they could talk, they'd be saying: "You are loved. This is home."
The butterflies aren't lying, this is home. A house and a home are two different things — my house isn't my home, but Ponyboy's house is my home. A house is a place you live, a home is where you thrive — where you love, your safe space. A home could be anywhere. The more I think about it the more I realize it isn't Ponyboy's house that's my home, but it's him who is my home. The more I think about this idea, the more I want to scream and hop for joy as I realize I found my place in this world. My place in Tulsa is with Ponyboy.

I approach the couch and sit down at Ponyboy's stomach. His body is kind of curved into an arch, and where his stomach is is kind of the only opening on the space. I lean down and place a feather like kiss on his lips as I watch his eyes flutter open. "Johnny . ." Ponyboy groans lovingly at the sight of me, I smile. "Hi Ponyboy." I respond softly, still leaning close to his face. I feel his arms snake around me, and his body shift as he pulls me down, making a space for me on the couch. He holds me close to his body, and speaks no louder than a whisper. "I missed you, Johnny." He whispers in my ear, pressing his chest against my upper back. "I waited for you, I wasn't sure you were gonna come back . . ." He yawns mid sentence, but then picks back up on his sentence. " . . But you did." He whispered lovingly, I could feel the smile in his sleepy voice. "You sound super tired, Pony." I chuckle, flipping over so I'm now facing his chest. "I am, but only a little bit." He says, looking at me with a passionate love. "Go to sleep, I'm here now." I whisper. "Okay." Ponyboy says, closing his eyes. We lay in silence for awhile. "You should change your clothes, jeans aren't comfortable to sleep in." Ponyboy mumbles, tightening his eyes even more shut. "They aren't, you're very right." I agree, except I don't really. Ponyboy's half asleep at the moment, so I figure if I argue, he's gonna get a bit salty. I sit up and I feel the grasp on my body that Ponyboy had loosen. I walk up the stairs to Ponyboy's room, sifting through his closet. I find a pair of shorts, and slide them on and discarding the jeans to the floor. I'll pick them up tomorrow. Surprisingly enough, it's kind of hot in this house. Or maybe it's just me, considering I just did a lot of walking. Infact I'm quite sweaty.

I take a shower because I'm sure no one will mind. Only a quick simple one, lathering the soap over my skin to get the sweat stench out from my body. I study my bruises, and realize that these nasty bruises, reminders, are going to be here for awhile. These bruises are reminders that who I am, and what I am doing is wrong, and these reminders do not wash away like the stench did. I'm just glad Ponyboy didn't get hurt as badly as I did.

When I exit the shower, my hair is only a tad bit wet because I only focused on my body. The air smells of Lemon, and the mirror is fogged over. I wipe a small smile into the mirror before sliding my clothes on and leaving the bathroom, hanging the towel back on it's hanger attached to the door facing into the bathroom. By the time I had finished my shower, Ponyboy had already been passed out so I just slide back into the couch with him. He mindlessly wraps his arms around my lower stomach and presses his cheeks deep into my neck, his lips resting on my shoulder. I chuckle at his clingy self. If I thought he was clingy before, man, was he even clingier in his sleep. He would whine and groan if I moved a muscle.

So I didn't move a muscle that night, and fell asleep in Ponyboy's arms listening to his soft breathing and the sound of wind outside.

Words: 1182

A/n
My fav chapter right now.

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