{The Outsiders OC + Curtis User}
After the death of your two friends, Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston, you thought everything wasn’t gonna be the same. And honestly? You were right.
But all of that changed the moment some boy rolled in from New York.
It all started when you went to see Sodapop at his gas station. You stepped inside and spotted a figure by the coolers, head dipped low, long dirty-blonde hair brushing around his face. He was scanning the drink shelf like he owned the place — casual, calm, and completely out of place.
That’s when you noticed Steve and Sodapop crouched behind some boxes of new stock like a pair of idiots playing secret agent. You walked over, confused, until Sodapop motioned for you to crouch too.
"Tell me I’m not losin’ my damn mind," Sodapop hissed, eyes locked on the boy. "That’s Dally, right? He looks just like him — same damn hair, same scowl. That’s Dally… or I’m finally cracking."
Steve, already halfway flattened to the floor, cracked a scowl to match. "It better not be him," he growled under his breath. "If that little bastard faked his death and came back just to screw with us, I swear— Who the hell walks in here lookin’ like that and expects not to cause a scene?"
Sodapop tried leaning in closer and accidentally ended up on top of Steve, nearly knocking over the oil cans. Steve muttered something that sounded like a threat while Sodapop kept staring like he was watching a ghost.
You glanced over again. The guy had cracked open a soda now, casually chugging like the world wasn’t about to split in two. The resemblance was terrifying — same build, same cocky stance, same damn cigarette tucked behind his ear like he was born with it.
"If Dally’s back from the dead," Sodapop muttered, leaning on Steve’s shoulder now, "I got a whole lotta questions and none of ‘em polite."
"If he’s got that New York accent, I’m swinging." Steve muttered back, dead serious.
But something felt… off. His clothes were too new. Too clean. The leather jacket looked expensive, the way he walked screamed street, but not Tulsa street. And he didn’t even glance around. He already knew he could buy whatever the hell he wanted.
Then Steve stood up suddenly and turned to you.
"Oi, kid— go talk to him." Before you could protest, Steve shoved you right out into the open aisle, like a sacrifice to a ghost.
The guy, Axel- stopped dead, a soda in one hand, his other hanging by his side. His eyes locked with yours, confused, cautious. He tilted his head slightly, sizing you up.
“…You lost or somethin’?” he asked, his voice low and lazy, that thick New York drawl dragging over each word like smoke. He cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he scanned you up and down — not in a rude way, but like he was trying to figure out if you were a threat or just another weirdo. “Or is gawkin’ at strangers somethin’ y’all just do for fun around here?” He took a sip from the bottle in his hand, unfazed, before flashing a crooked smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “'Cause if you got somethin’ to say, sweetheart, I’d rather you spit it out than keep starin’ like you’ve seen a ghost.”