Chapter Text
Ponyboy Curtis wakes up.
He enjoys the few blissful seconds when he thinks of nothing at all. You know, the limbo between sleep and wakefulness. He thinks it might be called hypnopompia. It's when nothing is real yet anything can be.
He can be in Tulsa or in Oklahoma City, or even far beyond. He can be up in the clouds or down beneath the earth. Between worlds and over tornadoes.
Pony doesn’t have to belong to anything or anyone because he barely exists in the first place.
But then his killer headache slams in, and a pit forms in his stomach, and his worlds come crashing down. He chases after the former bliss but it has abandoned him. He hopes it will return to him the next morning, but for now he is awake.
He stares at the ceiling, feeling winded despite his rest. The date comes unbidden to his mind: July 22nd.
Ponyboy has just turned fourteen years old, and his parents have been dead for seven months.
It’s the first of many things his parents will miss. After his birthday, it will be Sodapop’s, then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas, and then it will be 1968 and the world will just keep on turning and Ponyboy suddenly wants to vomit.
He slowly lifts himself off the bed and scoots to the side, leaving his feet dangling off the edge. Pony had gotten used to waking up before Soda (his brother can get pretty lazy) but today it seems that Pony had blessedly overslept.
Sitting up helps the nausea some. He feels lousy, but he feels like that almost every day. Mom says—said—that he was a sickly baby, plagued with illness one month and nightmares the next. It has only gotten worse since they died. It’s like his body is rebelling against reality itself.
He spent the first month after the funeral in a delirious state. He had gotten a fever once the shock had worn off, and it laid him out flat. He thinks he remembers Soda brushing his hair back, and Darry making him drink water.
Ponyboy had wondered where Dad was. He called for Mom. Pony forgetting the truth was the kindest thing his bouts of illness have ever done for him.
He must have said some odd things in that state, because Darry couldn’t look him in the eyes for a week after he recovered. Ponyboy wishes he could remember. Maybe the reason Darry dislikes him now is in that elusive month.
He tried asking Soda about it once, but he got misty-eyed and Ponyboy will always hate being the reason Soda’s sad, so he never asked again.
“Ponyboy!” Darry thunders from somewhere else in the house. “I’ve let you sleep till noon because it’s your birthday, but you gotta get up sometime.”
How grand of him. Darry’s usually military about his curfew and seems to adore functioning as an alarm clock, but it seems he’s in a good mood today, or at least he’s trying to be.
It doesn’t take much to derail Darry, though. Ponyboy could sneeze wrong and then Darry would transform from his brother into his reluctant guardian for the rest of the day. Pony hopes today won’t be like that.
Ponyboy steels himself as best he could, wrestling the nausea and the urge to cry (with varying degrees of success), and leaves the safety of his bedroom.
Darry is cooking in the kitchen, the sounds of frying carrying throughout the house. Eggs, from the smell of it. Mom used to make chocolate chip pancakes for their birthdays, but they rarely have pancake mix in the pantry these days.
Soda must be at work with Steve—he couldn’t get the day off. Soda was honestly more torn up about it than Pony was. Pony loves him, but he would have tried to cheer Pony up all day. Urgh.
Steve will come in with Soda, Johnny will show up when he can, Dally will follow him if he feels like it, and Two-Bit will eventually wander in late because he only knows how to meander when he’s drunk. That’s the outfit, forever minus two.
Ponyboy slinks towards the kitchen. He passes by a side table, and turns the picture of his parents on it to face the wall. He does it every morning, and Darry turns it back every night before bed. They don’t talk about it.
Instead, Darry talks about how Ponyboy does in school, or how he shouldn’t walk alone, or how he shouldn’t mess up ever, or rules upon rules that only ever apply to Pony and never Soda.
Never get a grade below an A. Do your homework every night. Not allowed to complain about math. Don’t read your day away. Stay out of the way. Where have you been? You should be outside. You should be inside. You should be the Ponyboy you used to be. You should be someone else entirely.
Pony really, really hates the word should.
Pony doesn’t know how to talk to Darry without getting snippy. Darry can’t speak with Pony without blowing a fuse. It’s a match made in hell. Dad would have never treated him this way, but Pony knows better than to say that aloud.
The radio is loud and obnoxious. An Elvis special. His deep and smooth voice claws at Ponyboy’s headache.
“Hey, Darry,” Ponyboy says when he enters the kitchen. The chair makes an ominous creak when he sits on it, but if it can hold Darry’s weight without imploding, then Ponyboy won’t be the one to do it in.
“Happy birthday,” Darry says over his shoulder. He doesn’t take his eyes off the eggs. He’s meticulous about cooking as he is with everything else. He’s every boss’ favorite employee.
Darry is unusually broad and muscular, with confidence etched into his very blood. If you manage to catch a glimpse of him on the street, you’d never guess that he’s an orphan barely holding his family together. Most people cross the street when they see him coming their way. Pony knows it bothers Darry something fierce.
Not for the first time, Pony thinks about how miserable it all must be for him. Darry should be in college with his buddy Paul. They’d be sophomores together by now, or maybe even juniors. He should be getting a girlfriend with no back-breaking work nor a younger brother burdening him. Just football and money and an ever-expanding social life.
Darry hasn't said it, not yet, but Ponyboy’s waiting for the day when the fighting gets rough and Soda isn’t there and Darry says, if you don’t do what you’re supposed to, I’m sending you away for good.
Pony can hear the words so clearly that he wonders if Darry had whispered it to him in his sleep.
Darry sets down two plates of eggs on the table. Pony picks at it sullenly with a fork as Darry inflicts his own weight on the chair across from him. Ponyboy thinks the kitchen table will last until the end of time just to spite them.
Darry watches him. He always watches him, waiting for when Pony inevitably messes up. Ponyboy picks at his eggs more nervously, pretending he isn’t there.
“You feeling alright?” Darry asks, frowning. He had already inhaled his eggs somehow, plate wiped clean.
The hovering commences. “Yeah, I’m alright,” Ponyboy says. His stomach and head are churning something fierce, but he doesn’t dare tell Darry that. It would be a one-way ticket straight back to bed, and another mark on the mental list of reasons Darry should get rid of him.
In a show of good faith, Pony eats a forkful egg. His body hates him for it, but Ponyboy’s got enough experience with stomach bugs to not let it show on his face.
Darry doesn’t look like he believes him, but changes the subject anyway. “Your first year at Will Rodgers High is in two weeks, yeah? Got everything prepared?”
What nice questions for the birthday boy. “Uhuh. I went through Soda’s old notes and everything.”
Soda’s notes are questionable at best, but Darry had gotten rid of his in a fit of glee when he graduated, so they’re all he’s got. Steve wouldn’t lend him any, Ponyboy’s too afraid of approaching Dally to ask, Johnny and school aren’t agreeable, and Two-Bit doesn’t believe in the concept of notes.
Ponyboy is going to be a year younger than most of his classmates, so he’s taking all the advantages he can get. He just wishes that pre-dropout Soda had learned how formulas worked, is all. Math is Pony’s worst subject, and he’s getting a sinking feeling that Soda’s notes are confusing him more than helping him.
Darry clears his throat. “I’ve got cake in the fridge. It’s chocolate.” He cringes at himself, and Pony cringes back. It’s always chocolate. “I know it won’t be like last year, but this day is gonna be good, you dig?”
Pony forces another egg into his mouth. It slithers slowly down his throat like it wants to get stuck. “I dig.”
Ponyboy and Darry sit in excruciating silence, not quite meeting each other in the eye but also not looking away. They aren’t usually alone together. Pony wishes Soda were here. He glances subtly at the clock. Only half an hour more.
He and Darry haven’t been close since long before Mom and Dad died. Darry’s six years his senior, and Pony is still unable to bridge that gap
Darry played football when Pony was learning to walk. He got into his first brawls when Pony started kicking a ball in the empty lot. He was focused on exams when Pony was shown how to throw a fist without breaking his thumb.
Ponyboy’s always a step behind. Last to do everything, yet holding more expectations and hopes than he can handle.
Ponyboy doesn’t like it when the gang talks about how smart he is, or how he’s special, or how he’s going to be the one to make it out of this town of hoodlums and snobs. When they say their hope for him aloud, it feels like they’re prophesizing his failure—a cruel reversal of Cassandra’s truth.
Maybe he’ll end up like Achilles, blessed with fortune and having it cut short, going out like a blazing sun down the horizon. Or maybe he’s an Odysseus, taking the long way around and losing everything before he reaches his goal. Or he’s Helen of Troy, wanted yet never free. The noble Hector or the cowardly Paris. They all die in the end anyway.
Ponyboy thinks he maybe should stop reading so much Homer.
Darry looks awfully vulnerable sitting there without a newspaper in his hand, but he doesn’t go and get it. He just sits there, unnervingly quiet in a way he wasn’t before tragedy happened.
Ponyboy’s trapped as a social hostage, and Darry holds all the power. Pony is an alien sent from a flying saucer, and Darry’s the poor human that never had a chance of understanding him, and it feels like Pony is the only one aware of it.
“I’m home,” Soda’s lovely voice screeches into the house. The door slams behind him. Darry’s eyebrow twitches.
Soda’s already bounding to their shared bedroom, so it’s Steve’s unwanted face that first peeks into the kitchen. He gives Ponyboy a mean look. “Fourteen and still a shrimp. Happy birthday.”
Soda must have told him to play nice. Usually Steve would throw two more insults and an obscene gesture in there and receive Darry’s glare for a good hour.
Steve drops a pack of cigarettes on the table, the best gift he’s gotten Pony in years, and saunters to the living room without another word.
“Is Two-Bit here yet?” Soda shouts from the bedroom. He sounds like he’s struggling with something. Ponyboy wishes he would hurry up and rescue him from Darry’s piercing eyes and fledgling attempts at connection.
“I don’t see him,” Steve yells back, followed by the sound of the TV turning on. The commercial jingles fight against Elvis’ radio rock, and Ponyboy can physically feel the eggs fighting their way back up his throat.
Pony glares at the table. No, go right back down where you belong, you slimy little eggs. He refuses to get sick on his birthday. Willpower has never worked for him before, but today will be his lucky day, surely.
When it becomes clear that Soda isn’t going to save him anytime soon, Ponyboy finally takes it upon himself to do his own rescuing. He moves silently towards the living room, from Darry to Steve. Darry watches him the whole time, but he apparently ate enough to satisfy him, so he doesn’t get called back.
He sits on the same couch as Steve, because Ponyboy doesn’t want to sit on the recliner, and they don’t look at each other. They’ve got an understanding between them, you see. Ponyboy pretends Steve doesn’t exist, and Steve pretends that he doesn’t hate Ponyboy. Mutual ostracisation.
It only has a 50 percent success rate. Apparently the way Ponyboy breathes is annoying, and he has a hard time ignoring Steve’s ugly face, and then they would start in on each other again.
Ponyboy grabs his sketchbook from the stained coffee table, then rifles through the couch cushions and digs up a neglected pencil. He opens a blank page, and lets his mind shut off.
A stroke here, a mistake there. He doesn’t bother erasing anything. The piece changes form according to his flighty whims. There is perfection in imperfection—that’s something neither Darry nor Steve nor even Soda gets about art.
The last time Soda tried to draw—the subject was his long-gone horse, the ornery Mickey Mouse—he burst into tears because it didn’t look right. Darry’s attempt was even worse and subsequently went to the trash.
Ponyboy ended up drawing the horse from memory and giving it to Sodapop. He doesn’t know what his brother did with it, but he hoped it helped Soda even a little bit.
Ponyboy ends up drawing Dallas. He’s his favorite subject to draw, but he never shows Dally any of his pieces in fear of getting slugged for something or another. It doesn’t take much to piss of Dally. The older boy thrives on nonsensical rage.
The drawing is of Dally climbing the fence around the drive-in. He sometimes goes there with Pony and Johnny, even though he doesn’t like any movies or popcorn or anything. He’s got his tuff leather jacket on, and a manic grin splitting his face wickedly. Ponyboy attempts to sketch the texture of his brittle hair, but the pencil is dull so the effort is moot.
Ponyboy loves drawing everyone in the gang, really. Dally appears the most, then Johnny with his big eyes and meek expressions. Darry sleeping on the recliner, Soda flirting with customers, Two-Bit passed out in the bathroom. Even Steve working on a car. He’ll never tell Steve this, but he’s fun to draw.
Ponyboy doesn’t draw Mom or Dad anymore. If he gets a feature wrong, the mistake might stick with him forever, warping even his memory.
Steve glances his way briefly, but doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see the drawing. He returns to watching the weekly The Addams Family rerun. It’s as peaceful of a coexistence as they can have.
Pony doesn’t notice Soda returning from their room until he’s standing right in front of him. Pony barely has time to put the sketchbook away before Soda flops onto the couch between Steve and Pony, then drags Pony into his arms until he’s almost sitting on his lap.
Ponyboy is small for his age, so it doesn’t take a lot of effort for Soda to trap him there. Steve snickers, sending him a smug look. Pony wants to draw him wearing Angela Shepard’s skirt.
“Fourteen will be your year, Pone,” Soda says, a little too loud into his ear. No pain, Pony wills, he feels no pain at all. “Got any exciting plans for the evening?”
Ponyboy knows what Soda actually wants to hear. I’m going out with friends to the diner, to the theater, to the park. Pony tries to do anything Soda asks, but getting friends isn’t one of them.
The gang is nice, and Pony likes Johnny a whole lot, but they’re friends with his brothers before they’re friends with him. If Darry and Soda hadn’t introduced him to them, Pony doesn’t think any one of them would have given him the time of day.
He’s just a kid to them. The only one who really gets him is Johnny, but Pony doesn’t think they would have crossed paths without Soda’s intervention.
He tries to make friends outside of the gang, he really does, but…
He’s the youngest Curtis brother, little baby Curtis, and that title does him more harm than good when it comes to his social life. Some guys try to jump him as revenge against the gang as a whole (usually against Dallas, to be honest). Other kids, greasers and socs alike, avoid him, thinking that if they even look at him wrong his older brothers would hunt them down.
Ponyboy doesn’t even blame them. Darry’s scary as hell, and Sodapop can really get going if you get him on a bad day, and they’re ten times worse when it comes to Pony’s safety. It’s nice, but it’s also mortifying.
Darry would never leave him alone, so Pony tried to get Soda off his back. Can you maybe not go crazy on the next guy that shoves me? Soda had looked at him incomprehensively, like Pony was speaking Chinese or something.
So yeah, there’s no getting Darry or Soda to back off, so his social life is mostly tanked.
The closest thing Pony has to friends outside the gang are Curly and Angela Shepard, but neither Soda or Darry like them much. Ponyboy logically understands why—Tim Shepard is the kind of rough that will inevitably end up dead or in jail—but he’s still miffed. The twins aren’t that bad.
Sure, Curly has been in and out of reformatories like a carousel, and yeah, Angela has a knife collection that outnumbers the gang’s combined and then some, but Ponyboy likes them both most of the time.
The twins don’t get him, but they don’t try to mold him either. Pony is Pony and Curly is Curly and Angela is Angela, simple. The twins have crazy smiles and their futures aren’t bright and they’re violent as hell, but that doesn’t matter much to Ponyboy.
The Shepards got each other first and foremost, but maybe, just maybe, they have some room in their cold hearts for Ponyboy.
…or maybe they just tolerate him. It’s probably the second option, but Pony’s always been a bit of a dreamer.
They aren’t the kind of friends that Ponyboy would invite to hang. He usually just encounters them in the wild and they orbit like planets for a bit. You don’t purposefully spend time with the Shepards. They aren’t normal like that.
Soda’s giving him a hopeful look now. Ponyboy feels guilty for bursting his bubble, but he shakes his head anyway. No friends and plans today, or ever.
Soda pouts with poorly hidden disappointment. Steve rolls his eyes.
Soda keeps him in his arms even as he turns his attention to the TV. Ponyboy wonders if he’s thinking about their parents. It’s the elephant in the room no one wants to acknowledge. Pony thinks they’ll shatter at any moment.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ponyboy sees Johnny slinking into the house. His jean jacket is muddy, but there aren’t any new bruises on his face. The cut on his cheek he got from his recent jumping still looks raw, but not like it’s about to ooze at any second anymore.
Johnny gives him a shy wave. Pony gives him a small smile. It’s nice.
Dally didn’t come in with him, so he probably isn’t coming at all. Ponyboy is a little bit hurt and a little bit relieved. Some things just aren’t worth examining.
Darry is still in the kitchen, probably preparing himself for Two-Bits impending arrival, which is akin to a freak winter freeze in the middle of summer. Two-Bit likes having that effect on people.
Ponyboy figures that Two-bit’s the closest thing Darry has to a best friend these days. He and Paul used to be attached to the hip, but that was back when Darry was more socy than greasy.
Pony’s only met Paul a few times. Tall and broad is mostly how he remembers him. Paul wasn’t exactly nice, but he wasn’t mean either. Once, he even showed Pony how to tackle Darry when his back was turned. Pony doubts he’d be nearly as pleasant to him if they meet again. There’s a reason Darry doesn’t talk about Paul anymore.
The gang jokes around and talks and just soaks up each other's company. Soda and Steve migrate to the coffee table to play a card game with rules they only half know. Darry joins them to referee with morbid fascination. Johnny lingers in the kitchen finishing off some leftovers.
It’s starting to all be too much for Ponyboy’s headache, so he moves out to the porch under the guise of getting a smoke, waving off Soda’s questioning glance. He isn’t craving nicotine. He never does when he’s sick. He pretends to put one out when Johnny joins him soon after.
They sit next to each other in silence. The night air is hot, but it ain’t too bad. Johnny relaxes more and more as the seconds go by. He’s been jumpy since his beating, but when it’s just him and Pony, he appears a little more like himself and a little less like a torn punching bag.
Ponyboy doesn’t understand how anyone can look at Johnny and think he’s a hoodlum. They think the same thing about Pony himself, though. They’re just branded at birth, and there’s nothing they can do about it.
“You good?” Johnny asks.
Do you miss them? he really says.
Johnny avoids mentioning Mom and Dad, just like the rest of the gang except Dally on a bad day. Ponyboy both appreciates and resents it.
They weren’t Johnny’s parents, so how could he understand? But they loved him as a son. They are never coming back, so why talk about them? But Ponyboy feels like he’s going to explode if he holds it in any longer.
He can’t talk about it with Darry because he shuts down. He can't talk about it with Soda because he cries. Pony can’t even talk about it with himself because he gets worked up to the point of getting sick, and that ruins everyone's day.
Sometimes, Ponyboy writes.
It’s the notebook he hides under the bed. It’s the words that will never be spoken. It’s the thoughts stuck between pages and the cramping of his hand when he can’t keep up.
Ink smudges. Crossed out words. A missing page.
It’s a letter to Mom. Mom, please come back. I will tell you I love you every day so you don’t ever forget.
It’s one to Dad. Dad, I don’t want to do this anymore. You were supposed to be here. You promised.
It’s thoughts of Darry. I wonder if he even loves me anymore, if he ever did in the first place. He works so hard and I only cost him money.
Sometimes he writes about how he loves Soda so much it hurts. How he wants Johnny to be with them all the time. How Steve should break his nose and maybe give Ponyboy a pat on the back. How Two-Bit ought to lay off the alcohol. How he wishes he understood Dally even a little bit.
And once, just once, Ponyboy wrote about himself.
He keeps that piece of paper torn away from his notebook, shoved deep in his desk between books not even he wants to read. He should burn it, but that means looking at it again, so instead he pretends it doesn't exist.
He doesn’t say any of this to Johnny.
“Yeah,” Ponyboy says, picking at his jeans. “I’m good.”
Johnny gives him a sad smile.
A commotion comes from the house, surely signaling Two-Bit’s hectic arrival. Ponyboy drags himself inside and finds Two-Bit crashing into the card game and getting punched by Steve. Elvis and the TV are still battling it out for the control of the air waves. Ponyboy wishes he stayed in bed just a little longer.
Ponyboy gets a hug and a happy birthday from Two-Bit, and then they all pile into the kitchen to watch Darry get the cake out of the fridge. It’s a little bigger than they usually make it, and there’s soft chocolate frosting on top. It doesn’t even elicit a sense of craving within Pony, which is not a good sign for his future health.
Ponyboy gets the first slice as per tradition, but after that it’s a free-for-all. Watching Steve and Soda devour their slices makes him even sicker, so he moves to the living room. He would rather go to his room, but that would draw unwanted attention.
Ponyboy is sick of being something to worry about. In Darry’s mind, Pony probably ranks between bills and his aching back on the list of things he stresses over. Ponyboy thinks about that list more often than he’d like to.
Two-Bit’s migrated to the floor and is watching Looney Tunes. Ponyboy pokes him on the shoulder and hands him his untouched slice of cake, saying that it’s his second serving and he ain’t hungry any more.
“You’re a pal,” Two-Bit grins, then turns back to the show.
Lies, lies, lies. It’s getting easier to let them tumble out, and Pony rarely gets caught in them anymore.
All in all, it’s objectively not a bad birthday. The gang spent time with him, Darry cared enough to make cake, and no horrible accident came calling on the phone.
His headache doesn’t leave even after a handful of aspirins, and his stomach never quite settles, but he’s been sick on birthdays before. On one memorable occasion, he threw up all over Steve on Soda’s tenth birthday. It was a grand old time.
And yet, it’s the worst birthday he’s ever had in his life. The first of many that will be empty. This time last year, his parents were still alive. This time next year, his parents will be long dead.
Darry and Soda are his only source of gravity. Without them, he would be flying off to space, never to be seen again. He’d crash land on another planet, like in Star Trek, and he’d find a bunch of people that are a whole lot like him instead of the other way around.
He’d find a Steve that likes him, a Dally that doesn’t scare them. Maybe he’d spot a sober Two-Bit, or a Johnny with a carefree smile. A Soda and a Darry and a Mom and a Dad, but it won’t ever be the same, so Ponyboy ends his imagination there.
Steve’s already crashing on the couch, snoring up a storm. Johnny and Two-Bit have left for the night. Darry’s cleaning up even though he’s the one who cooked, and Soda excitedly drags Ponyboy to their bedroom.
Ah, so that was what he was doing.
Soda had somehow procured posters of Paul Newman in color and James Dean in East of Eden, and had plastered them haphazardly all over the walls in a way that would make Mom shake her head.
Soda chose that poster of James Dean on purpose; he knows how much Pony adored Steinbeck’s book, even if he zoned out when Pony tried to describe it to him. It helps that James Dean looks crazy tuff as Cal Trask.
Soda wraps an arm around his shoulders, bringing him close. “I know this was hard. God, I don’t know how I’ll handle my own birthday, but I’m proud of you, Pone.” He kisses the top of his head. “Happy birthday.”
Ponyboy sinks into Soda’s side. His eyes feel heavy. He almost says something like I miss them, but then remembers the pained looks his brothers make whenever he brings it up, so he keeps quiet.
They go to sleep close to each other, as usual. Ponyboy’s so beyond grateful that Soda indulges his need to share a bed. Maybe if he had asked Darry he would have also agreed, but Pony would always be worried about what Darry would think about him, being right next to his violent nightmares every night.
He never worries about what Soda thinks of him. Soda wears his heart on his sleeve. If he didn’t want to do something, then he simply wouldn’t. And when he sets his mind on something, not even Darry can block his way.
Soda doesn’t think it’s weird to have a younger brother this clingy. He doesn’t say Pony’s too absentminded like Darry does, or that he’s annoying like Steve does. Ponyboy is blessed to have a brother like Sodapop.
This is especially true when Pony wakes up at four in the morning with a roiling stomach and an impending sense of doom. He stumbles off the bed, slightly tripping on the loose bedsheets.
Ponyboy almost cries in relief when he reaches the bathroom. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights and uses muscle memory to find the toilet and empty the contents of his stomach.
It’s a painful few seconds. Ponyboy has always hated vomiting. His Mom told him that vomiting would make him feel better after, but that never ends up being the case for him. He’d take headaches and fevers over nausea any day.
And isn’t that sad? He’s been sick so many times that he has damn preferences for pain.
The light turns on, and a comforting hand rubs against his back.
“Just let it all out,” Soda whispers, trying to not wake up Darry whose room is across the hall. It’s a moot point; Darry has a sixth sense for Ponyboy being ill. Always has and always will.
Ponyboy groans miserably when Darry comes into the bathroom.
He hears a heavy sigh. “Why didn’t you tell us you were sick?” Darry kneels down next to him with a tired groan, and Ponyboy feels a spark of that familiar guilt.
If Pony lets his pain show, he derails everyone. If he keeps it a secret, they find out anyway and get frustrated with his lies. He doesn’t know what to do.
Pony hears his brothers talk about him like he’s not there. He tries to tune them out, but his ears pick up their whispers greedily.
“He must’ve been feeling sick yesterday, too.”
“Why does he hide these things from us? Doesn’t he trust us?”
“Well, you know how he is…”
“Glory, neither of us got sick nearly this much.”
“It ain’t his fault, Dar.”
“I know that! It’s just…frustrating.”
“Maybe we should take him back to that doctor?”
“We can’t afford that.”
Ponyboy twitches, and Soda’s comforting hand abruptly stops. His brothers have had this terrible habit of forgetting he’s there listening to them lately.
If there is one thing that even Soda doesn’t get, it’s that Ponyboy can’t be upfront about everything. When Soda is hurt, or sad, or angry, he doesn’t hesitate to show it. His energy permeates the room. He never doubts himself. He’s a lot like Dad that way.
But Ponyboy just isn’t like that.
He doesn’t want to rock the boat. He always does it without meaning to, so why would he ever do it on purpose. If he can tough through an illness without a peep, it would be easier for Darry and Soda.
Ponyboy flushes the toilet and turns around so he’s facing his brothers. Soda’s face falls in pity when he sees how miserable he looks. Darry comes closer and puts the back of his hand on Pony’s head. Ponyboy resolves himself to Darry’s obligated mothering.
“Go get a thermometer,” Darry orders, not looking away from Ponyboy.
Soda gives Pony’s shoulder a squeeze and slips out of the bathroom.
Ponyboy tries to stand up, but a wave of dizziness washes over him. He tips over, but before he gets far Darry is there. His large arms wrap around Pony, bringing him close. And despite all his weird feelings towards Darry these days, Pony buries himself into his older brother’s chest in relief.
There’s nothing that reminds him of home more than being in Darry’s arms. Darry had loved picking Pony up any chance he’d get when they were small. Ponyboy had gotten used to being swept into the air so much that he even looked forward to it.
He doesn’t remember how it started, but Dad said that Darry had been doing it since he was a baby. There is a photo somewhere of a six-year-old Darry proudly holding an infant Pony in his arms, though Pony doesn’t know where.
Sometimes, when he was still in elementary school, Ponyboy would pretend to be asleep just to have Darry carry him to bed. Darry would fight with Dad to do it himself. It was probably just to show off his strength, which was exceptional even then, but Ponyboy still reveled in that easy touch.
The last time Darry carried him was after the funeral. Ponyboy collapsed from a fever, induced by sleepless nights of grief, and Darry held him tight in his arms from the funeral house to the car to the empty, empty house.
It hasn’t happened since. Not even now—Darry holds him for only a few seconds, then helps him onto his feet. He sticks close in case Pony falls, but otherwise there is more distance than there would have been just a few months ago.
Soda hurries into the room by the time Ponyboy has settled back into bed. Pony looks up at his brothers fussing and talking over him about his temperature, and feels an oh so familiar jab of guilt. They both have work in just a few hours.
“Sorry,” Ponyboy mumbles. Darry grunts in acknowledgment as he gives him some painkillers and a cup of water.
Ponyboy tunes his brothers out once they start discussing whether Soda should sleep elsewhere for the night. Darry and Soda rarely fight, but this is a hot topic between them. Darry doesn’t want to deal with two sick little brothers while Soda wants to take care of Pony. They can’t compromise.
Ponyboy doesn’t think any of them are getting more sleep tonight anyway. He watches Darry haul Soda out of the room by the scruff of his neck, and settles in for a long night.
Sure enough, no matter how much tossing and turning and praying he does, Ponyboy remains stubbornly awake even as the sun starts rising in the sky. The painkillers had dulled the ache but not the nausea. His eyes are burning. He wants more than anything to pass out.
He hears some of the gang in the other room. He thinks he hears Johnny asking where he is, but Pony knows that Darry ain’t going to let anyone near him in this state. Darry says it’s to make sure Pony doesn’t catch something worse when he’s fragile, but Pony thinks it’s because Darry can’t handle anyone else getting sick on top of him.
Soda sneaks in anyway while Darry’s busy in the kitchen. He has light shadows under his eyes that more than certainly match Pony’s.
He sits on the bed next to Pony and brushes his bangs away from his face. Soda’s hand is cool on his heated forehead. Pony tries not to look as miserable as he feels.
“I can stay home from work today, honey,” Soda says softly.
Ponyboy goes to shake his head, but thinks better of it in case he rattles his brain back into a headache. “Naw, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m feelin’ better already.”
He gives him the most confident smile he can muster, but Soda’s face falls at his words. Ponyboy tries to figure out what he said wrong, but comes up with nothing. He feels sort of delirious, actually.
Soda leans down and kisses him on the forehead. If they were in front of the gang, Pony would wrinkle his nose and huff, but in the privacy of their room he melts into the contact. He leaves to get ready, taking Pony’s empty cup with him to refill.
He’s not too worried about Soda picking up the bug he’s got. He has the immune system of a horse, and bounces back abnormally quickly when it takes even Darry a few days to feel normal again.
Dad used to joke about how Soda built that immunity by eating dirt practically everyday when he was five. Pony wouldn’t have believed that, but Darry looked a little green at the gills when it was brought up, and that told him all he needed to know.
Meanwhile, the common cold knocks Pony out for a minimum of a week and a half. Glory, he hates being sick.
It was miserable even when his mom would tuck him in and make him noodle soup, and when his dad would read to him and help him to the bathroom. Lying here in bed now is just another reminder of the ways they are gone.
He has almost drifted into blissful sleep when the door opens again. Darry lingers at the doorframe. Pony squints up at him, but he can’t tell whether he’s annoyed and concerned.
Darry clears his throat. “Soup is in the fridge. I’ll be back by five.”
He stands there for another second. Darry opens his mouth, then closes it. He leaves, shutting the door behind him. Pony is honestly miffed that Darry interrupted his dozing just to tell him that.
Soup does sound nice, though…
Ponyboy thinks about what the others are doing right now. It’s an exercise in pain, because it always ends with him being resentful that they can breathe without wanting to hurl, but it’s also a good distraction.
Darry should be getting ready. He has a roofing gig today with his coworkers who are not quite friends but not quite enemies. He’ll inevitably make his back sore, and still will haul two bundles anyway. He’ll come home exhausted.
Soda’s already left with Steve. They’re setting up shop. They’ll argue about who gets to work in front and in back, even though they always stick to a rotating schedule anyway. Soda will get grease in his hair and not notice until Steve drags him to the bathroom to wash it away. They’ll come home laughing.
Two-Bit is still sleeping in bed. Soon, his sister will come in and push him off. It’s a coin-flip on whether he’ll crack open a beer before noon. His mom will make him do some chores, and in turn he will make his sister do them for him. He’ll pop up here when Darry comes back, just in time for the afternoon sitcoms.
Johnny is staying the day. Or maybe he will go walk the town. He doesn’t do much when he’s alone. He’ll avoid the crowds, and maybe even find Dally. Johnny’ll follow him and watch him harass workers and scare kids. Maybe he’ll come home. Maybe Dally will follow him.
Ponyboy is starting to overheat, so he throws the blankets off of him. He immediately shivers and bundles up again.
It takes a torturous amount of time before he finally collapses into unconsciousness.
Fourteen is not going to be his year.