Work Text:
New Year
“Shit, man, didn’t think you’d show.”
Two-Bit has his sideways Will-Rogers grin and is holding a bottle of off-brand Jack Daniels, too broke to afford the real deal. Pony cocked an eyebrow at the bottle but shrugged it off, pulling his coat a bit tighter around himself. This had been one of the coldest winters in Tulsa history and Pony remembered why he stuck to Arizona.
“Well, I’m here. Got your invite in the mail last week, thought I’d swing by,” Pony gave a small smile. “Only for a bit though. Gotta get back to work by the third.”
“Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Yeah, two years.” Pony shoves a hand in his back pocket, fishing out a cigarette. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, yeah, c’mon in.”
Ponyboy kicks off his work boots near the entrance and Two tosses him a lighter to light the cig. The house is a real shithole on the east side of Tulsa, but hey, at least it’s his own. Smells godawful. That would be Two-Bit, though— haphazard. Was he even going by Two-Bit now, at 25? Or just Keith? All that childhood innocence and all that shit scrubbed away by tears and pain and taxes? Doesn’t really matter, he thought. Least he’s still here.
“Guessin’ Soda’s still strung out?”
“Yup.” Two held out a beer. “He’s tryin’ real hard, Pony.”
“No shit. Got three calls yesterday before headin’ on the plane.” Maybe there woulda been love, sympathy, if Soda didn’t try to knife him two years back when it all began. Pony’s side still ached from that, had to get stitches and painkillers for a week.
Angela Shepard was passed out on the half-stuffing-missing couch, heavy makeup smudged. Pony vaguely wondered where her brothers were, why they hadn’t come by yet to drink and shoot-the-shit or just straight up shoot someone. But Curly was long gone, Tim too. Curly’s was more in the vein of Dallas Winston and Johnny Cade, Tim’s in the same vein as Darry. A few other people he didn’t recognize milled around.
“Get off yer high horse, kid. You know he loves you.” Gray eyes a hazy storm. Pony swallows his pride.
“Maybe.” Pony ashes his cigarette on the kitchen countertop and downs a third of the beer. He gives a weak smile. “Always thought this tasted like piss.”
“Yeah, that’s what I used to say too. Acquired taste.” The smile came back and the storm dissipated. “Hey, how’s work been? And the, uh,” he looks around, “ lover ?”
“You can say boyfriend. It ain’t a curse,” Pony almost smiled, “but he’s fine. Home for the holidays with his old man up in Colorado.”
“So the free schedule meant you could come home.” Judging by the lilt in Two’s voice, there was some underlying anger. Pony took a sip.
“It’s not like I haven’t wanted to come home, I jus’ don’t have incentive to stay for long.”
Two-Bit shrugged. “Fair enough. Oh, by the way, you remember the Carlsons right?”
“Yeah, dated the oldest daughter back in sophomore year. I remember.”
“She’s a teacher now in a small town ‘bout 30 minutes out,” Two pats Pony on the shoulder. “Thought you’d want to know.”
“What ‘bout the middle kid? The junkie?”
“M&M? I think he’s clean. Lives in Cali now.”
Pony cracks a grin. “Lucky bastard.”
The doorbell rings. “Shit, that’s my cue. Make yourself comfortable.” Two gives a small wave and heads to the door. With that, no more awkward conversation. Ideally.
Pony finishes off the beer. The sea of people don’t even notice Pony sneaking out to the back patio with a cartridge of Malbaros he’d swiped from another partygoer.
There had been a lot of shit that happened between the fall of 1968 and now, winter of 1970-going-on-71. Not exactly shit Pony could recall, and maybe that’s for the better. Curly’s death, Tim and Darry leaving, Pony getting outed, Soda’s addiction, Steve doing fuckall somewhere in Vietnam. Maybe more he’d forgotten. Maybe less than that and he’s fuckin’ delusional. By this point, anything goes. The half-moon barely glows from behind the clouds of smoke and atmosphere. There’s a few birds on a wire that cuts through part of the front yard. Oh, to fuckin’ fly away from this shit, never return, never having to worry about what love is or who’s good or bad or who’s dead or alive or alive but might as well be dead. The birds looked like blue-jays from his angle, on the rotting-wood porch and shitty-concrete steps. Woulda been prettier birds if they weren’t so damn annoying.
“Curtis. You actually bothered to show up.”
Angela Shepard with her smeared makeup and still-growing-hair comes up next to Pony. She holds out a hand, and Pony hands her a cig.
“Y’know, you never apologized for tryin’ to glass me back in sophomore year,” Pony gives a wry smile. Angel rolled her eyes.
“Whaddya want, a fuckin’ hug?”
“No thanks.”
Angel almost snorted. “Figured. Where the hell’ve you been anyway?”
“Fuck if I know. Shit’s a blur to me.”
“Least you can leave. I’m stuck ‘ere with a bastard and a half for a husband.”
“You could get a divorce.”
“Rather shoot myself, Curtis.”
Pony flicks his ashes into the yard. “Can’t admit defeat?”
“Can’t shut your goddamn mouth?”
It would’ve been funny if Angel didn’t have knives in her eyes. Pony sighs. “Why the hell are you at Mathews’ party anyhow?”
“It’s either that or boozin’ it up with my husband and the kids,” Angel sneers. “Christ, never thought I’d say this. But I think I miss those bastards.”
“Your brothers?”
“No, the Beatles.” She cocks an eyebrow. Or tries to. “Yes my brothers. Christ, Curtis, you’re dense.”
“Yeah, I get you though. I miss mine too. I think.”
“You could say hi.”
Pony shrugs. “I could.”
“Look, great chat, but I think I’m gonna get drunk. Feel free to join me.” She heads to the door but casts a look back.
“No thanks. Happy New Year, Angel.”
Angela smiles. Genuine. “You too, Curtis.” You too.
“Sodapop?”
Pony’s quietly knocking on the door to his childhood home, fingers turning blue, half wanting to kick down the door. It feels wrong. It feels so wrong, so nauseating, tactile in the worst way possible. He presses the broken bell again for comfort. Just breathe. He won’t stab you this time. He loves you, he loves you, he loves—
“Soda, it’s me. Ponyboy. I got your call-”
The door flings open. Soda still has the same beautiful features, but his nose is red and inflamed and his hair is a ratty, matted mess. Almost looks like he was trying to be a hippie, but minus any amount of hygiene. But the nose isn’t newly red, the hair has a tiny bit of shine. Soda has a button-down on.
“I knew you’d come,” he smiles, that movie-star type of smile. He holds his arms open.
“No knives?” It’s mostly a joke. Mostly.
“No knives. Been clean for a week.”
Pony stares. Can’t move. Can’t speak. There’s too much fear, too many tears from that hospital visit and Soda crying over his bed, begging for forgiveness. He loves you, he loves you he loves—
Pony settles for a handshake. “I can’t do that right now. I’m sorry.”
Soda smiles, understanding. “I understand. I’m so sorry, Ponyboy.”
“Yeah?” He smiles. Genuine. “Me too.”