Work Text:
No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”
Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”
He's surrounded.
"You don't have anyone. You don't even have a fuckin' family."
“I got a family,” he retorts, tasting something bitter.
“They don’t care about you. They’re just stuck with ya 'cause Darry’s your older brother or somethin’.”
And golly, if that didn’t hurt.
He’s so caught off guard he doesn’t even resist when he’s knocked to the ground. His hands shoot out on instinct, and they catch the pavement. It stings like hell, like the feeling in his chest.
And there’s something else in their eyes — this sick sort of pity, and Ponyboy is trembling with anger.
He’s so sick of these Socs and their stupid mustangs and their stupid shirts and their stupid selves and he wishes they’d just stay in their side of the stupid town.
Without thinking, Ponyboy shoves himself to his feet, using the rough brick wall behind him to push himself up.
“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” He yells. “We haven’t done anything to you. I haven’t done anything to you. This isn’t some harmless joke. You’re hurtin’ people.”
The kid in the front feigns shock. “No shit, greaser. What, did you think we didn’t realize? Are you really that dumb?”
He’s shoved back down, and the Socs close in.
There’s someone to the right who stays back for a second. Ponyboy recognizes him. They spent an entire free period a few months ago working on a history project together. He talked a lot about his little sister and how he wanted to be a teacher when he grew up. He talked about how much he hated fighting. Ponyboy can’t remember his name, but he locks eyes with him.
“It’s not fair,” Pony chokes out, voice tight with fear. “It ain’t-”
“Get over it, shithead.”
Pain explodes over his temple and the world fades into bright white.
It’s not quiet. Not really. Ponyboy’s ears are ringing and there’s a siren echoing off the walls. That’s what gets him to open his eyes. Sirens equal danger, and if there’s a greaser where there are cops, they’re probably gonna get sent to the cooler.
Ponyboy doesn’t remember what happened. What he does know, though, is that whatever happened hurts like hell.
Everything’s coming back in flashes — the yelling, that one kid from history, the pity, the way that he could feel himself getting kicked and punched and beat around but couldn’t fight back, and he’s pretty sure someone had a bat or plywood or something like that.
He’s aching all over, but he forces himself up off the ground. Ponyboy begins to strip off his jacket. It’s cold, but he doesn’t know if he’s going to make it home, and if he doesn’t he needs to give them a place to start searching. His limbs scream at the simple action.
The bloodstained jacket hits the concrete with a soft thump, and Ponyboy begins to stagger home.
He doesn’t remember going into the woods, but he wakes up propped against a tree, curled in on himself.
Ponyboy’s too warm, and his hands hurt like hell. His head pounds and his joints scream when he tries to move. He doesn’t think he could get up, even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to.
He’s fine right here, grass bending under his palms.
Fireflies flew in lazy circles between the trees, and Ponyboy watches with dull interest. He's tired. So tired. He wants to go home.
He slips away again.
Something cold cuts through the pervasive warmth.
He’s met with ice - the startling blue of someone’s eyes, the cold of someone else’s hands on his shoulders.
He screams.
“Shit! Ponyboy, shut it, will you? It’s me. It’s me! ”
Ice blue. Ice blue.
“Dal?” He croaks.
“Yeah, kid, it’s me. We found your jacket. Darry was worried sick.” The hands move from his shoulders to his face, brushing hair out of the way. “Damn, they got you good, didn’t they?”
Ponyboy nods but quickly stops, the movement sending another wave of nausea rolling through him. His head slumps forward, barely supported by Dally’s hands.
“Hands,” Pony says, voice raspy.
His head is leaned against the tree trunk as the hands move again, cool night air stinging the broken skin of his palms as they’re raised.
Dally sucks in a breath. “Shit, man, these look infected.”
“Mhm.”
“We gotta get you home. Can you stand?”
“Yeah,” Ponyboy replies with far too much confidence. The second Dally stops holding him up, he crumples like paper. The ground heaves beneath his bent knees, and he weeps.
“Whoa. Hey, it’s okay, kid.”
His mouth tastes like salt and blood. Dally’s being so gentle. It’s so uncharacteristic, so unlike Dally , that he feels sick.
“You’re alright. They’re gone, Ponyboy.”
Dally pulls him closer. He thinks about how this was probably how it was like for Johnny, too, and he cries harder.
“You have to breathe, Pony. Pone.”
Dally never calls him Pone. He takes a stuttering breath, just to make Dally feel better.
“There you go. Wasn’t that easy?” He sounds like he’s talking to a child. Pony doesn’t like it.
“No,” he says through gritted teeth. The ground isn’t moving as much anymore. He takes another breath, then another.
Dally laughs even though that wasn’t funny. He scoops Ponyboy into his arms without warning and lifts him.
Pony gasps.
“I don’t feel well,” he says, voice wobbling.
Darry starts to run, presumably home, and Pony wishes everything would stop fucking moving .
“You’re just running a temp, kid. You’re gonna be fine.”
“‘M not running. Can’t even walk.”
“Smartass,” Dally mutters, sounding kind of annoyed. Worry seeps into his tone when Ponyboy closes his eyes, though.
“Open your eyes, man. Pony? Pony? ”
Dally runs faster, which means he’s jostling Ponyboy more, which means Pony isn’t going to open his damn eyes or else he’ll puke.
“Just stay with me, yeah? We’re almost home.”
He feels so heavy. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Ponyboy? Pony?”
The world fades.