Archive of Our Own

Darry never did end up going to college, but he didn’t stop growing up. A few more years spent on rooftops led to the next few years spent making his own business, finally giving his back a break as he spent more time in an office running the books than heaving and bending all day. He supposed he should be grateful.

Pony attended the University of Tulsa, a full scholarship for track. Ever since he wrote his theme for English, he’d been interested in journalism, always digging around for some truth, something to expose. He drove Darry crazy. He’d get calls in the middle of the night, asking for rides out of some shady part of the city where he’d gone hunting for a scoop. Darry minded, he minded very much, but he’d rather his brother trust him, call him for help, than to tell him off and risk Pony going it alone. A few more years of university, and he’d be ready to tear out of their house– Darry tried to savor his brother’s company, even if it grayed his head.

Pony was making something of himself, and that’s all Darry ever wanted. Darry was now making enough money to open a savings account, something he could use to plan a future for himself. Life should have been looking up. 

Life didn’t like to leave Darry alone for too long.

Soda had been drafted in 1972. The two brothers left on the homestead had spent a year holding their breath. Pony promised Darry he was holding up okay, but he knew that however old his little brother got, there were some things he couldn’t run from. He’d lost weight. He didn’t say anything, but Darry knew his nightmares had come back. Pony stopped screaming awake about a year after Johnny and Dally died– all it meant is that he learned to panic in silence. 

Darry wasn’t doing any better, admittedly. When he tried to sleep he saw his parents on the track, the moment their eyes saw the train and realized, oh, there is no escaping this. He saw Dally, bathed in the streetlight, that wild expression of terror and mania and grief and for one second, when those bullets jerked him about, relief. Now, he saw his little brother bleeding out in some jungle, a firefight ringing all around him, blood on his lips, blood on his hands, holding his stomach, choking on all of it, the blood and the fear and the humidity. And no one was with him. Darry was supposed to be with him.

He’d wake up crying, hands fisted into his sheets like he was going to throw them off and run to Soda. The crying hadn’t stopped since the day Pony came back from his week at the old church– if the gang had noticed his affliction, they never commented on it. 

The gang. Steve had enlisted as soon as Soda got the news. Darry wanted to tell him off, tell him it was bad enough losing his brother to war, let alone another friend– but the gratitude won out, and he kept his mouth shut. He saw the look in Steve’s eyes, a mirror of his own, determined and steeled against what was to come. If it weren’t for Pony, he might have enlisted himself. 

Two-Bit had finally graduated highschool the year Pony did, a feat that was only possible because of Ponyboy himself. Darry thought his brother was letting the older boy cheat, and was gearing up to put a stop to it when he overheard what was actually going on: Pony was tutoring Two-Bit. Darry thought that boy just couldn’t be taught. 

But there Pony was, reading aloud the textbook to his buddy like he used to do with Johnny, Two-Bit doing his best to take notes as he spoke. Instead of yelling, Darry made a cake, and the two boys made quick work of it when they were through with studying.

One year without Soda had not been kind to Keith. He worked two jobs, saving money alongside his mom to help put his sister Susan through nursing school, but if he wasn’t working, he was drinking. Sometimes, he was doing both. The Dingo must have had Darry on speed dial for how often he’d been called to come pick up his friend. 

Soda wrote letters. Pony let out a whoop when the first one came in, running straight to his room to read it despite it being addressed to both Pony and Darry. Darry didn’t mind. He knew he’d get a chance to read it later. When later came, Pony emerged sniffling. Darry ran to his side.

“What’s wrong? He okay?” Darry reached for the letter, fussing over what could be written.

“Yeah, he’s still in training, he’s fine.” Pony wiped at his nose a little.

“Then what is it? What’s got you upset?” 

“It’s,” Pony shook his head, “it’s his spelling. He says they’re sending him off to Vitnem with his squat run.” Darry stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Are you serious? You getting choked up on his spelling? You’re ridiculous.”

“Imagine he tries to send Lucy a love letter– Dar, she won’t be waiting when he comes home if he’s saying things like i lov you.” Pony spoke gravely. 

Darry had vowed to never hit Pony again, for any reason, and he had kept that promise. But he did cuff him on the back of his head just then, letting out a sigh.

“Spelling ain’t that bad if you could still read that he’s safe.” Darry sat down at the table to read over the thing himself. Pony scrunched up his face at him, rubbing absently at his head. His hair was growing out again, the blond long purged from the ends. He was taller too, almost as tall as Darry, but a hell of a lot more gangly. Boy reminded him of a giraffe, making Darry feel distinctly like an elephant.

“I’ll have to tutor him when he comes home if he wants to keep romancing girls.” Pony muttered, stalking back to his room. Darry knew he would be in there for a while, writing out a letter of his own.

They got letters every few weeks. Soda joked he couldn’t shoot a gun half as good as Pony, and he described basecamp as some kind of ‘home away from home’ with boys whose names made Sodapop sound normal. 

There’s a feller named “Goose”. I axed him if it was a nickname– he said his parents liked birds. 

Neither brother really believed the letters– they were overly cheerful, devoid of any mention of battles or fear. Darry knew why Soda was doing it. He didn’t want to worry them about things they couldn’t control. Frustrated, Darry wrote back at one point that he wished Soda would be honest, as if he could send some of the burdens home, let Darry shoulder them. 

He never did get a response to that one.

Pony sent drawings with his letters. Portraits of the gang, mostly, Soda featured in every one. Him behind the counter of the DX, pushing Steve off a chair, giving Darry a shoulder massage. Soda sitting with Pony on the porch. Soda snatching a slice of cake from Two-Bit. Some had Dally and Johnny in them, though Darry noticed that more often than not those drawings ended up in his drawer rather than in the envelope.

And Pony didn’t pull his punches. Darry did his best to be supportive in the letters, but they always came out half like a news report ( Tulsa was stormy this week. Couldn’t take on any more jobs. Always next week.) and half like a time capsule ( remember when mom and dad took us to the beach and y’all buried me to my neck in sand? remember when you were home? ). Meanwhile, Pony did not spare a detail of his life.

He sent news clippings with his latest articles published in the university’s journal, he wrote at length about his classes, his classmates, asked Soda for advice when someone caught his eye in his 300-level rhetoric course and he didn’t know what to do about it, told him he was missed. He always said I love you at the end, but he signed his letters with:

Tell you more when you get home,

                             Pony

One year of letters, and just getting by. One year without Soda.

It was a Tuesday in July when the next envelope came. June had crackled about Tulsa with the promise of storms without delivery– July decided to make good on those threats. Darry was sure a tornado would form one of these days, and he fought against the urge to tell Pony to stay close to home after his summer classes let out. He didn’t need to hold on so tight to those reins anymore.

Soda hadn’t sent a letter since May. He’d gone stretches without responding before, so Darry didn’t worry as bad as he had the first time it happened. The letter mentioned a mission his squad was being sent out on. Just the word ‘mission’, or as he had spelled it, ‘ mishun’ , no location or dates or names. Darry knew they weren’t allowed to talk about things like that. 

But after a year of writing back and forth with his brother, Darry had learned his spelling got worse when he was stressed. He tried not to read into the unusual amount of misplaced vowels in the letter.

Darry was on his way back from the grocery store when he checked the mailbox, surprised to find a few papers waiting for him. He didn’t note the senders, just shoved them in the paper bag which had the eggs. He would sort through it inside.

Pony had won some sort of award for his writing, and even when Darry had encouraged him to celebrate with some of his newer friends, Pony insisted he wanted to be home. Even suggested they call Two-Bit up, see if he was working his cashier job or if he could come by for dinner. Darry readily agreed, and he decided to cook steaks with potatoes to mark the occasion.

He was half-way through unpacking the groceries when a bolt of lightning cracked the sky, startling Darry enough to drop the loaf of bread he was holding. He paced over to the window to see the late afternoon sun completely blocked out by dark clouds. The rain would come any minute.

He looked over at the clock: 5:46. Pony’s last summer class ended at 4:45, and when he wasn’t running track or working a shift at the gazette, he would be home by 5:30. He wasn’t supposed to have anything today. He said he’d be home for dinner.

Darry forced himself to take a deep breath. He’d worked through this fear years ago. His brother was older than he was when he had taken custody of him. He didn’t need to panic. Everything was okay.

Nothing was okay, though. Soda and Steve were at war. War . Fighting, shooting, being shot at– bleeding out in jungles. And there was nothing he could do. But Ponyboy lived at home. He could protect one brother. He still could. Before he could talk himself out of it, he jolted for the phone, ready to call every department at the University of Tulsa to see if Pony was lingering around an office.

“We’re in for a real Oklahoman storm! Hasn’t looked this spooky since I was in seventh grade…” Two-Bit hollered as he threw open the door, but it didn’t slam shut.

“Seventh grade? Was that the first time or the second time?” Ponyboy stepped into the house, pulling the screen closed behind him. 

“Oh, shut it you. We both got diplomas now, don’t we?”

“Well, rumor has it, you had to sleep with a teacher to get that paper. Care to comment?” Pony held out a fist like he was holding a microphone. Two-Bit’s face split into a crazy grin.

“I’ve had about enough of you! You’re gonna get it, college boy.” Two-Bit charged Pony, and they both went down in a tumble onto the carpet, Pony laughing even as the older boy got his licks in. Darry was in the process of unfreezing himself by the phone, running a hand through his ungreased hair. 

“What happened to hello, how are you? Thought I raised one of you with better manners than that,” he shook his head, a smile ghosting his lips, “don’t break my house.”

“Hello, Darrel, how are you?” Pony had rolled on top of Two-Bit and had the older boy pinned, but he stuck out an arm as if to shake Darry’s hand.

“I was fine, until these greasers broke into my home and started tracking mud across my floors.” Darry grabbed Two-Bit’s hand, and he yanked him so hard that Pony tumbled off of him and Two-Bit went careening upwards, all the way into Darry’s arms.

“Aw shucks, Superman, buy me dinner first.” Two-Bit mumbled into his chest. Darry shoved him, and the other boy ragdolled onto the couch.

“I was trying to make dinner. Don’t suppose either of you would want to help me?” Darry gave them both a pointed look. Pony’s eyes found the ceiling, Two-Bit’s the floor.

“I thought, if we’re celebrating me , then I’ve already done some of the work to get us here,” Pony said, his tone leading. Darry turned to Two-Bit.

“Hear that? You just got volunteered to chop some potatoes.” Two-Bit groaned, peeling himself off the cushions and following Darry into the kitchen.

“Knew there was a reason y’all invited me over for dinner.” He muttered. Pony chuckled, hot on both of their tails.

Darry focused on the steaks. Ideally, he’d have grilled them, but with the rain getting ready to ruin a perfectly good Tuesday, he settled for the stove.

“You just get back? You didn’t finish putting these away.” Pony stood over by the bags Darry had been half-finished unloading when the first bolt of lightning struck. 

“Got distracted. You want to…?” Darry didn’t turn, but he heard the rustling of bags. A couple seconds later, Pony whistled.

“Whole lot of Hershey bars, Dar. You pregnant or something?”

Two-Bit snickered so hard he almost nicked his finger on the knife in his hands.

“Hardly. Thought we’d have a bonfire, make some s’mores– no chance of that tonight, not anymore.” Darry sighed, and as if summoned by his displeasure, the thunder boomed outside once more. The first drops of rain hit the kitchen window. He was thankful he had fixed the gutters last week.

He heard the fridge open and close a few times. The kitchen lapsed into a comfortable silence, save only for the sound of rain growing louder and louder.

“Oh, you got the mail, too.” Pony muttered. Darry hummed in agreement, focused on searing the steak the way Pony liked it, before he made Keith’s with a whole lot more butter.

“Darry.” Pony’s voice broke the stillness. It sounded strangled. Darry had a few more minutes on the steak.

“Yeah, Pone?” He liked it medium rare, just like Soda. He’d have to cook these again when Soda got home.

“Darry.” Pony said again, urgent, thin. He looked over his shoulder. Pony’s face was ashen white, his shoulders shaking. He stood there, gripping something in his hands. Darry left the steak on the stove and rushed over.

“What’s that…” Darry grabbed the paper. The top read Western Union Telegram. Darry’s heart dropped to his feet, his body falling into the chair pulled out next to him.

Mr. Darrel Curtis

Mr. Ponyboy Curtis

The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret that your *** Officer Sodapop Curtis has been missing in Vietnam since 13 June 1973. He was last seen

“What? What’re you seeing?” Two-Bit snatched the paper out of his hand, and Darry let him, his hands going to cover his mouth. His vision tunneled. Dimly, he was aware of Pony breaking down into tears next to him, Two-Bit letting out a yell before grabbing his little brother’s shoulders. He was aware that the steak was overcooking, burning, and ruined. He was aware that he was in his kitchen and that the rain was coming down outside. But Darry was trapped in the telegram. 

June 13th. It was July 17th. His little brother had been missing for over a month, and they had been living their lives none the wiser. Darry felt sick. The smell of burning meat invaded his nose.

“I’m going to be sick.” He announced, his voice far away and flat to his own ears. He walked stiffly over to the sink and proceeded to throw up. He heard himself gag. He heard the rain.

“Darry– Dar? Darry, you need to look at me. You gotta look at me. Darry.” Two-Bit was shaking his arm. How could he move? The world should have stopped one month ago. It had. He just hadn’t known it yet.

“Darry, your brother needs you. Snap out of it. I’m sorry, please.” Two-Bit didn’t talk like that. Desperate, whiney. Two-Bit was as quick as his switchblade, popping out, inherent to his design was his humor. “Darry.”

His brother needed him. Which one? The missing one? Missing in action. Missing at war, lost in some other country. Why can’t they just say dead ? His brother was dead.

He heard wailing behind him, incoherent, loud enough to rival the thunder. This had Darry snapping into action, pushing away from the sink and crushing his brother against him. Pony scrabbled at his arms, his face burying itself into the crook of his neck. 

Him and his brother. The one he could still protect. Two-Bit grabbed at his back, like he was supporting Darry. It felt more like he was trying to hold himself up. Darry couldn’t hold anyone up, so that’s how they all ended in a puddle on the floor, no voice of reason left among them. 

There was nothing he could say. After some time, he shifted so that Ponyboy was in his lap and he could have one arm free to grab the letter again. He needed to know what happened.

He was last seen in a combat expedition when his squad broke off from the platoon in retreat from enemy fire. 

A year’s worth of nightmares flickered across his eyes. Soda in the jungle, bleeding out alone. He must have known deep down there was only one way this could end.

Pony cried hard enough to pass out right there and then on the kitchen floor. Darry didn’t know what he would do once he decided to move, leaving Two-Bit to turn off the stove and throw the charred meat into the trash can.

Rain kept coming down and down. If he focused, Darry could hear the droplets beating against the metal grill outside, pinging off the top incessantly. If he focused, those droplets started to sound a lot like gunfire.

Darry couldn’t help it anymore. He passed out, slumped against the fridge, still holding what was left of his family.