Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 10th, 1968

The day was good, he was glad for it; he didn’t have many of them anymore.

It was one of those rare summer days where the sun seemed to linger just right, casting golden rays that weren’t too hot, with a breeze that was just enough to keep you from sweating. A kind of day that should’ve made everything feel a little easier. The kind that felt like an offering of peace after too many months of fighting invisible battles.

Ponyboy could feel it in the air as he leaned against the bleachers, his arms folded across his chest while he watched the gang toss a football back and forth in the lot. The usual shouts of competitive banter and laughter carried on the wind, but he wasn’t part of it. Not today. Johnny was sitting beside him, quiet as always, the two of them watching as if the game was something from another world.

He had stood on the sidelines for a while, maybe thinking he’d join, but as always lately, the urge had faded. Johnny had started the game, though he didn’t last long before quietly slipping over to sit next to Ponyboy, like he knew neither of them were really in the mood.

Ponyboy’s fingers absentmindedly twisted the blades of grass beneath him, eyes following the spiraling football without much thought. He wasn’t up for it. Not the running or the competition. Not today. He used to like things like this, but lately, nothing seemed to hold his interest for long.

Running was different though. That, he still liked. Running had become his only real escape. He was good at it, too—good enough to make his brothers proud, even though Darry’s praise always came with a warning about pushing himself too hard. He would roll his eyes at Darry’s concern, but deep down, he knew why. They all knew why. That unspoken shadow that had hung over him for nearly a year now.

The memory of last year hung like smoke around him, something he never quite escaped, no matter how far he ran.

Darry had been so proud when scouts from different schools started showing up at his meets, noticing his times, praising his stamina. He should have felt proud too. But more often than not, the compliments just felt like noise—meaningless, when he still had to wake up and deal with the empty feeling in his chest every morning.

And now, there was something else he hadn’t told anyone. Not Darry. Not Soda. Not even Johnny, though they were sitting there in the shared silence they usually found comforting.

He had applied to a school— New York University. 

The thought sent a ripple of anxiety through him. He hadn't told his brothers yet—hadn't told anyone —and he wasn't even sure if he’d get in. It was prestigious, the kind of school people like him didn’t get into easily, much less on a full ride for track or academics. But he had tried. He wasn’t sure if applying had been an act of courage or desperation, a way to prove he could still make something of himself—or a way to run away from everything.

Maybe it was both.

Either way, the application had been sent weeks ago, and the waiting had become another layer of weight he couldn’t shake. He tried not to think about it, but the truth was that part of him expected the rejection letter to come any day now. Nothing felt hopeful anymore, not really.

Johnny shifted beside him, and for a second, Ponyboy thought he might say something. But Johnny only stretched out his legs, eyes fixed on the game. It was an easy silence between them, but Ponyboy could tell, like everyone else, Johnny was just as worried about him as Darry or Soda were. He had become a little too quiet lately, a little too withdrawn, and the others had noticed.

They even teased him about it sometimes, making jokes about how he was quieter than Johnny now. Normally, he might have laughed along, but instead, the comments only burrowed deeper into his chest.

‘ Whose fault’s that? ’ the thought crept in, bitter and familiar, laced with guilt. His mind had started filling in the silences lately, reminding him of the tension that hung in the air every time someone glanced his way. Every concerned look from his brothers, every cautious question from Soda, made it harder to breathe.

He knew they were all waiting—waiting for him to crack or for him to tell them he was okay. The truth was, he wasn’t sure he knew which would come first.

Ponyboy let out a slow breath, letting his eyes wander back to the game. It was easier to watch from the sidelines. Easier to sit in the sun and pretend everything was normal.

The sky above was a deep blue, clouds floating lazily by, and for a second, if he closed his eyes, he could almost believe that he was okay. That the day really was as perfect as it looked. That nothing was wrong.

But the ache in his chest reminded him that no matter how perfect the day seemed, it wasn’t enough to fix everything.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

The sound of footsteps and laughter drew Ponyboy’s attention from the game. The gang was making their way over, sweaty from running around but still full of energy. Sodapop and Steve were talking, Steve cracking jokes at something Soda had said while Two-Bit laughed from a few paces behind them. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, Soda,” Steve was saying, his voice loud and animated. “That clunker of yours? It’s one good pothole away from fallin’ apart. You should’ve just let me fix it the first time.”

Darry had nearly blown a vein when he saw the beat up car that Sodapop bought, it was this old run down thing with enough miles to make a grown man cry. Sodapop said the price had been cheap and he’d fixed it up—as best he could really. Even so, Darry never let him live it down when it would break down each month. 

Sodapop grinned, shaking his head. “And let you turn it into one of your Frankenstein cars? No thanks, man. I like it the way it is—rattles and all.”

Steve threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, but when it falls apart on the highway, don’t come crying to me.”

“I’ll just get out and push it,” Sodapop shot back with a laugh.

Two-Bit, who had been a few paces behind them, chimed in with a snort. “You’d need the whole gang to push that piece of junk, Soda. Hell, you’d probably need half of Tulsa.”

“You offering to help, Two-Bit?” Sodapop smirked.

“Nah, I’ll just sit back and watch you sweat it out,” Two-Bit grinned, while Dally hung back a little, smirking at whatever remark Two-Bit had tossed at him earlier. 

“Like you did the whole game today?” He shot back, catching Two-Bit who started roughhousing with him. 

“As long as I ain’t drivin’ that thing, I don’t care what happens to it. Both of yous car's are deathtraps.” Dally shot at them, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. 

“You say that about every car, Dal,” Steve said with a grin. “Except your bike.”

“Damn straight. It’s ‘cause my bike’s the only thing worth drivin’,” Dally drawled, lighting a cigarette and giving Steve a cocky look. “Unlike some people, I don’t need to prove myself with a pile of scrap metal.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but there was no real malice in it. “Keep talkin', Winston. One of these days I’m gonna put you behind the wheel of my car and see how long you last.”

“Three blocks,” Two-Bit interjected with a laugh. “And that’s bein’ generous.”

Dally just grinned, taking a long drag of his cigarette, not even bothering to argue—on another day he might have gotten fired up, but not today. Ponyboy could feel them getting closer but didn’t bother moving. Johnny glanced up as they approached, though, and Two-Bit tossed him a grin.

“Yo, Johnnycakes, you still alive over here or did you melt in this heat?” Two-Bit joked, his voice teasing but light.

Johnny gave a small smile, shrugging. “Just waitin’ for you guys to finish runnin’ your mouths.”

Two-Bit chuckled with a wide smile, ruffling Ponyboy’s hair as he passed by, but didn’t say anything to him. None of them did, not anymore. At first, when he started shutting down, they used to try to get him to talk more—asking questions, teasing him the way they always had. But over time, they’d learned not to push. They all knew he didn’t like talking much these days.

He wasn’t sure if that made him grateful or guilty.

The gang settled around them, still bantering among themselves. Steve had taken to talking about cars again, something about the new engine he was planning to rebuild. Soda was egging him on, like usual, even though Ponyboy knew his brother barely understood half the stuff Steve was saying.

Ponyboy just listened. He was always listening now, more than talking. It was easier to let their voices fill the air than to try to force himself into the conversation. Easier to fade into the background.

Dally snorted, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Ain’t nobody gonna wanna eat you, Matthews,” he shot back, his voice sharp but playful. “They’d choke on all that hot air you’ve been spewin’.”

Two-Bit grinned, undeterred. “I dunno, man. I’ve heard I’m a pretty good catch—real savory.”

Johnny gave a small laugh from where he sat next to Ponyboy, the sound barely above a breath, but enough to make Two-Bit shoot him a wink. “See, Johnny knows. He’d sell me first chance he got.”

“Nah,” Johnny muttered, shaking his head. “I’d sell Dally. Bet I’d get more for him.”

“Dream on, kid. Nobody’s got enough cash for that.” Dally smirked at that, pushing off the fence and ruffling Johnny’s hair as he passed by. He paused for a second to gently pushed Ponyboy’s head too, almost like he thought better of messing up his hair like Two-Bit had. 

The others laughed, the conversation drifting around him like smoke. Ponyboy let it wash over him, sinking into his own thoughts as they talked. He didn’t really care what they were saying; he just liked hearing their voices. It was better than the silence that had been following him around lately.

He could feel Sodapop’s eyes on him every so often, though his brother didn’t say anything either. He never did—not unless Ponyboy wanted to talk, and he hadn’t in a long time. His brother didn’t mind as much though, Sodapop always did enough talking for the both of them. 

Eventually, they started heading back toward the house. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the lot. Ponyboy moved to stand, and before he could take more than a few steps, he felt Soda sling an arm over his shoulder, pulling him in close as they walked.

“C’mon, little buddy,” Sodapop said softly, his voice easy but affectionate. “Let’s get home before Two-Bit turns into a roast.”

Ponyboy allowed himself to lean into the familiar weight of Soda’s arm, though he stayed quiet. Steve had fallen into step beside them, hands in his pockets, his usual smirk softened just a little. The two of them were better now—better than they had been a year ago, at least.

For a while, it had felt like Steve couldn’t even look at him, let alone talk to him. But things had changed. Whether it was because of what happened last year, or just because Ponyboy was older now, he didn’t know. Maybe it was both. Either way, Steve seemed more comfortable with him again, and for that, Ponyboy was grateful.

He just wished he could feel more comfortable with himself.

The walk back to the house wasn’t long, but it felt heavy. The gang’s chatter filled the space between them, but Ponyboy couldn’t shake the feeling of distance, even with Soda’s arm around him. It was like there was an invisible barrier between him and the rest of the world, something that kept him from fully connecting with anything.

They reached the house just as the sun was starting to set, the sky bleeding into shades of orange and purple. Darry was already outside, wiping his hands on a towel, probably from working on something around the yard. He looked up as they approached, his eyes immediately landing on Ponyboy.

“Hey, Pony,” Darry called, his tone casual but with that underlying edge of concern that never really went away. “Grab the mail for me, will ya?”

Ponyboy nodded, slipping out from under Soda’s arm as he made his way to the mailbox. His heart gave a small, anxious flutter in his chest. It was a simple request—just grabbing the mail—but lately, the mailbox had turned into something more than just a place for bills and letters. Ever since he’d applied to that school in New York, the sight of it sent a strange combination of hope and dread spiraling through him. His fingers hesitated as they hovered over the mailbox latch, the weight of possibility heavy in the warm summer air.

With a deep breath, he pulled open the metal door and sifted through the stack of envelopes. Bills, flyers, junk... and then there it was. A thick envelope with the bold seal of the university pressed into the paper. His breath caught. 

It was here.

Ponyboy stood there for a moment, frozen, the yard seemed quieter somehow as if the whole world had stopped. Slowly, he turned the letter over in his hands, running his thumb over the seal. His heart was pounding now, each beat ringing in his ears. He glanced toward the house where the others were heading inside, their voices distant.

He swallowed, tearing open the top of the envelope with unsteady hands. The first sheet inside bore the university’s letterhead, clean and professional. It’s a mistake. It has to be, his mind whispered, but he kept reading anyway.

Dear Mr. Curtis,

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to New York University for the Fall semester. Your application was reviewed with great care, and we are impressed with both your academic and athletic achievements. We are thrilled to offer you a full academic and athletic scholarship for track and field. Coach Reynolds has included a personal note below and looks forward to working with you.

Should you accept, please contact the admissions office by the deadline listed. We are excited to welcome you to our campus community.

Sincerely,
Chancellor Allan M. Cartter 

Ponyboy blinked, his eyes scanning over the next page, which was a short note scrawled in neat handwriting from the track coach:

Hey Ponyboy,

It was great getting to see you in action last month! I’m excited to have you on the team and can’t wait to see what you bring to the track this season. Give me a call when you get the chance—we’d love to show you around and talk more about what we can do together. We’re building something special here.

—Coach Reynolds

He stood in the yard, the paper trembling in his hands. Full ride. It echoed in his head like a drumbeat. They were giving him a full ride—for both academics and track. He stared at the words, his vision blurring as the reality settled in. He’d gotten in.

But what hit him even harder than the acceptance itself was the sudden, overwhelming flood of emotion. It was so sharp, so unfamiliar after a year of feeling like he’d been floating through life. Even graduation hadn’t stirred him like this. Why now? he thought. Why did this hit so hard?

His chest tightened, a swirl of excitement and doubt rising all at once. Do I tell them? His first instinct was to go inside, to share it with his brothers. Darry would be relieved. Soda would probably hug him until he couldn’t breathe. The guys would all be happy for him too.

But then, the voice in the back of his mind crept up, quiet but insistent. Don’t make a big deal of it. What if it sounds like you’re bragging? What if they think you’re just trying to show off?

His fingers crumpled the edges of the letter slightly, anxiety creeping up his spine. He shook his head, trying to push it down. It’s no big deal. Just a letter. He tucked the envelope under his arm, his feet carrying him to the house in a daze.

If someone asked he’d say something, it wasn’t a big deal. 

When he walked inside, the noise of the gang surrounded him like a warm cocoon. Soda was laughing at something Steve had said, Darry flipping through a magazine on the couch. The rest of the hang was either playing poker or watching something on TV. Ponyboy placed the stack of mail on the kitchen counter, the weight of the acceptance letter still heavy in his hands. His mind raced, thoughts spinning in a blur, he didn’t even realize he was staring at it until Sodapop entered the kitchen too. 

Sodapop was rummaging through the fridge, looking for a beer when he glanced over at Ponyboy. His hand froze on the handle of a bottle, eyes narrowing slightly. Something about the way Ponyboy was standing, staring at the stack of mail on the counter with that dazed, distant look—it set off alarm bells in Soda’s mind. Any time Ponyboy seemed off like this, it wasn’t good. His little brother had become too quiet, too closed off in the last year. 

Sodapop hated it.

He tried not to make a big deal out of it, didn’t want to embarrass him. “You good, Pone?” he asked casually, hoping to ease whatever was on Pony’s mind without pushing too hard.

Ponyboy just nodded his head, not looking up.

Soda frowned, closing the fridge and leaning against the counter. “What is it? C’mon, honey, talk to me.”

Ponyboy’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if saying it out loud would make it too real. “I got in.”

Soda blinked, confused. “Got in? Got in where?”

Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably, finally holding out the letter. He mumbled again, his voice a little stronger this time. “College... in New York.”

It took Soda a second to process what he was hearing. He stared at Ponyboy, then at the letter in his hand, then back at Ponyboy again. New York? His mind raced to catch up, but before he could stop himself, his hands reached out and gently took the letter from Ponyboy’s trembling fingers.

He read it silently, his eyes scanning over the official wording. He could barely hold back the grin that was creeping up as he saw the words "full ride" and "track and field." When it finally sank in, his grin exploded into full-blown excitement. 

“Holy—” Soda’s voice cut off in his own excitement as he threw the letter on the counter and grabbed Ponyboy underneath of his arms, spinning him around in the kitchen with a whoop of pure joy. “You did it! You got in!” He was laughing, practically bouncing with energy. “Pony, you got in! Oh my god, New York! Darry’s gonna flip—”

Soda kept spinning him, his infectious energy filling the room until Ponyboy couldn’t help but smile too. For a brief moment, Ponyboy’s usual quietness lifted, and the sight of it made Soda’s heart soar. It had been too long since he’d seen his little brother really smile.

Darry came in from the living room, frowning at the noise. “What’s all the racket about?”

Soda stopped, but he still had his arm slung over Pony’s shoulders, grinning like a fool. “Ponyboy got into a college, Darry. A school in New York ! Full ride!”

Darry blinked, eyes widening as the words hit him. New York? That was a long way from Tulsa. But before the thought could fully form, pride washed over him. 

Without hesitation, he crossed the room, placing his hands firmly on either side of Ponyboy’s face, a rare moment of unfiltered emotion. “What! New York?” His voice was loud, filled with awe. “Baby—I’m proud of you. You hear me? I’m so damn proud of you, kid.” 

Ponyboy felt a lump in his throat, the warmth from Darry’s words sinking deep. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted that reaction from his oldest brother until now.

Before anyone could say more, Two-Bit and Steve wandered in from the living room, curious about all the excitement. “What’s all this about?” Steve asked, looking between them.

Soda, still buzzing with energy, didn’t wait. “Ponyboy got into a school in New York. Full ride for track and everything!”

 “Well, hot damn!” Two-Bit let out a low whistle, grinning as he tossed his arm around Ponyboy’s shoulders, ruffling his hair. “Look at you, college boy!”

Steve grinned too, clapping Ponyboy on the back and 

Even Dally, who was leaning casually against the doorway, smirked at the news. He had a look of approval on his face and it was enough to make Ponyboy's face flush at the realization that he made Dally proud of him. 

Ponyboy shrugged, his face flushed from all the attention. “It’s just school,” he muttered, feeling overwhelmed by the excitement swirling around him.

“It’s not just school,” Johnny was the last to come over, quieter than the rest. He stood a little off to the side, smiling softly. “I’m happy for you, Pony. You deserve it.”

There was something in Johnny’s voice, a kind of quiet understanding. Ponyboy met his gaze, and for a moment, it was just the two of them. Johnny had always been there, silently supporting him, even when no one else understood. Johnny would always get him no matter what even after everything that had happened he stayed by him, even when he shouldn’t. 

The gang’s banter picked up again, loud and teasing. Two-Bit grabbed Ponyboy by the waist and hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes. “Look at this, boys! Our little college man’s already too smart for his britches—better make sure he doesn’t start gettin’ ideas about runnin' the place!”

Ponyboy squirmed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as Two-Bit spun him around.

Darry chuckled from the doorway, shaking his head. “Put him down before you shake his brains loose, Two-Bit.”

Two-Bit grinned, finally setting Ponyboy back down, but not before ruffling his hair and adding, “Can’t be lettin' our kid brother get all high and mighty now. You know, keepin' you humble’s a full-time job for me.”

Once the noise had settled down, everyone started to drift back to the living room, still talking excitedly about the news. Soda slung an arm around Ponyboy again, a proud grin still plastered on his face. “We gotta celebrate, man. Tomorrow, whatever you want to do, it’s on me.”

Ponyboy shrugged, not quite sure what he wanted. 

It was a quiet, sweet moment, the gang chatting together about what a big deal it was. He was the first greaser from their neighborhood to go to college, and it wasn’t just any college—it was New York. He could feel it in the room, with it came the pressure that he fought to keep down. Johnny gently nudged his shoulder with his own, a soft look on his face and Ponyboy rested his body against Johnnys. 

It was a lot to take in, but the warm feeling of being surrounded by his brothers and the gang, all sharing this moment, made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Pride.

—

Ponyboy jerked awake, his breath hitching in his throat. The images from his nightmare clung to the edges of his mind, blurry but intense—faces and voices he couldn’t shake. His heart pounded in his chest, a cold sweat clinging to his skin. He lay there for a moment, trying to slow his breathing, listening to the steady sound of Soda’s soft snoring beside him.

Not again.

Ponyboy closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. The last thing he wanted was to wake Soda up, he didn’t want to ruin the day that they had. He already dealt with enough—Pony didn’t need to add to that by dragging his brother out of sleep with his bad dreams. Again. 

Not wanting to disturb him, Ponyboy slipped out of bed quietly, making his way down the hall to the kitchen.

The light was on, and to his surprise, Darry was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He wasn’t drinking it, though—just staring into it, deep in thought. Ponyboy paused in the doorway, watching his older brother for a second. Darry always looked strong, but right now, in the dim light, he seemed... tired. Weary in a way he didn’t often show.

Ponyboy shuffled into the kitchen, not wanting to spook him. “You’re up late,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Darry looked up, his expression softening when he saw Ponyboy. “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied quietly, his voice even and calm, though his eyes gave away something deeper. He didn’t ask why Ponyboy was up—he never had to.

Ponyboy sat down across from him, the silence between them comfortable but heavy. Darry wasn’t one for talking about his worries. He never had been. But the weight of whatever was on his mind hung in the air, almost palpable.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Darry took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes flickering to the window, then back to his hands. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low. “I’m proud of you, Pony,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Ponyboy nodded, his gaze focused on the table. He’d heard it a lot lately, especially since the letter came. But there was something about the way Darry said it now that felt different—quieter, more thoughtful. Like he was saying more than just those words.

“You’ve come a long way... especially after everything that happened last year,” Darry continued, his tone even, but the weight of those unsaid things lingered in the air between them. Neither of them mentioned it—not what happened, not what it had cost—but it was always there, just under the surface.

Darry didn’t look at him when he said it, just stared at his cup. His jaw tightened slightly, a subtle sign of the worry he always tried to hide. It was in the small things—how he glanced at Ponyboy a little longer than usual, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the table. He wasn’t one to say much, not about the things that really mattered. But he didn’t have to.

“I just...” Darry looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a tightness in his expression, like he was trying to find the right words. “It’s just... New York’s a long way from here, y’know? 

Ponyboy stayed quiet, his eyes flicking to Darry’s face. He could see the worry in his brother’s eyes—the quiet kind, the kind Darry never talked about. It wasn’t just about school or New York. It was about everything—about what they didn’t say, what they didn’t talk about.

“I know,” Ponyboy whispered, his voice barely audible.

Darry nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “I just want you to be okay, baby. That’s all.”

Ponyboy didn’t respond at first, just letting the words settle between them. He knew Darry well enough to understand that this was as close as he’d come to saying what he really felt. There was no need to dig deeper. Not tonight.

After a long pause, Darry pushed his chair back and stood, stretching his arms with a small yawn. “You should get some rest,” he said quietly, his voice back to its usual calm. “Big day tomorrow.”

Ponyboy nodded, but they both knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. It never did anymore. As he stood to head back to bed, Darry placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze—his silent way of saying what he couldn’t put into words.

“Night, Pone,” Darry said softly, his hand lingering for just a moment before letting go.

“Night, Darry.”

—

Ponyboy lay in his bed, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting silver shadows across the room. He was wide awake, his body stiff with anxiety. His mind raced, thoughts weaving in and out of each other, none of them clear but all of them heavy. The weight of everything pressed down on him—memories, fears, that gnawing feeling of uncertainty about the future. The room was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. 

Not to him.

He listened closely, almost unconsciously, to the sounds of the house. The ticking of the clock down the hall, the occasional creak of the floorboards as the house settled in the cool night air. Familiar, grounding sounds, but they did little to ease the tension knotting his chest.

Then, he heard it—the faint, deliberate sound of footsteps. Darry.

The floorboards just outside his door groaned under the weight of his brother’s careful steps. That rhythmic creak was comforting in a way Ponyboy hadn’t expected. It was a reminder that Darry was there, that someone was keeping watch, even if they didn’t always talk about the things that weighed them down.

The door didn’t open right away. Darry hesitated, like he was debating whether to come in. Ponyboy stayed still, keeping his breathing steady, pretending to be asleep. After a beat, the door pushed open with a soft groan, and the familiar scent of soap and sweat drifted in—Darry’s scent after a long day of work. It was something that used to bring Ponyboy a sense of safety when he was younger, but now, it just reminded him of how tired Darry always seemed.

The mattress dipped slightly as Darry sat down on the edge of the bed, his weight barely disturbing Ponyboy’s still body. Darry didn’t say anything—he never did in these moments—but his presence was like a silent anchor.

Ponyboy’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew Darry thought he was asleep, but that didn’t make the moment any easier. He could feel the tension radiating off his brother, could practically hear the thoughts racing through his head. It was the same tension that had filled their house for the past year. The kind that followed them like a shadow they couldn’t escape.

Slowly, Ponyboy cracked open his eyes, just enough to watch Darry without being noticed. His brother’s face was etched in the moonlight, his features carved with exhaustion. Deep lines cut across his brow, and the dark circles under his eyes looked permanent, like they’d been there too long to ever fully fade. Darry’s jaw was clenched, his fingers rubbing at his temples like he was trying to erase the constant worry.

It wasn’t the first time Ponyboy had seen that look on his brother’s face, but it still made his chest ache. Darry always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but since last year, it seemed heavier—almost unbearable. He didn’t talk about it, not directly, but Ponyboy saw the way Darry watched him now, like he was afraid he’d disappear at any moment.

Darry leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at Ponyboy. In the quiet, it felt as though the world had stopped, as if the space between them was filled with all the things they couldn’t say. There were so many moments they avoided, so many conversations they danced around because neither of them knew how to talk about it—what had happened, what it meant for them now.

Ponyboy shut his eyes again, but his mind kept drifting. He could remember the hushed voices from that night, the way Darry and Sodapop had argued in the kitchen, their voices low but sharp. He hadn’t been able to hear every word, but he knew what they were fighting about. They didn’t want him to hear, didn’t want him to know how scared they were, how lost they felt. But he knew. He always knew.

The fear in Darry’s eyes then had never gone away, not completely. It lingered in every overprotective glance, every too-careful conversation. And now, here he was, watching over Ponyboy in the dead of night like he was afraid something would happen if he looked away.

Ponyboy’s breath hitched quietly, and for a moment, he thought Darry had noticed. But Darry just sighed, leaning back slightly. His hand reached out, hovering over Ponyboy’s hair like he wanted to ruffle it but didn’t dare wake him. It was a small gesture, one that made Ponyboy’s chest tighten.

“What am I gonna do with you?” 

Finally, after what felt like hours, Darry stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He lingered for a moment longer, looking down at his little brother with that same haunted expression that had become all too familiar. Then, without a word, he slipped out of the room, the door creaking shut behind him.

Ponyboy exhaled deeply once the door clicked into place, his eyes still closed but his mind spinning. The weight of the moment hung over him, pulling him deeper into the thoughts he tried so hard to avoid. He could still feel the ghost of Darry’s presence, the unspoken fear that they all carried with them.

He rolled over in bed, pressing his face into the pillow, willing himself to sleep. But sleep never came. 

The white bandages wrapped around his arms were too heavy to sleep with.

—  

Ponyboy hadn’t really slept. After the excitement of the day, his body was exhausted, but his mind refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, it was like the thoughts he tried to bury clawed their way back up, refusing to let him rest. So, when the house was still and quiet, long before dawn, he slipped out the door.

The cool early morning air hit his skin as he stepped off the porch, the silence of the neighborhood almost comforting. Running was the only thing that made sense when everything else felt too heavy to process. His legs were on autopilot before his brain could even catch up, taking him down streets he knew too well. The rhythmic sound of his feet against the pavement was a welcome distraction, something to focus on instead of the chaos in his head.

He hadn’t meant to run for so long. But hours later, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Ponyboy found himself miles from home, his body screaming in protest. He knew he should turn back, but part of him wanted to keep going—push until there was nothing left to push. Maybe if he ran far enough, long enough, it would drown out the thoughts, the worries... the memories. But eventually, his legs gave out their own warning, and he had no choice but to make the trek back.

When he finally made it to the house, the exhaustion hit him all at once. His chest heaved with each breath, sweat dripping down his face, and his legs felt like they were on fire. His shirt stuck to his back, and his face was flushed deep red from the exertion, the kind of run that had pushed him way past what was healthy.

He stumbled up the steps and into the house, trying to be quiet, but the door creaked slightly as he pushed it open. His brothers were already in the kitchen—Darry reading the paper and Sodapop rummaging through the fridge. They both glanced up when he walked in, their eyes scanning him immediately, like they couldn’t help it.

Ponyboy leaned against the wall, catching his breath, trying to act like it was no big deal. But he could see it in their faces—the way Sodapop’s easy smile faltered for a second, the way Darry’s eyes flicked over him, taking in the sweat, the flushed skin, the way he was still breathing hard.

Sodapop didn’t say anything right away, just closed the fridge door and offered him a drink like nothing was wrong. “You sure you didn’t decide to run to the next state?” he joked lightly, trying to keep it casual.

Ponyboy forced a small smile, but he didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he knew they were watching him, even if they were trying not to make it obvious. This had been their routine ever since last year—pretending everything was fine, not asking too many questions, not pushing too hard. But the worry was always there, just under the surface, like a wound that hadn’t quite healed.

“Here,” Sodapop tossed him a cold soda, cracking a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look like you could use it.”

Ponyboy caught it and nodded in thanks, but stayed silent, still catching his breath. He could feel Darry’s eyes on him the longest, though his older brother didn’t say anything at first. Darry was good at that—watching, waiting, measuring how much to push and how much to let go. The concern in his eyes was always there, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“You were gone awfully long,” Darry said finally, his voice calm, but there was an edge of something else there—something Ponyboy recognized as the fear that had been there ever since that last year. They didn’t talk about it. Not openly, anyway. But it was always there between them, unspoken.

“I’m fine,” Ponyboy muttered, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. But even he knew how hollow that sounded.

Darry didn’t press him further. He never did. Instead, he just gave a small, almost resigned nod and looked back down at the paper in his hands, though Ponyboy could tell he wasn’t really reading it. Sodapop, on the other hand, stood there for a moment longer, his brows knit together, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

They were all walking on eggshells, pretending everything was normal, but it wasn’t. Not really. Not since last year.

Sodapop sighed and gave him a soft, easy punch on the arm, something to break the tension. “You gotta learn how to take it easy, honey. Can’t have you fallin’ apart on us.” He grinned, but there was a weight behind the words, one that Ponyboy could feel even though Soda tried to hide it.

Ponyboy just nodded again, taking a sip of the soda and focusing on trying to calm his breathing. The cool liquid did little to ease the tightness in his chest, but he forced himself to take slow, even breaths. He could tell they were worried. They always were. Every glance, every question, every hesitant offer—it was all laced with that same concern. They watched him too closely, and as much as he hated it, as much as he wanted to tell them he was fine, he didn’t know how to reassure them. He wasn’t even sure if he could.

“So,” Sodapop started, his voice lighter than it had been in days. He stood up to place the plates in the sink, still in his pajamas since it was the weekend. “The guys were thinking of heading over to Buck’s in a week here, and they thought you should come too.”

Ponyboy blinked, feeling the faintest flicker of surprise. Buck’s? He glanced up to see Sodapop and Darry exchange a quick, conspiratorial glance. We, he realized. They had planned this together.

“They want to celebrate you getting in,” Sodapop continued, turning back toward him with a hopeful smile. “Plus, me and Dar’ll be there too, so it won’t get too crazy.”

Soda’s tone was casual, but there was something more behind it, something almost pleading in the way he looked at Ponyboy. There was a glint in his brother’s eyes—one that Ponyboy hadn’t seen in a long time—and it made his stomach churn with guilt. He knew why that light had faded in the first place, knew that he was the one who had dimmed it.

A few years ago, the idea of them suggesting Ponyboy go anywhere near Buck’s would’ve been laughable. There was no way Darry would’ve let him even set foot near that place, much less the idea of a party. Anytime Ponyboy wanted to go out, he practically had to beg Darry for permission. But now?

Now, Darry would give anything for Ponyboy to leave the house once in a while. To do something—anything—that felt normal. Hell, his brothers would probably be relieved if he just wanted to have a drink or let loose, something to prove he wasn’t so messed up.

Normal. That’s all they wanted. For things to go back to the way they were before.

Ponyboy stared down at his soda, swirling the liquid around as he thought. He wanted to say no. He never felt like going out, especially to Buck’s of all places. The idea of being around that many people, of forcing himself to act like everything was okay, made his skin crawl. He didn’t have it in him to be the Ponyboy they remembered—the kid who would’ve joked around with the guys, who would’ve been excited for a night out.

But then he saw the way Soda was looking at him, the way Darry’s eyes flicked up from the table with quiet hope. They were waiting, both of them trying so hard not to push, but still holding onto that small sliver of optimism. That maybe, just maybe, this would be the thing to break through to him. To remind him that he could still have fun, that he wasn’t completely lost to them.

“I…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He wanted to say that he didn’t really feel like going, that maybe tomorrow wasn’t the best option. But the look in their eyes stopped him. He saw how desperately they wanted him to say yes, how much they needed him to want it too.

And he hated how that made him feel. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, twisting his insides. It wasn’t fair to them, to watch him fall apart like this. To see their brother, the one they had always sacrificed everything for, slipping further away. They didn’t deserve that.

He swallowed hard, forcing a tight smile onto his face. “Yeah, maybe,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll think about it.”

Sodapop’s face lit up, his grin wide and hopeful. “Now that’s the spirit!” he said, his voice full of that playful energy that always came so naturally to him. “Who knows, Pone, maybe you’ll even get a dance in with one of Buck’s girls. Heard they’ve got a real soft spot for smart guys.” He winked, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Ponyboy couldn’t help the small huff of a laugh that escaped him, shaking his head as Soda nudged him with his elbow. He didn’t really smile, but he nodded a little bit to indulge his brother. 

Even Darry’s shoulders seemed to ease up a little, though he didn’t say anything, just gave Ponyboy a small nod.

He kept his eyes on the pop in his hand, avoiding their gazes. He wasn’t ready to see the relief on their faces, wasn’t ready to face the weight of their expectations. Because deep down, he knew.

He wasn’t sure if he could give them what they wanted.  But he had to try. 

He owed them that much. 

Chapter Text

June 15th, 1968

It was mid June, the heat hanging thick in the air as Ponyboy sat slouched on the porch steps. The sun had started its slow descent, casting long, amber shadows across the yard. He had a worn copy of Gone with the Wind open in his lap, but he wasn’t reading. Not really. His eyes skimmed over the familiar words, but they didn’t stick, sliding past like the lazy hum of cicadas in the distance. 

He read enough times that he could probably recite a few of his favorite chapters by memory—the book simply brought comfort more so than entertainment. 

The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came when everyone had settled into the lull of a summer afternoon. There were kids down the block, laughing as they chased each other through sprinklers, and the faint sound of a radio crackling from someone’s open window. But up here on the porch, it was just him. Darry was at work, likely halfway through another grueling shift at the construction site. Sodapop too, working at the gas station with Steve, the two of them probably joking around between customers.

They never work Saturdays normally but they had started to work them more often during this summer to get a bit of extra money. 

Ponyboy felt the weight of the heat pressing down on him, the sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He should’ve gone inside by now, maybe cooled off with a glass of water, but the quiet was oddly soothing. It was better than the chaos inside his head, the constant buzzing of thoughts that never seemed to settle.

He glanced down at the book again, the familiar pages blurred slightly from the sweat on his hands. Gone with the Wind . A story that used to mean something, back when things made sense. Back before the trial, before Johnny, before...everything. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to reread it in a long time, but today, he’d pulled it off the shelf without thinking. It was a habit at this point. 

The cicadas droned louder, filling the empty spaces around him, and for a moment, Ponyboy let himself drift. He leaned back against the porch railing, the worn wood creaking beneath him, and closed his eyes. He could almost pretend, in moments like this, that everything was normal. That the ache in his chest wasn’t there, and that the past few years hadn’t left him feeling like he was floating through life, untethered.

He sighed, rubbing at his temples as a dull ache started to form, one he knew too well. The migraines had been coming more frequently, but he hadn’t told anyone. What was the point? Darry and Soda had enough to deal with, and the last thing he wanted was to be another burden. So, he did what he always did: ignored it, pushed it down, and hoped it’d go away.

The sun dipped lower, the light shifting from gold to deep orange. Ponyboy let the book fall shut in his lap, his fingers tracing the edges absentmindedly. It wasn’t like he could concentrate on it anyway. The quiet stretched out, almost suffocating, but he didn’t move. Didn’t want to. For now, at least, the world outside the porch felt far away, and he wanted to stay in it. 

The warm breeze that swept through the neighborhood brought with it the scent of cut grass and dust, but he was barely paying attention. His mind wandered, pulled back to memories he had tried—unsuccessfully—to bury.

It had all gone down so fast. That night with Johnny, the night Bob Sheldon had died, was still seared into his brain like a scar. They had thought about running—about disappearing the way Johnny had always said he wanted to, leaving behind Tulsa, the gangs, the Socs, all of it. But something had kept them there. Maybe it was the shock, or maybe it was because they both knew there was no real escape.

Maybe it was the fact he just wanted his older brother. 

Johnny had been arrested the next morning. 

The police had shown up at the Curtis house, and even though it wasn’t Ponyboy’s fault, he had felt the weight of it all crashing down on him. He’d grabbed on the Johnny so hard that the officer almost arrested him too until Darry and pried him off. He’d screamed and tried to tell them it wasn’t Johnnys fault—it was his, but they still took him. He had barely slept that night, thinking about Johnny in a cell somewhere, waiting to find out if he’d be going to jail for murder.

The trial had been rough. Everyone in town had heard about the fight—the jumping that ended with Bob dead in the park. Johnny’s face had been plastered on every newspaper, his name thrown around in whispers on the streets. It didn’t look good for him. Not for a long time. Even though everyone who knew Johnny knew he wasn’t the type to kill someone out of cold blood, it hadn’t mattered. 

All anyone saw was a dead Soc and a Greaser holding the knife.

Ponyboy’s hand tightened around the book, the memory still vivid. He had to take the stand, told the jury exactly what had happened. Bob and the other Socs had jumped them, tried to drown him in the fountain. Johnny had been defending him. It was the truth, but the truth wasn’t always enough. Not for kids like them.

But then, Cherry Valance had been the one who changed everything.

He still remembered the look on her face as she walked into the courtroom, dressed in clothes that marked her as something they’d never be. She had stood there, on Johnny’s side, and told the court that Bob had been drunk, angry, that Johnny had saved Ponyboy’s life. It had been enough—barely. A few socs even testified for them, but Ponyboy knew that was because Tim’s boys had roughed them up something awful. 

Johnny had been released, the charges dropped under self-defense. But that didn’t erase the weeks of fear, the sleepless nights.

After the trial, Cherry had left Tulsa—her parents sent her away for testifying. She didn’t talk to Ponyboy not even after everything that had happened. It was hard for him to imagine leaving this place, but now he understood why she had gone. There were too many memories, too much left unsaid. All he could think about now years later was how much he was ready to leave too. 

Even though Johnny wasn’t in jail, it had left a mark on all of them. Dally had gotten into more trouble than ever, and the gang was never really the same after that. Ponyboy could feel it—the heaviness that lingered in the air whenever they were all together, the way things seemed a little more fragile, like they were all waiting for the next thing to fall apart.

He blinked, shaking his head to clear the thoughts. That was years ago. Everyone was a little lighter until last year when he messed everything up. Johnny was still around, but he was different now, quieter in a way that made Ponyboy ache for his best friend. And Ponyboy, well, he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

He rubbed a hand over his forehead, trying to ease the dull throb of a headache that had been building all day. The past wasn’t something you could just shake off, no matter how much you wanted to. 

Ponyboy sighed, setting the book on the small table beside him and pushing himself up from the porch swing. The porch was his usual spot these days, quiet enough to feel like he could disappear for a while but close enough that Darry wouldn’t get suspicious. If Darry saw him reading or just sitting around too much, he’d find something for him to do. Sometimes, Ponyboy didn’t mind the work. It gave him something to focus on, something that wasn’t the dull ache in his head or the weight pressing down on his chest.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was high, beating down on the worn wood of the house. His brothers wouldn’t be back from work for a few more hours, so he figured he might as well clean up a bit before they got home. He headed back inside, the house still and quiet, the sound of his footsteps the only noise filling the space. The house was a little more worn than it had been a few years ago, the paint peeling in places, and the floorboards creaking under his weight.

It didn’t bother him, though. 

Ponyboy moved through the motions of cleaning almost automatically, grabbing the broom and sweeping the kitchen floor, then wiping down the counters. He always started with the kitchen—it was Darry’s pet peeve if it wasn’t clean. After that, he’d work his way through the rest of the house, picking up the stray bits of laundry or old newspapers that had gathered in corners. Sometimes, it felt like he was cleaning just for the sake of doing something, but that was fine by him. Anything was better than sitting still and letting the memories creep in.

The headaches didn’t help either. 

The one he’d had earlier hadn’t gone away, just settled in, dull and throbbing behind his eyes. He knew he should probably take something for it, but the aspirin never really helped much anyway. Even still, he grabbed the bottle from the kitchen counter and dry-swallowed two more pills without thinking. He didn’t want to worry Darry or Soda, not with everything else going on, so he just dealt with it quietly.

It was probably due to him never sleeping, but then again he had always had bad headaches. 

Every night, he’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t seem to shut off. His brothers thought he was asleep, and he made sure to keep his breathing steady when Darry came to check on him. Darry didn’t do it as much as he used to, but every now and then, he’d still poke his head in, probably out of habit more than anything else.

He did a lot more after that first month, especially when Ponyboy never left the bed

Ponyboy didn’t want them to know. Not about the insomnia, the migraines, or the fact that sometimes it felt like he was just going through the motions of being alive. They had enough to deal with, and it wasn’t like his problems were anything new. He’d been bad off for about a year now, ever since...well, he didn’t like thinking about it. Neither did his brothers, apparently. They’d never talked about it, and in a way, he was grateful for that. He didn’t know what he’d say if they did. 

Especially if Darry was the one asking him. 

His brother was trying. Ponyboy could see it in the way he acted around him—less sharp, more patient. It had taken a lot for them to get back to where they were after last year. Even now, they weren’t back to normal. There were moments when Darry looked at him with something like guilt or fear in his eyes, but he never said anything about it. Maybe he thought Ponyboy didn’t notice, or maybe he just didn’t know how to talk about it.

Sodapop, on the other hand, was always optimistic, talking about the future, about the apartments he and Steve were looking at for when Ponyboy left for college. He was so glad Ponyboy had a plan for the future, glad that his brother wanted to do something for the first time in months. He’d throw a magazine or a pamphlet down on the kitchen table and ask, “What do you think, Pone? It's not too far but from the movies either.” Soda smiled a lot when he talked about the future, but there was something forced in it now, a tension Ponyboy hadn’t noticed before.

Darry seemed to be glad that at least one of his younger brothers seemed to be doing well. 

By the time he’d finished cleaning, the house felt too quiet, the stillness pressing in on him. Ponyboy went back outside, settling on the porch again. The aspirin hadn’t helped, as expected, and he could still feel the pounding behind his eyes. He tilted his head back, staring up at the sky, squinting against the fading sunlight.

It wasn’t bad, this life. Not really. But sometimes, in these quiet moments, Ponyboy couldn’t help but wonder if this was all there was. If the rest of his life would feel like this—going through the motions, trying to stay busy so he didn’t have to think too much.

He had to hope New York would be different. He had to hope it would be a fresh start.

If not for him then for his brothers. 

—

Ponyboy sat on the floor of his room, sorting through the clothes and notebooks he’d collected over the years. It was too early to start packing, but he couldn’t help himself. A part of him felt like the sooner he started, the sooner it would all feel real—the sooner he’d be able to leave this place behind. His hands stilled over an old sweater, one he hadn't worn in years but couldn’t seem to throw away. It was worn, soft at the edges, a reminder of a time when things were simpler. Back when all he had to worry about was homework and curfews, not migraines and sleepless nights.

He sighed, folding the sweater neatly before placing it in the box next to him. It was weird, going through his stuff like this. Every item felt like a relic of who he used to be, who he was before everything changed—before Johnny killed Bob, before the trial, before last year . A knot twisted in his stomach as he glanced around his room. This place had always felt too small, but now it felt like it was closing in on him.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulled him from his thoughts. Darry stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His eyes moved over the cluttered room, lingering on the half-packed boxes.

“What are you doing in here, Pone?” Darry asked, his voice carrying that tone of disapproval he didn’t even bother to hide. “You don’t leave for another couple of months.”

Ponyboy kept his focus on the pile of clothes in front of him. “Just want to be ready,” he muttered, folding a t-shirt a little too carefully.

Darry came further into the room, his presence looming in that way it always did when he wasn’t saying everything on his mind. He leaned down, picking up one of Pony’s books and flipping it absentmindedly before dropping it back onto the pile.

“New York’s a long way off, you know.”

Ponyboy stiffened, but he didn’t look up. He knew where this was going—Darry had been dropping hints about it for weeks now. Ever since Ponyboy got accepted to college, Darry hadn’t been able to hide the tension in his voice when the subject came up.

“I know,” Ponyboy said, his voice clipped. “I can handle it.”

Darry snorted softly, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “It’s not about handling it. It’s about… making sure you’re thinking straight.”

Ponyboy’s hands paused in their folding. He knew what Darry was really saying, even if he wouldn’t come out and say it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation—not now. Not ever, really.

“I’m thinking just fine,” he replied, his voice low.

“You sure about that?”

The question hung heavy in the air between them, and for a second, Ponyboy almost snapped. Almost told Darry to stop walking around what happened last year like it was some big secret, like they all weren’t tiptoeing around it. But he bit his tongue.

He looked up at his brother, meeting Darry’s eyes for the first time since he walked in. There was that same fear behind Darry’s stare, the one that had been there since last year, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. It was a fear that things wouldn’t ever go back to normal. That something was broken in Ponyboy, and maybe this time, it couldn’t be fixed.

“I’m going,” Ponyboy said firmly. “I got into NYU. I’m not throwing that away.”

Darry exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It’s not about that. It’s about you not—” He cut himself off, clenching his jaw. The words hung between them, unfinished.

Ponyboy knew what he meant. Not falling apart. Not ending up where he had last year. But Darry wouldn’t say it. Neither of them would.

“I’ll be fine, Darry.” Ponyboy’s voice was softer now, but there was still an edge of defiance there.

Darry didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, staring at the boxes and the half-packed clothes. “Yeah, well… just don’t rush into things. College’ll still be there in a few months. Take your time.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Ponyboy alone with his packed-up life and the weight of what wasn’t said.

Ponyboy’s head started to throb again, the tension from the conversation settling into a dull ache behind his eyes. He reached over to his nightstand, popping a couple of aspirin from a half-empty bottle, and swallowed them dry. His brothers didn’t notice the migraines anymore. They had been so frequent over the past year that he’d gotten good at hiding them. Just like he hid everything else.

—

“Got any plans for tomorrow?” Sodapop asked as he pushed a plate of food toward Ponyboy. His tone was encouraging, but Ponyboy grimaced as he picked up his fork, pushing the food around the plate without much interest.

“There’s a new movie out. I was gonna go see it,” Ponyboy offered, his head still throbbing despite the aspirin he’d taken earlier. The dull ache made it hard to focus, but it was better than the noise in his head lately.

“Which movie?” Darry asked. His voice was deliberately light, though Ponyboy could feel the tension creeping into the conversation. He could already tell what Darry was going to say next.

He hesitated, thinking about lying, but it didn’t seem worth the energy. He didn’t have the fight in him tonight. “It’s that new one with Thomas Crown in it,” he muttered, not even looking up as Darry’s gaze snapped to him.

“Didn’t know they were showing that on the south side,” Darry said pointedly, and Sodapop sighed as he leaned over the sink, his back to them. He knew where this was going, and so did Ponyboy.

“It ain’t,” Ponyboy said quickly, glancing at Sodapop, who shot him a look in return. His older brother’s eyes flicked down to Ponyboy’s untouched plate, as if silently urging him to eat. Ponyboy ignored it.

“You know I don’t like you going over there,” Darry started, the edge in his voice becoming more pronounced. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, the usual sign that this was going to turn into an argument.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ponyboy said defensively, pushing the food around on his plate without taking a bite. His appetite was long gone, but he wasn’t ready to back down yet.

“It is a big deal,” Darry countered, his voice rising just a notch. “Ain’t you heard about what happened to the Shepherd boys? One of Tim’s guys got jumped the other day, and he wasn’t even on their turf. Can’t you just go to a movie over here, for once?”

Ponyboy shrugged, the tension in his body building as he gripped his fork tighter. He felt the familiar sense of shutting down, the way he always did when arguments with Darry started heading in this direction. The pounding in his head wasn’t helping either. “I’m fine, Darry. I can handle myself.”

Darry’s eyes narrowed. “It ain’t about whether you think you can handle it. It’s about you putting yourself in bad situations for no reason. Why can’t you just go to a movie around here? What’s so wrong with staying close to home?”

“I just wanted to see the movie, Darry,” Ponyboy said quietly, his voice flattening out as the argument started to drain him. He could feel his walls going up, even though he didn’t want them to.

Sodapop kept glancing between them, his lips pressed into a tight line, clearly wanting to intervene but not sure how. The tension in the room was thick, and no one was eating anymore.

“Look, I get it. You want to go off, do your own thing. But I’m telling you, Pony, things ain’t safe right now.” Darry’s voice was calmer, but it carried a weight of worry beneath the surface. “I don’t need you getting caught up in trouble just because you’re bored.”

Ponyboy exhaled slowly, his fingers loosening on the fork. “I’m not trying to start anything. I just wanted to get out for a while.”

“I know,” Darry said, his tone softening, but the frustration was still there. “But you don’t think, not like you used to. You’re not—” He stopped short, realizing what he was about to say.

Ponyboy’s jaw tightened as he caught it anyway. “I’m not what?”

Darry shook his head, his expression hardening again. “I just don’t want you doing something stupid, alright? We’ve had enough of that last year.”

The air between them shifted. Sodapop froze at the sink, his shoulders tensing as Darry’s words hung in the air.

“Darry…” Sodapop’s voice was a warning, but it was too late.

“I didn’t mean—” Darry started, but Ponyboy was already standing up, his chair scraping against the floor.

“You always mean it,” Ponyboy said, his voice tight, eyes fixed on the floor as he felt the familiar burn of anger and hurt rising up. His chest felt heavy, and the pounding in his head only got worse.

“Pony, I didn’t mean to—” Darry tried again, his voice lower, but the damage was done.

Ponyboy felt his hands tighten and he turned away from his untouched food, leaving the table. He couldn’t deal with this right now. His body felt heavy, the tension and exhaustion pulling at him all at once.

“ Ponyboy ,” Darry called after him, but he didn’t stop.

Sodapop stepped forward as if he wanted to say something, but Ponyboy was already halfway down the hall, his feet moving on their own. He slammed his bedroom door shut, leaning against it for a second as he let out a shaky breath.

His hands were trembling, his chest tightening as he fought to push everything down. He wasn’t going to break—not over this. Not again. He moved over to the bed, collapsing onto it as he pressed his hands against his temples, trying to block out the throbbing in his head. His heart was still pounding, but his body felt numb, drained of everything.

He stared up at the ceiling, Darry’s words still hanging in the back of his mind, even though he tried not to think about them. But it was always there—every day he was reminded of that moment whether they talked about it or not. It clung to him like a shadow, lurking just out of sight but always present. No matter how much he tried to forget, it never really left.

—

“You can’t keep doing this,” Sodapop whispered, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and concern. 

He ran a soft hand through Ponyboy’s hair, his fingers brushing through the tangled mess that hadn’t been touched in days. The gentle motion was familiar, something that had always calmed Ponyboy when he was younger, but now it barely made a dent in the fog surrounding him.

They were lying in the small bed they shared, but everything felt different now. Ponyboy was 16,  almost grown, but curled up on his side, knees pulled to his chest like he was still that little boy who’d crawl into Soda’s bed after a nightmare. His back was to his brother, and his eyes, heavy and dull, were fixed on the wall. He felt hollow, like he didn’t fit into himself anymore, like the weight pressing on his chest would never let up.

“I know it’s hard,” Sodapop continued, his voice gentle but firm. “But you can’t keep doin’ this, you dig me?” He gave Ponyboy’s shoulder a small shake, trying to get him to move, to respond, to do something. But Ponyboy barely stirred.

Soda sighed quietly, the sound full of weariness. He wasn’t used to this—to seeing Ponyboy like this, lifeless, barely saying a word. He was always the one who could get Ponyboy to snap out of whatever mood he was in, always the one who could make him laugh when things got rough. But now it was like nothing reached him. He didn’t know what to do.

“Pony,” Sodapop tried again, softer now, as though speaking too loudly might make everything worse. He leaned closer, his breath warm against the back of Ponyboy’s neck. “You gotta get up, kid. You can’t stay in bed forever.” His tone was a little tougher, but still edged with that sweetness only Sodapop had. He was trying to keep the worry from seeping through too much, but it was there, underneath everything.

Ponyboy’s body remained tense, but he didn’t move. His throat was tight, and he felt the pressure behind his eyes, but no tears came. He couldn’t even manage that anymore. He wanted to say something, to tell Soda he was trying, but it felt like he was stuck under water, too far down to reach the surface.

Soda’s hand stilled in his hair for a moment before moving to rest on Ponyboy’s arm, squeezing gently. “C’mon, little buddy,” he murmured, his voice cracking just slightly. “You’re stronger than this, I know you are.”

But Ponyboy didn’t feel strong. He didn’t feel anything. His heart ached with a dull, constant throb, and his mind was too tired to keep up with the world around him. The silence between them stretched, growing heavier with each second.

Sodapop shifted beside him, the bed creaking slightly under his weight as he sat up. “I know you’re hurtin’,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Ponyboy’s back. “But you’re not alone. You got me, Darry, the guys… You ain’t gotta do this by yourself.” He paused, his fingers tightening on Ponyboy’s arm. “But you gotta help us help you, ya know?”

The words hung in the air, but they felt distant to Ponyboy. He heard them, but they didn’t seem to touch him. Nothing did. He wanted to be better, to shake off the numbness that had settled deep in his bones, but it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t something he could just wake up from.

Soda exhaled, frustration mixing with the sadness he was trying to hide. “You don’t have to say anything, alright? Just… just try.” His voice softened again, almost pleading. “For me, okay? Try to get up. Just sit up, even. One little step.”

Ponyboy blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy as if weighed down by invisible chains. He wanted to move. He wanted to sit up like Soda was asking him to. But his body felt like lead, and the effort it would take seemed impossible. Still, there was a small flicker inside him, something that hadn’t completely gone out. It was faint, but it was there.

Soda leaned closer, his hand still on Ponyboy’s arm, grounding him. “I’ll be here with you,” he whispered. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Just take your time, but don’t give up—not again.”

Ponyboy swallowed thickly, his throat dry. The words were hard to hold onto, but the steady presence of Soda beside him was the only thing keeping him from slipping further into the dark. He didn’t move, not yet. But the warmth of his brother’s hand and the low murmur of his voice was enough to keep him tethered, at least for now.

—

“Hey, honey,” Sodapop whispered as he gently pushed open the door to Ponyboy’s room. The door creaked softly, and Ponyboy barely acknowledged him, his gaze still locked on the ceiling. He wasn’t allowed to have a lock on his door anymore.

Sodapop’s footsteps were quiet as he came over, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and ran his hand through Ponyboy’s hair like he used to when they were younger. Ponyboy closed his eyes, fighting against the lump in his throat. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything—just let Sodapop’s gentle touch calm the storm brewing inside him.

Sodapop sighed softly, the sound heavy with fatigue and something else Ponyboy couldn’t quite place. They’d done this a lot over the past year. It was almost embarrassing how much comfort he still found in moments like these, but it was the only thing that seemed to help. That touch, that reassurance, even when words couldn’t fix what was wrong.

“You know Darry didn’t mean it like that,” Sodapop said after a moment, his voice low and tired. “He’s just worried about you.”

Ponyboy stayed quiet, his chest tight as he tried to push away the creeping thoughts that always seemed to find him in moments like this. He hated the way his mind worked, how everything spiraled so fast.

“…I just mess everything up,” Ponyboy muttered finally, his voice thick. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t cry, not again.

“Hey—” Sodapop’s voice immediately sharpened, a thread of fear weaving through it. He shifted closer, his hand resting firmly on Ponyboy’s shoulder now, squeezing gently. 

“Don’t say that. You hear me?” He leaned in, trying to catch his brother’s eyes, his own filled with a mixture of worry and frustration. “Don’t start with that, now. Darry’s just on edge after the jumpings lately. He didn’t mean to snap.”

Ponyboy bit the inside of his cheek, fighting to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice small. 

“Stop it, Pony,” Sodapop’s voice softened again, but there was still that edge of worry. “You ain’t a problem. Not to me, not to Darry. He’s worried, that’s all. We both are.”

There was a long pause, and Ponyboy felt Sodapop’s hand brush through his hair again, the familiar gesture soothing but not enough to drown out the ache in his chest. He knew they were scared. He could see it every time they looked at him, every time the conversation skirted too close to what happened last year. They were always waiting for him to break again, and they were right to.

He wished he wasn’t like this. 

Chapter Text

June 19th, 1968 

He thought he’d gotten used to these. 

Ponyboy had gotten used to the silence since school let out for the summer, but today it felt heavier. Usually, he could distract himself, filling the long hours while Darry and Sodapop were at work by reading, drawing, or going out to the lot. But today, none of those distractions worked. His head throbbed in a way that wouldn’t let him focus on anything other than the pain.

It had started as a dull ache, creeping in behind his eyes when he woke up. He thought it was nothing—just a headache. He'd had them before. But by noon, it had turned into something worse. Every beat of his heart sent a fresh pulse of pain through his skull, the throbbing feeling like it was squeezing the life out of him.

He pressed his palms into his temples, trying to will the pain away, but it only seemed to get worse. The sunlight that streamed through the curtains was unbearable, making his vision swim, and the nausea that roiled in his stomach kept him glued to his seat at the kitchen table.

His breath hitched as he blinked against the stabbing sensation behind his eyes, each movement making the world around him blur. The edges of the room felt soft and hazy, the wooden floor beneath him wavering like it might dissolve at any moment. Ponyboy lowered his head into his arms, closing his eyes tightly to shut out the light.

It wasn’t working. The darkness behind his eyelids wasn’t enough to stop the pulsing, the sharp stabbing that seemed to be growing more intense with each passing minute. His stomach clenched, and he could feel the nausea crawling up his throat, but the thought of moving to the bathroom, or even standing up, felt impossible.

The pain was relentless.

A migraine. He hadn’t had one this bad in months, but now it was here with a vengeance. It felt like his brain was trying to escape his skull, the pressure behind his eyes unbearable. He could barely focus on his thoughts; everything came in sharp, disjointed bursts between the waves of pain.

The world felt too bright, too loud, too much. He pressed his palms harder against his eyes, hoping to block out the light completely, but the action only made the pain spike. His breath caught in his throat, and his stomach lurched in response.

He just had to get to the bathroom, throw up and he’d feel better. 

The thought was distant, far away, like a whisper from another world, but he couldn’t ignore it. If he moved, maybe he could find something to help. Aspirin. Anything.

He stood up slowly, bracing himself against the edge of the table, his vision swaying as the room tilted. His heart pounded in his ears, a dull roar that made the pounding in his head even worse. With slow, deliberate steps, he made his way to the bathroom, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his skull.

Once inside, Ponyboy fumbled with the cabinet door, his hands shaking as he searched for the aspirin. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, and the simple act of twisting the cap off the bottle seemed like an insurmountable task. When the lid finally gave, it slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor, but he didn’t have the energy to care.

He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry, the taste bitter and chalky on his tongue. His head felt like it might split open, the pain sharp and unrelenting. The light overhead was too much to bear. He reached up and flicked the switch, plunging the room into blessed darkness.

Leaning over the sink, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out everything—every sensation, every sound. But the pain was still there, relentless, consuming. His vision pulsed with each heartbeat, the pressure in his head growing more unbearable by the second.

Ponyboy sank to the cold tile floor, his back pressed against the wall. The coolness of the tile was a small relief, but it did nothing to ease the stabbing pain behind his eyes. His stomach turned, nausea rolling through him, and he curled into himself, knees pulled tight to his chest.

He pressed his forehead into his arms, willing the aspirin to kick in, but the relief didn’t come. Time lost meaning—minutes, hours, he couldn’t tell. The pain had swallowed everything. His thoughts, his surroundings, the feeling in his limbs—it was all dulled by the throbbing in his skull, the unrelenting pressure that felt like it might crush him from the inside out.

His breathing came in shallow gasps, every inhale a fight against the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. The world around him had narrowed to this—this dark, quiet room, this searing pain that wouldn’t let go. His hands trembled where they clutched his knees, his knuckles white.

It’ll pass. Just wait it out…

The words sounded hollow in his head. He had been here before—curled up, hiding from the world, waiting for the pain to stop. It always passed eventually, but it never felt like it would in the moment. Right now, it felt like the pain might go on forever.

His hands trembled as they pressed against his temples, trying to force some relief. But it was useless. He was trapped inside the migraine—his vision blurred, and each wave of agony made him wish he could just slip away from his body for a while. Even the dim light creeping under the bathroom door seemed too much, and every shallow breath hurt.

—

Everything hurt.

The migraine was so bad that he couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak. He was trapped inside his own head, trying to block out the blinding flashes of pain behind his eyes. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself, but even the thought of moving was too much. It was as though his entire body had become one with the agony.

Somewhere in the fog of his mind, he heard something—distant, muffled. His name. But it felt far away, like it was coming from underwater. He couldn’t make sense of it. He couldn’t even open his eyes.

“Ponyboy?” 

Then there was pounding. 

The noise rattled through his head like gunfire, sending fresh spikes of pain tearing through his skull. He wanted to tell whoever it was to stop, to leave him alone, but his mouth wouldn’t move, his voice stuck somewhere in his throat. The darkness pressed in tighter, and he just wanted to disappear into it.

The door burst open with a crash that felt like it ripped through his entire body. Ponyboy let out a weak groan, the sound more a reflex than anything intentional, but before he could understand what was happening, hands grabbed him—rough, frantic.

“ What did you do? What did you—”

Johnny’s voice was wild, shaking with panic, and his hands were trembling as they gripped Ponyboy’s shoulders, shaking him, pulling him up. Ponyboy squinted against the dim light, trying to focus, trying to make sense of Johnny’s terrified face, but the pain blurred everything.

Johnny’s grip loosened, the panic fading from his eyes as he took in Ponyboy’s pale, twisted expression.

“Oh God” Johnny’s voice was barely a whisper, his breath shaky as he sank back on his heels, his hands still resting on Ponyboy’s shoulders. “Is it just your head?”

Ponyboy didn’t have the strength to respond. His whole body was limp, exhausted from fighting the pain, but the worst of the panic seemed to pass as Johnny gently let him go. The floor felt so cold beneath him, and the bathroom light was still too much, even dim as it was. He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to block it all out, trying to will the pain away, but it wouldn’t leave him.

Johnny was still talking, his voice softer now, apologetic almost. “C’mon, let’s get you outta here. You shouldn’t be on the floor.”

Ponyboy felt Johnny’s arm slide under his shoulders, lifting him. His body felt heavy, too heavy to stand on his own, but Johnny guided him, one step at a time. The movement sent waves of nausea crashing through him, the pressure in his skull unrelenting with every small motion. He leaned heavily against Johnny, his knees weak, but he didn’t protest. He couldn’t if he tried. 

He barely noticed as they made their way down the hall, every step a blur of pain and dizziness. When they finally reached his room, Johnny helped him into bed, his hands gentle as he pulled the blankets up around him.

Ponyboy curled up on his side, pressing his hand hard against his temple like he could somehow squeeze the pain away. It wasn’t working. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, each exhale tinged with desperation as he tried to block out everything except the darkness.

Johnny was there, though. He was still there, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching him. Ponyboy could feel the his gaze on him, the concern still heavy in the room even though the panic had faded.

The pain was too much to speak through, but somewhere in the haze, Ponyboy was grateful. Glad that Johnny had come, that he wasn’t alone right now—even if he didn’t really want to admit it aloud. There was no way to explain it, no words that could cut through the fog, but he knew Johnny understood. At least he hoped he did.

The minutes stretched on, the pain still twisting inside his head, but Ponyboy’s breathing began to steady, just a little. His eyelids fluttered, exhaustion pulling him toward sleep, but the migraine was still there, a constant reminder that relief was far away.

He could hear Johnny shifting in the chair beside the bed, the soft creak of the wood as he settled in. Ponyboy figured Johnny would stay there all night if he had to. He always did. The thought should’ve made him feel better, but right now, it was hard to feel anything beyond the dull ache in his head and the exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

Still, when Johnny’s fingers carded gently through his hair, Ponyboy couldn’t help but let out a slow breath. The touch was careful, like Johnny wasn’t sure if it would help, but it did. More than Ponyboy could have explained if he’d had the energy. He found himself leaning into it without even meaning to, the warmth and familiarity cutting through the pain just enough to make it bearable.

Johnny’s hand paused for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going, but then he let out a sigh and shifted closer, moving quietly like he didn’t want to disturb him. “C’mere,” Johnny muttered, his voice soft but rough around the edges, the way it always got when he was worried.

Ponyboy hesitated, feeling too tired to move, but the pull of Johnny’s warmth was stronger than the pain that kept him curled up. He barely had to move before Johnny got up and pulled back the covers, careful not to jostle him too much. Without a word, Johnny settled behind him, his arms loose but steady around Ponyboy’s shoulders, offering warmth without asking for anything in return. There was nothing awkward about it, nothing forced—just the quiet understanding that neither of them was going anywhere.

Ponyboy let himself sink into the comfort of it, the solidness of Johnny next to him somehow helping him breathe a little easier. His head still throbbed, and the nausea still twisted in his gut, but the sharp edges of the pain began to dull. He didn’t need to say anything. Johnny wouldn’t ask for an explanation, wouldn’t make him talk about it.

When he was in New York, he wouldn’t have this. No one would hold him like this or pick him up off the ground, he should have pushed away and stopped acting like a baby. But the touch was so comforting that he couldn’t bare to do it. 

Instead, they lay there, the silence between them saying more than words ever could. Johnny’s steady breathing was enough to calm the last of the panic that had been clinging to Ponyboy’s chest, and when Johnny’s hand settled lightly on his arm, Ponyboy closed his eyes.

—

“How long’s he been asleep?” Sodapop’s voice, low and laced with concern, cut through the lingering fog in Ponyboy’s mind. He was aware of the soft weight of his head resting in Johnny’s lap, the comforting motion of Johnny’s fingers still carding through his hair. The dull throb in his skull had eased up, but everything else felt heavy, slow, like his body was still dragging itself back from the edge of that awful pain.

Johnny shifted slightly but didn’t stop the rhythmic motion of his hand. “Not long,” he murmured, his voice quiet, careful.

Ponyboy stirred, his eyelids fluttering as the world slowly came back into focus. He wasn’t quite ready to open his eyes, though. Not yet. He didn’t want to face the reality of what had happened, of how helpless he’d been just hours ago.

He heard footsteps, the familiar sound of Darry’s boots against the hardwood floor, then the faint clink of a glass being set down. “Here,” Darry said, his voice steady but rough. “When he wakes up, he needs to drink this.”

Johnny’s hand finally stilled, and Ponyboy felt a pang of loss as Johnny shifted, gently sliding out from beneath him. His head met the pillow with a soft thud, and despite the comfort of the mattress, he couldn’t help but feel the absence of Johnny’s presence.

He kept his eyes shut, hoping to avoid the inevitable embarrassment. He knew they’d all be watching him, worried. It was the same every time something happened—he couldn’t escape their protective eyes. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had migraines before, but they always treated him like he was made of glass, like he was going to shatter any second.

He could hear Johnny moving quietly out of the room, his footsteps fading into the hallway before the creak of the living room floor signaled that he’d left. Ponyboy swallowed, feeling the heaviness in his chest as the silence settled back in.

A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck. He didn’t want them to see him like this—weak and vulnerable, especially not Darry. He knew it wasn’t their fault. They couldn’t help it. But it still made him feel small, like he was more of a burden than anything else.

Finally, he forced his eyes open, blinking against the dim light. His throat felt dry, and he glanced toward Darry, who stood by the bedside, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in that worried, quiet way of his.

“How’s your head?” His brother kept his voice barely above a whisper, but Ponyboy just rubbed at his eyes tiredly. 

Ponyboy cleared his throat, his voice barely a whisper. “Who’s here?”

Darry’s gaze softened, and he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. “Just Steve and Johnny,” he said, holding the glass out toward him. “Dally’s at Buck’s, and Two-Bit should be at his house.”

Ponyboy nodded, though it felt like too much effort. He slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, glancing toward the door as if expecting Steve to walk in any second. His stomach turned at the thought of Steve seeing him like this—the embarrassment would be too much. Even Johnny seeing him like that made his face flush up and eyes heat.

“You okay?” Darry asked, his voice softer than before, but there was still a weight behind it.

Ponyboy shrugged, eyes on the blanket. “It’s nothin’,” he muttered, wishing Johnny hadn’t said anything. Now Darry was just going to get on his case about it, like always.

Darry’s eyes narrowed, clearly not buying it. “Johnny said it was a migraine. You’ve been havin’ those again?”

Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably. “Not really, only a few times,” he mumbled, keeping it short. He didn’t want to get into it, not now. His head still hurt, and he didn’t need Darry breathing down his neck.

“Honey should should have said something,” Sodapop soothed, looking at him with concern as Ponyboy lowered his gaze to his lap. 

Darry frowned, his voice getting that hard edge to it. “Pony, you can’t be havin’ these when you’re at school. You gotta take care of yourself.”

Ponyboy felt the tension rise in his chest. “I do take care of myself,” he shot back, a little sharper than he meant to. He knew what was coming next—the lecture, the worry, Darry acting like he didn’t know how to handle things. “It’s just a headache.”

Darry’s expression hardened. “This ain’t just a headache. You need to see a doctor.”

Ponyboy’s frustration boiled over. “We can’t afford a doctor, Darry. You know that.” 

Darry’s jaw tightened, his arms crossing over his chest. “I’ll handle the money. That’s not for you to worry about.”

That just made Ponyboy angrier. “It is my worry! I’m not a kid anymore, Darry! You can’t just—”

“Yeah, you are a kid,” Darry cut him off, his voice low but firm. “And I’m tellin’ you, you don’t need to be worryin’ about that. I got it handled.”

Ponyboy felt his face flush with anger, but he didn’t say anything else. What was the point? Darry was always gonna treat him like a little kid, no matter what he did.

Before the tension could build any more, Sodapop stepped in, rubbing his eyes like he was already too tired for this. “Would you two knock it off?” he said, his voice soft but firm. He gave Darry a look, then turned to Ponyboy. “Look, Pony, you gotta see a doctor. Just in case, alright? It don’t matter if we hate hospitals. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ponyboy didn’t respond, still feeling the anger and frustration simmering beneath his skin. But he knew Soda was right. Even if he hated it, he wasn’t gonna win this argument.

Soda sighed, giving a tired smile. “We’ll figure it out, okay? You don’t gotta worry about the money.”

Ponyboy slumped back against the pillow, the fight draining out of him. “Fine,” he muttered, more to end the conversation than anything. He knew Darry was still watching him, worried as always, but for now, at least, the argument was over.

The room fell quiet again, and Ponyboy could feel the weight of it all pressing down on him—Darry’s expectations, Sodapop trying to keep the peace, and the nagging feeling that no matter what he did, Darry would never stop worrying about him.

—

Dinner dragged on, quiet and heavy. Ponyboy picked at his food, the sound of forks scraping plates filling the silence. No one seemed in the mood for much talking. Sodapop and Steve were having their own hushed conversation at the end of the table, but even that felt muted.

Steve’s voice broke through first, low and a little bitter. “Ran into a couple of Socs at the station today. They were hangin’ around, lookin’ for trouble.”

Sodapop glanced up, giving a half-hearted shrug as he shoveled another bite into his mouth. “Yeah, they didn’t get too far though. Just started mouthing off, you know how it is.”

Ponyboy paused, his fork hovering over his plate. The mention of Socs immediately made his stomach twist. He caught Johnny’s eye across the table, and Johnny’s face had the same flicker of unease. They both knew where this could go. The last run-in with Socs had nearly cost them everything.

“What’d they want?” Darry asked, his tone casual but his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Steve leaned back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Same as usual. Actin’ tough, tryin’ to get a rise outta us. Told ‘em to get lost.”

“They didn’t do anything?” Darry’s voice had that edge again, like he was already preparing for the worst.

“Nah, not this time,” Sodapop jumped in, waving it off with his hand like it was nothing. “They’re just blowin’ smoke. Think they’re big men when they got a crowd watchin’.”

Ponyboy glanced at Johnny again. He could see Johnny’s fingers tightening around his fork, knuckles white. He wasn’t buying it either.

“Still,” Darry said, his voice dropping a notch, “you gotta watch it with them. Don’t let your guard down. They’re always lookin’ for a fight.”

Soda shrugged again, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “Yeah, well, not much we can do but keep our heads down. They’ll get bored eventually.”

Johnny’s eyes flicked to Ponyboy, the worry between them thick as ever. They never really got over what happened with Bob. Since then, neither of them had been quite the same—quieter, more on edge. For a while, they stuck to each other like glue, not letting much space come between them. Johnny barely even went home during that time, just crashing at the Curtis house when he could. It wasn’t until the summer before junior year that they started easing back into normal life, hanging with the guys more, finding a way to move past it, even if the memories stayed with them.

—

Ponyboy sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped tightly in the thick blanket Darry had shoved into his arms after he got out of the shower. His hair was still damp, and the heat from the water had done little to chase away the lingering chill from nearly being drowned. His body shivered despite the warmth surrounding him, and his fingers clenched the fabric of the blanket as he stared at the floor, trying to process everything that had happened.

Johnny sat beside him, quiet and small, looking like he didn’t belong in a room this clean and tidy. His hands fidgeted in his lap, the same way they always did when he was nervous, but his face stayed blank, as if he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that they’d killed someone. They’d killed Bob.

From the other room, the muffled voices of the gang filtered through the walls. Darry and Dally were arguing—again. Sodapop was trying to calm them both down, but no one was really listening. The voices rose and fell, like an endless tug of war about what they were going to do next. Run? Hide? Go to the cops?

At that suggestion, the room ignited with yelling. 

Ponyboy barely registered the noise. His body ached, his mind was numb, and all he could think about was the water—cold and relentless—filling his lungs as Bob’s friends held him under. If it hadn’t been for Johnny...

Johnny was the reason he was sitting here, breathing. Johnny, who was sitting beside him now, looking just as lost and scared as he felt.

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Ponyboy sat there, wrapped in blankets, but no amount of warmth was chasing away the deep cold that had settled into his bones. His whole body was trembling—whether from the cold or the shock, he couldn’t tell. He wanted to stop shaking, to make everything go still for just a minute, but he couldn’t.

His eyes darted toward Johnny, who sat stiff beside him, his hand wrapped tightly around Ponyboy’s. Johnny’s grip was firm, steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the bedroom door where muffled voices filtered in from the living room. Darry and Dally’s arguing was still going on, heated and growing louder by the minute. Ponyboy could hear Sodapop trying to calm them down, but it wasn’t working. It never did when Darry got that way.

Johnny’s hand was still in his, but there was a slight tremor there too. They were scared—both of them. More than scared. Johnny had killed someone. Ponyboy had nearly died. And now, they were sitting here, both too young to handle what had just happened.

Ponyboy swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. His voice, when it finally came, was barely more than a whisper. “Johnny?” He didn’t know what he wanted to ask. He just needed something to break the silence between them.

Johnny’s head snapped toward him, his eyes wide and nervous. “You, uh... you feelin’ any better, Pony?” His voice was soft, almost too soft, and Ponyboy could hear the tremble underneath it. Johnny was scared—he always tried to hide it, but Ponyboy could see right through him.

Ponyboy nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he meant it. “Yeah,” he muttered, shifting under the blanket. “Just cold... s’all.” The words felt empty. The cold wasn’t just on the outside—it had seeped inside him, freezing him from the inside out. His hands were still shaking, the tremors moving up his arms no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

Johnny’s eyes flicked down to Ponyboy’s trembling hands, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hollow. “Me too.”

They fell quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet. Ponyboy could feel the weight of everything pressing down on them, the guilt gnawing at him. Bob was dead. He was dead because they’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time—because Ponyboy had been stupid enough to wander off by himself, knowing full well the kind of trouble that lurked in the shadows.

This was all his fault.

If he had stayed home after Darry hit him, this wouldn’t be happening. Johnny could go to the chair for this, he could die because of him. 

He glanced sideways at Johnny, who was staring at the door again, his face tight with worry. Johnny hadn’t said it yet, but Ponyboy knew what he was thinking. Johnny thought it was his fault too—for pulling the knife, for stabbing Bob.

The clock on the nightstand ticked loudly in the silence, each second dragging them further into the mess they couldn’t escape. Ponyboy’s mind kept racing, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong, why things had turned out the way they had. He couldn’t stop thinking about Bob’s face, about the way he’d looked when Johnny stabbed him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Johnny’s hand had shaken when he’d pulled out the knife.

A sudden, sharp breath from Johnny pulled Ponyboy out of his thoughts. He turned just in time to see the tears brimming in Johnny’s eyes, threatening to spill over. Johnny’s shoulders hunched, and he dropped his head, letting out a shaky breath.

“I... I didn’t mean to do it,” Johnny whispered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just... I was scared, and he... they were gonna kill you, Pony. They were gonna kill you.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, and Johnny’s thin frame began to shake as the sobs broke free. He curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands. Ponyboy, who had felt so frozen and numb moments before, felt his heart twist in his chest. Seeing Johnny like this, so broken and afraid, snapped him out of his daze.

Without thinking, Ponyboy reached over and wrapped his arm around Johnny’s shoulders, pulling him close. Johnny stiffened at first, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort, but after a second, he melted into it, letting Ponyboy hold him.

“It’s okay, Johnny,” Ponyboy murmured, his own voice shaking now. “It’s okay, you had to. You didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t your fault. You—you saved me, man.”

But Johnny wasn’t listening. His thin shoulders shook under Ponyboy’s arm as he cried, the weight of everything crashing down on him at once. Ponyboy blinked back his own tears, feeling a lump rise in his throat. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to be in this mess. 

All he did was talk to a pretty girl. 

But no matter how scared they were, they only had each other now. No one else really understood what had happened—not like they did. Ponyboy tightened his grip on Johnny, holding him close, like that could somehow make it all go away, like it could fix everything that was broken.

“It’s ok Johnnycake,” Ponyboy whispered, more to himself than his friend. “We’ll be okay, Darry will figure it out.”

The sound of the argument in the other room seemed to fade into the background as they sat there, clinging to each other. It was just the two of them now, and in that moment, that was all that mattered.

Johnny hiccupped, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, but he didn’t pull away from Ponyboy’s embrace. He didn’t say anything else, either. They both just sat there, huddled together, too young to handle what had happened but too scared to do anything else.

Ponyboy didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually, Johnny’s shaking stopped, and the tears slowed. He rested his head on top of Johnnys, barely aware of the noise of the door creaking open. Sodapops fear filled eyes met his own over top of Johnny's head, and he tried to stop the way his eyes heated up. 

—

Sodapop leaned back in his chair, shuffling a deck of cards in his hands. Steve had his feet kicked up on the table, flipping a coin between his fingers as he glanced around the room.

“Think Two-Bit’s gonna bother showin’ up tonight?” Steve asked, his tone casual, but there was a hint of impatience there.

Soda grinned, glancing at the clock. “If he can get away from his old lady, maybe. She’s been on his case lately.”

Steve snorted. “When ain’t she? You’d think she’d have given up by now.”

“Nah, you know Two-Bit. He’s got a knack for sweet-talkin’ her into lettin’ him loose. He’ll show.” They all knew Two-Bits mom on account of her and their mom being close friends, and—it was true—she was a little too sweet with her eldest son. 

Ponyboy leaned back in his seat, the banter between Soda and Steve easing the tension a little. It felt more normal—just the kind of idle talk that filled the space. He shared a glance with Johnny, who seemed to relax some, his body settling into the chair like he could finally breathe again. Pony let his shoulders drop, listening as they went back and forth.

“You boys headin’ out later?” Darry’s voice came from the kitchen, where he was washing up, his usual watchful tone behind the question.

Sodapop shrugged, not looking up from his cards. “Maybe. Depends if Steve’s feelin’ lucky.”

Steve scoffed, flicking his coin into the air and catching it. “Lucky ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. You know I’ll clean you out if I wanted to.”

Soda raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Yeah? You’re full of it, Steve.”

Ponyboy smirked at the exchange, watching Steve’s easy smirk as he dealt the cards. It was a routine for them, this back-and-forth. Familiar, comfortable. And right now, that felt good. The tension that had been eating at him and Johnny since the Socs were mentioned eased just a little, though it was still there, lurking under the surface.

“You comin’ out if Two-Bit shows?” Steve asked, throwing a look in Johnny’s direction.

Johnny shrugged, still quiet, though his lips twitched like he was considering it. “Maybe..”

Ponyboy gave him a sidelong glance, knowing Johnny wasn’t eager to head out when the air felt this thick. He felt bad, he scared his friend something awful this morning and he could still see it. But the light-hearted talk between Steve and Soda was enough to keep the mood from turning too serious.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere if it rains,” Steve muttered, leaning back in his chair.

Soda chuckled, laying down his cards as he looked back at his friend with a grin. “Quit your bellyaching. We’ll see what happens.”

The chatter continued, slow and easy, with Sodapop and Steve arguing over their card game while Johnny sat quietly by, his gaze distant but more relaxed than before. Ponyboy bumped his shoulder against Johnny's gently, making the other look up at him with a shy smile. Ponyboy returned it, content with the quiet between them.

But that calm didn’t last.

The door slammed open, crashing against the wall with a resounding bang that made everyone jump. Ponyboy’s heart raced in his chest, a sudden jolt of adrenaline coursing through him as he and the others turned to see who had barged in. Dally stood there, his expression a mix of irritation and something deeper, a storm brewing just beneath his hardened exterior. The chatter in the room fell silent, like the air had been sucked out, leaving only the tension hanging thick.

Sodapop was the first to react, springing to his feet. “What the hell, Dal—” he started, but his words faltered as he noticed Two-Bit leaning heavily against Dally, his arm draped over Dally’s shoulder for support. Darry quickly stood, his brow furrowing as he moved to Two-Bit’s other side, concern flooding his features.

“Two-Bit, man, what happened?” Steve whispered, his voice barely rising above the hushed silence. Ponyboy could feel the knot tightening in his stomach, dread pooling within him.

Two-Bit stumbled into the room, his usual cocky swagger replaced by a painful shuffle. Dally’s irritation was palpable, but Ponyboy caught the flicker of concern in Dally’s eyes—an unusual sight that reminded him that sent his heart to his stomach.

“Damn, Two-Bit, you look like you went a few rounds with a herd of bulls,” Sodapop said, stepping forward with disbelief etched on his face. The room’s atmosphere shifted, filled with unspoken worry and the shared understanding that something was seriously wrong.

Two-Bit managed a half-hearted laugh that quickly morphed into a grimace as he sank onto the couch, wincing. “Just the Socs…again,” he muttered, trying to shrug it off. But Ponyboy could see the bruises forming on his face—swollen cheeks, a split lip, and the dark shadow of a black eye blooming ominously.

The air of the room press down on Ponyboy like a heavy blanket, a familiar unease settling in the pit of his stomach. The anniversary of Bob’s death this year had left everyone worse off, and he could feel the tension in the air, a sharp reminder that what happened years ago with the Socs wasfar from over. Memories of that night at the fountain threatened to bubble up, sending a chill down his spine.

“Could be worse,” Two-Bit added, his voice strained, the bravado fading into vulnerability as he leaned back, trying to catch his breath. “Ain’t no Soc takin’ me down in a fight, ‘sides Dally showed up ‘fore it got real bad.”

“Lucky I did,” Dally replied, arms crossed, his voice low and intense as he surveyed the room. “They ran before I could get my hands on ‘em.”

Ponyboy’s eyes darted to Johnny, who stood frozen against the wall, his face pale and his eyes glued to the floor. Johnny didn’t need to ask what had happened; his face said enough of what he was thinking. Ponyboy felt a tightness in his chest, a creeping realization that it could have just as easily been him or Johnny taking the beating.

“Steve, get some ice,” Darry ordered, his voice sharp and authoritative as he knelt beside Two-Bit. The concern in his eyes contrasted with his usual stern demeanor, a glimpse of the brotherly love that anchored them all.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Two-Bit said, though the bravado in his voice was fading fast. He tried to push himself up, but a sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips as he grimaced.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Sodapop said, his tone gentle as he crouched beside Two-Bit, his eyes filled with worry. “You sure you’re okay?”

Two-Bit attempted to grin, but it faltered. “Just a scratch, right?” he quipped, the humor not quite reaching his eyes.

“Liar,” Darry replied, the seriousness in his voice cutting through the lighthearted banter. “Let’s see the worst of it.”

Dally rolled his eyes, but Ponyboy noticed the way he shifted, moving closer as if he couldn’t help but be drawn into the situation. “Ain’t nothin’ broken, far as I can tell,” he muttered, “but they worked him over good.”

Ponyboy knelt next to Two-Bit, the first aid kit heavy in his hands. As he opened it, the smell of antiseptic filled the air, mixing with the tension. He pulled out some gauze and antiseptic wipes, focusing intently on his task to distract himself from the gnawing worry twisting in his gut.

“Hey Pone,” Two-Bit said, meeting his eyes as he reached over to press the gauze against his lip. “Come here often?” 

“Hold still, Two,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. 

“Just hurry it up, will ya?” Two-Bit urged, wincing again as Ponyboy dabbed at the blood on his lip. The humor faded from his voice, revealing a vulnerability that struck a chord within Ponyboy.

As he worked, Ponyboy’s mind drifted, the memories of the fountain creeping back. The pain and fear of that night still haunted him, a ghost lurking just beneath the surface but as he stared at Two-Bits face he couldn't help but wish it had been himself instead.

“Damn Socs,” Steve muttered under his breath, anger simmering just beneath his skin. “They think they can just roll in here and mess with us like it’s a game.”

Two-Bit winced as Darry tightened the bandage, looking like he wanted to say something but the pain holding him back. 

Steve returned with a bag of ice, tossing it to Ponyboy. “Here, put this on his eye. We need to keep that swelling down,” he said, trying to keep the mood light, but the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

As Ponyboy carefully applied the ice to Two-Bit’s eye, the room felt alive with a strange mix of warmth and tension. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated their faces, casting long shadows across the walls. Two-Bit winced slightly, the cold pressing against the swollen skin of his cheek, but he held still, determination flickering in his eyes. Dally’s gaze was sharp, flickering with a mix of irritation and concern as he watched, arms crossed over his chest, his posture a façade of indifference that couldn’t quite hide the worry beneath.

“You’ll be fine,” Darry muttered, his voice low and steady as he inspected Two-Bit’s ribs, concern darkening his eyes. The way he leaned in closer, brow furrowing, showed the protective nature of a brother who couldn’t help but care. “But you’re banged up real bad, I’ll call your mom and let her know you're here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Two-Bit replied, trying to muster a grin despite the pain evident in his features. There was a hint of defiance in his voice, a stubbornness that Ponyboy admired. “Don’t worry her to much would ya? She’s already on me enough as it is.”

Later that night, the atmosphere began to settle as the chaos of the day faded. The house, usually buzzing with life and laughter, took on a quieter tone, the remnants of worry and tension hanging in the air like an uninvited guest. One by one, the gang members trickled out, their voices fading into the night as they promised to check in. Eventually, only Darry, Sodapop, Two-Bit, and Ponyboy remained, the four of them forming a small circle of familiarity and warmth in the dimly lit living room.

Everyone started to clear out after a while, the air in the house shifting from tense to tired. Dally grumbled about heading out, and Steve gave Two-Bit a light slap on the back before disappearing out the door. Johnny lingered by the window, his small frame almost blending into the shadows. Ponyboy noticed the way his eyes darted to the door, a hint of hesitation in his expression.

“You oughta stay, Johnny,” Darry said from across the room, his voice firm but not harsh. “You’ve been out a lot lately.”

Johnny shrugged, his thin shoulders lifting beneath his worn jacket. “Can’t. Haven’t been home enough. I don’t wanna cause any more trouble.”

Ponyboy frowned, his stomach twisting at the familiar line. Johnny was always worried about causing trouble, but the truth was, he probably wasn’t heading to anything good. Home wasn’t safe for him, not like it should be. The thought made Ponyboy’s chest ache, but he kept quiet, knowing Johnny wouldn’t change his mind. Johnny gave a half-hearted wave and slipped out into the night, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

And then it was just the four of them—Darry, Soda, Two-Bit, and him. The house felt bigger, emptier. Darry was still moving around, tidying up the space with that quiet efficiency he always had. Soda stretched out on the couch, his eyes drooping from a long day, and Two-Bit sat back in a chair, the ice pressed to his bruised eye. He’d been in rough shape earlier, but now, as he leaned back and cracked a small grin, it was almost like nothing had happened.

“You’re stayin’ tonight, right?” Darry asked, glancing over at Two-Bit.

Two-Bit gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Ain’t goin’ anywhere. Can’t take any more hits for at least a day,” he joked, but there was something tired in his eyes that didn’t match the smile.

After a while, Ponyboy tried his best to get ready that night but he was mainly going through the motions. His worry for Two-Bit overwhelming any other feelings he had, he kept glancing back at the couch as he would make his way around trying to get cleaned up. It was when he quietly crept open the door later in the night, long after Sodapop had fallen asleep that he heard voices talking in the living room. One perk about being quiet was that eavesdropping became much easier, so he paused at the door to the bathroom and leaned just enough to hear the conversation. 

Darry and Two-Bit had settled into a low conversation in the living room, their voices carrying softly through the house. Ponyboy strained to listen, his curiosity pulling him in.

“I ain’t jokin’ around, Darry,” Two-Bit’s voice came first, quieter than usual, all the humor gone. “Those Socs were lookin’ for Pony and Johnny. They were serious, man. I heard Randy’s been stirrin’ up a lotta trouble—more than usual.”

Ponyboy’s heart lurched in his chest at the mention of his name, of Johnny. His grip tightened on the edge of the doorframe. Randy had always been trouble, but it was getting worse? He could picture those cold, hard eyes of the Socs, the way they looked down at him and Johnny like they were nothing, like they didn’t matter.

“I figured it’d cool down,” Two-Bit continued, his voice low and urgent. “But it’s not. It’s worse. They’ve been talkin’ about jumpin’ ‘em, scarin’ ‘em. They don’t wanna let it go, Dar. It ain’t good.”

Ponyboy felt the familiar cold weight of fear settling in his gut. He wanted to run into the room, tell them he could handle it, that he and Johnny weren’t scared. But that wasn’t true. He was scared—scared of those Socs, scared of getting caught alone. The tension in his shoulders wouldn’t leave him. He stayed quiet, though, his breath shallow as he listened.

Darry’s voice was softer, steadier when he finally responded. “We’ll keep an eye on ‘em. All of us. It’s not just the usual scraps anymore, I get that.” There was a pause, and Ponyboy could almost hear the wheels turning in Darry’s head, the way his older brother was always thinking ten steps ahead. “We’ll figure it out.”

Two-Bit let out a slow breath, the weight of his concern clear in the quiet. “Just...don’t let ‘em go anywhere alone. Especially Pony and Johnny. It’s bad, Darry. Real bad.”

Ponyboy felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. Two-Bit’s words echoed in his head, confirming what he’d feared—things weren’t just bad, they were getting worse. He could picture Randy and the other Socs, waiting in the shadows, waiting to pounce.

He bit down on his lip, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, frozen, but eventually, he forced himself to move. The conversation continued behind him, but he couldn’t listen anymore. He didn’t want to hear more about the trouble they were in.

Slipping into his room, he closed the door softly behind him. The familiar scent of his bed, the warmth of the blankets—it should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. The unease sat heavy in his chest, and no matter how many times he shifted under the covers, he couldn’t shake it.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and Sodapop slipped into the room. He moved quietly, the way he always did, as if not to wake Ponyboy, but Pony was wide awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind still replaying the conversation in the other room. Soda climbed into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight, and without saying anything, he wrapped an arm around Ponyboy, pulling him close.

“You alright, little buddy?” Soda’s voice was soft, warm. He always knew when something was off, always knew when Ponyboy was feeling like this.

Ponyboy didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice right now, didn’t trust himself not to say something that’d make it worse. Instead, he pressed closer to Soda, feeling the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest against his back. The warmth was comforting, but the fear was still there, gnawing at him.

Soda didn’t push him for a response. He just held him tighter, like he always did when things got rough. The room was quiet again, but the calmness felt fragile—like it could crack at any second.

Ponyboy closed his eyes, but the unease wouldn’t let him sleep. He could still hear Two-Bit’s words, still picture Randy, the Socs, and the way the water had suffocated him, the fear still biting at his mind even now. 

He just had to make it to college, just a few more months. 

Chapter Text

June 25th, 1968

Pomyboy felt restless. 

It had been a few days since the jumping and Ponyboy couldn’t shake the heavy weight that seemed to settle over him more and more each day. No one was allowed to go out without someone with them, and especially not to walk alone. The oppressive August heat wasn’t helping—it clung to him, thick and humid, like it was trying to suffocate him. Even when the sun dipped low in the sky, the warmth radiating off the concrete made the air feel like it was closing in around him.

He woke up that morning with a pounding headache, the dull throb in his temples making it hard to think straight. The kind of migraine that had become all too familiar lately, especially when he was stressed, when everything felt like too much.

Ponyboy rolled over in bed, groaning softly, but didn’t move to get up right away. The sunlight was already streaming through the window, casting long, hazy shadows on the wall. He could hear Darry moving around in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, and the low hum of the radio playing a country tune. Soda was at work already, probably laughing with Steve about something stupid, something simple.

But Ponyboy’s head was spinning, the familiar sense of unease curling up in his chest as he lay there, feeling the weight of another day pressing down on him.

Just get up, man. Come on.

He forced himself out of bed eventually, dragging himself to the bathroom. The face that stared back at him in the mirror looked tired, worn down. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion—he hadn’t been sleeping well again. He splashed some water on his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind, but it didn’t do much. The headache was still there, and the tension coiled tight in his chest.

Ponyboy needed to get out of the house. The walls had been closing in for days—ever since Two-But got jumped, and those quiet words had he’d told Darry. It was like a weight had settled in his chest, heavy and unrelenting, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t shake it.

He hadn’t been able to focus on anything all week. Normally, on good days, he’d go to the library, lose himself in books or notes about the future Darry kept telling him to think about. But there hadn’t been any good days lately. Instead, he’d spent most of his time in bed, staring at the ceiling or reading the same paragraph over and over again without ever understanding a word of it. The pages blurred together, and nothing seemed to stick.

The house was quiet today. Darry was already gone for work, and Soda was in the bathroom, getting ready for his own shift at the gas station. Ponyboy lay there, listening to the distant hum of water running, the soft clink of Soda’s razor against the sink, but it only made him feel more restless. His head ached, a dull throb that had been pulsing behind his eyes for days, and it was making him feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t move.

Before he could think twice about it, he threw on his sneakers, grabbed his sweatshirt—even though it was too hot out, and slipped out of the bedroom. He hadn’t eaten anything yet, but the idea of breakfast made his stomach churn, the nausea sitting heavy in his gut. He wasn’t hungry anyway. All he wanted to do was run.

He heard Soda’s voice float out from the kitchen as he passed by the doorway.

“Hey, Pony, you gonna eat somethin’?” There was concern in his brother’s voice, but Ponyboy didn’t stop to answer. He didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

He didn’t look back. The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, he was gone.

—

Ponyboy's mind spiraled the second his feet hit the pavement.

 At first, the act of running had been a reprieve, something to focus on other than the twisting knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. His legs moved on their own, muscles remembering the rhythm of escape. Each footfall against the cracked sidewalk was like a heartbeat, a constant, dependable sound in a world where everything else felt like it was slipping out of his control.

The air was thick, stifling, each breath harder than the last as the summer sun bore down on him, baking the streets beneath him. Sweat slicked his skin, dripping into his eyes, blurring his vision, but he kept going. He couldn’t stop, not now, not when his mind was already starting to race ahead of him. His breathing grew shallow, and his lungs burned, but he didn't slow. His body screamed for him to stop, but his mind screamed louder.

Going to New York, Darry kept saying it would change everything. It was his chance to escape, his chance to be something more than just another Greaser from the east side. "You’re smart enough, Pony," Darry always said, "You’ve got what it takes." But did he? Ponyboy wasn’t sure anymore. The idea had seemed real once, but now it felt like chasing a shadow. He wanted to believe it was possible, wanted to believe he could be more. But no matter how much he wanted it, the gnawing doubt in the pit of his stomach whispered otherwise.

He was stuck. No matter how fast he ran, no matter how far, the same fears circled back to him. The weight of making his family proud, of proving to himself and everyone else that he wasn’t just another kid destined to go nowhere, clung to him like a second skin. It was suffocating, dragging him down, and no amount of running could shake it loose. He wasn’t running toward anything—he was running away. Always running, always trying to get away from something.

His legs ached, the sharp burn creeping into his calves and thighs, but still, he didn’t stop. The pain was a welcome distraction, something to focus on that wasn’t the overwhelming storm inside his head. Because if he stopped now, if he let himself slow down, everything would catch up to him—the memories, the fear, the overwhelming sense that everything he’d ever wanted was slipping through his fingers.

He hadn’t told anyone what happened—not really. Not the whole truth. Not the things that haunted him most in the dead of night. Darry and Soda—they hadn’t asked, not directly. They were too scared of what they might hear. Maybe they already knew, in their own way, what had happened to him. Maybe it was written all over him, like a scar too deep to hide.

Ponyboy’s vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes as he pushed himself harder. His lungs burned with every ragged breath, his body screaming for relief, but he couldn’t stop. I can’t stop . If he stopped, he’d have to go back home and keep pretending like nothing happened. The pressure was mounting, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. 

He wasn’t good enough. 

Not smart enough. 

Not strong enough. 

He wasn’t enough.

The pain in his legs grew sharper, more intense, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the roar in his head. You’ll never be good enough. The thoughts circled like vultures, feeding on his insecurities, picking at the edges of his sanity until they felt undeniable. They were always there, lurking, waiting for a moment of weakness. And now, running with his heart pounding and his lungs burning, they’d found their moment.

His ankle twisted beneath him as he hit a crack in the pavement, sending a shock of pain shooting up his leg. He stumbled, barely catching himself before falling, but the jolt was enough to send him reeling. His pace faltered, legs trembling with exhaustion, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on. The pain, as unbearable as it was, was still preferable to the thoughts. If you stop now, you’ll fall apart.

But his body had other plans.

With a final, agonizing twist, his ankle gave out completely. His body hit the ground hard, the unforgiving pavement tearing at his skin, and all the air rushed out of him in a single, gasping breath. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the pain so intense it wiped out everything else. His hands scraped against the concrete, raw and bleeding, but that was nothing compared to the throbbing in his ankle. The pain was blinding, searing up his leg, and for a second, it was the only thing he could focus on.

But as the pain settled in, sharp and unrelenting, the rest of it came crashing back. The doubts, the fears, the overwhelming certainty that he was never going to be enough—that he was always going to be running, always trying to escape something he couldn’t outrun.

Laying there, chest heaving, staring up at the endless sky, Ponyboy realized something that chilled him to his core.

He wasn’t running toward a future. He was just running away from everything else.

And it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him again.

His heart pounded in his ears, the remnants of his run catching up with him all at once—the exhaustion, the heat, the pain, all of it crashing down like a wave.

And he couldn’t move.

His body trembled with the effort of it, his muscles seizing up, his ankle throbbing mercilessly. He tried to sit up, but the pain was too much, too sharp. He clenched his jaw, trying to fight back the panic rising in his chest.

Dammit, how the hell was he supposed to get home?

He cursed under his breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand. His ankle throbbed again, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling out in frustration. The sharp pain radiated up his leg, reminding him with every pulse how stupid he’d been to push himself this far. Now he was stuck, and he had no idea how he was going to get out of this.

Ponyboy glanced up at the sky. The sun, which had been only starting its climb when he left that morning, now hung lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything. The realization of how long he’d been running hit him like a punch to the gut. It was almost evening.

He blinked, trying to wrap his mind around it. Had he really been out here for hours? Running aimlessly through the streets, pushing himself to the point of collapse without even realizing how much time had passed? It was a blur now—the heat, the pain, the thoughts swirling in his head—and it had all led to this.

His eyes scanned the street, recognizing the familiar shapes of houses and trees, but everything felt distant, like a dream he couldn’t quite wake up from. He knew where he was—vaguely. Close enough to recognize the neighborhood, but not close enough to limp home on his own. Not close enough to feel comfortable knocking on a stranger’s door and asking for help.

His pride tightened at the thought, and he let out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to his ankle. It was already swelling beneath his sock, the skin turning red and hot to the touch. He shifted it a fraction of an inch, testing the pain, but it shot through him like a knife, sharp and unforgiving. There was no powering through this, no willing himself to keep moving. He was stuck.

He flopped back against the sidewalk, head tilting back with a heavy sigh. What was Darry going to say when he found out? He could already picture the look of frustration on his brother’s face—the tight jaw, the pinch of his brows, the questions that would follow. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something sooner? And Sodapop would be no better, his worry would make it worse.

“Are you okay, honey?”

The voice jolted him from his thoughts. His eyes opened, squinting against the fading sunlight, and he spotted a small group of women standing near the entrance to a diner across the street. One of them was staring directly at him, concern written across her face.

“I—” He scrambled to sit up straighter, his foot grazing the ground, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his leg. He sucked in a breath, clenching his jaw. “I’m fine, sorry.”

The woman’s friends tugged her back towards the sidewalk, muttering amongst themselves, but she nodded reluctantly, accepting his lie. As they disappeared inside the diner, Ponyboy exhaled, his face heating from embarrassment.

Once they were out of sight, he pulled himself to a nearby bench, dragging his injured leg along the ground, each movement a painful reminder of how stupid he’d been to push himself like this. His breaths came out uneven, through his nose, as he leaned back and shut his eyes.

What now? The question nagged at him, but he shoved it aside, focusing on the smoke. The nicotine buzzed through him, doing little to dull the pain in his ankle. His foot was already swelling, the skin taut beneath his sock, and he knew if he tried to stand up again, the agony would only intensify. Still, he couldn’t sit here forever.

His thoughts drifted, a jumbled mess of worries and frustrations. College—everyone kept talking about it, but the more they did, the less he wanted to hear it. What if he couldn’t cut it? He wasn’t sure he even wanted to go. And then there was last year—he swallowed hard, pushing it away as fast as it came. He didn’t want to think about it. Not now, not ever. It was easier to let it all blur together, to run from one thing to the next without stopping, like he had today.

But now, he couldn’t run.

He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling in the warm air as the sun inched lower. He hadn’t realized how late it was getting. The light had shifted, casting long shadows across the pavement. His mind raced back to Darry and Sodapop. They’d be home soon. Maybe Darry would be pissed that he didn’t say anything before leaving, but pissed was better than worried. He hated the look Darry got when he worried. Worse than that was the look Soda got—too soft, like he was always ready to jump in and fix everything. Pony hated that look.

He shifted on the bench, his ankle throbbing in time with his heartbeat. How long was I running? The question drifted through his mind, but before he could latch onto it, the growl of an engine interrupted his thoughts.

Ponyboy glanced up, squinting against the low sunlight. A car was coming down the street, and as it got closer, he recognized it—Buck’s T-Bird. He felt a surge of dread in his gut, followed by a weird relief. He wasn’t sure which one bothered him more.

The car pulled up in front of him, and Dally leaned out the window, his expression unreadable as always. “What the hell are you doin’ out here, Pony?” he called out.

Ponyboy froze for a second, instinctively straightening up on the bench. He shrugged a little bit not answering, still smoking his cigarette but pausing when Dally shot him a hard look. 

“Just… sitting,” he muttered, taking another drag of his cigarette and blowing out the smoke in a slow, measured breath. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, hoping Dally wouldn’t notice the way he’d been favoring his ankle.

Dally gave him a hard look, like he could see straight through the lie. “You look like you’ve been sittin’ out here for hours. What, you get lost?” he said, his voice laced with disbelief.

Ponyboy winced, shaking his head. “No. I was just going for a run.”

“Where were you goin’, Texas?” Dally snorted, his expression twisting into something mean. “And now you’re just sittin’ here like a damn statue. Get in the car.”

Ponyboy shifted again, his ankle flaring up in protest. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his expression neutral. The last thing he wanted was for Dally to notice how messed up his leg was.

But Dally wasn’t stupid.

“Get in the car, Pony,” Dally said, his tone sharper this time, almost an order. “What’re you tryin’ to prove out here?”

Ponyboy hesitated, his ankle screaming at him to stop being an idiot and take the help, but his pride was louder, telling him to brush it off, keep pretending like everything was fine.

“I’m good, I can walk back,” he said, standing up too quickly. The second his foot hit the ground, his whole leg buckled, the pain shooting up his calf like fire. He let out a hiss of breath, leaning hard against the bench for support. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dally was already out of the car, crossing the sidewalk toward him with a scowl. “You’re full of it, you know that?” He grabbed Ponyboy by the arm, none too gently. “Let me see.”

Ponyboy tried to take a step back, but his ankle betrayed him again, and he had to lean on the bench to keep from falling. “I’m fine, Dal—”

“Fine?” Dally’s voice rose, a sharp edge of anger cutting through it. He yanked Ponyboy’s arm, pulling him around to get a better look at his leg. “You call this fine? Look at you—you’re a mess! You’re lucky you ain’t face down on the pavement right now.”

Ponyboy didn’t answer. He stared off at the sunset instead, the burning in his eyes from the sun and cigarette smoke mixing with the sharp sting of shame in his chest.

Dally stood up, shaking his head. “Get in the car. You’re not walkin’ anywhere on that.”

Ponyboy swallowed the knot of pride lodged in his throat and nodded, limping toward the passenger side of Buck’s T-Bird. He climbed in as carefully as he could, trying not to wince too obviously when he pulled his leg in after him. Dally slammed the door behind him before getting in on the driver’s side.

The engine roared to life, and Dally pulled away from the curb without a word. They drove in silence for a few minutes, the weight of everything hanging thick in the air between them. Ponyboy stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass by, feeling a pit in his stomach that had nothing to do with his ankle.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Dally bit out suddenly, glancing over at Ponyboy, who still wouldn’t look at him. “You got both of your brothers about to have a goddamn heart attack because you ran outta the house like a bat outta hell. And now you’ve messed up your leg doing God knows what.”

Ponyboy didn’t answer right away. His mind was still spinning, the weight of everything he’d been trying to outrun catching up to him. He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure if there was anything to say. But Dally wasn’t expecting an answer—not really. He never did.

“Next time you pull somethin’ like this, I ain’t chasin’ after your dumb ass. You wanna get yourself killed? Fine. Just don’t drag me into it.” He added, his voice growing sharper, eyes narrowing as he gripped the wheel tighter. His frustration was bubbling over now, more pissed off than he’d been at first. 

“You saw how Two looked last week—you want that shit to happen to you?” 

Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the seatbelt across his chest feeling too tight, too restrictive.

“Are you listenin’ to me?” Dally’s voice cut through the tension, his gaze flicking toward Ponyboy again. His jaw clenched when he saw Ponyboy wasn’t even looking at him. “Ponyboy! Would you fuckin’ say something so I know you’re not brain-dead?”

Ponyboy didn’t answer. He just kept staring out the window, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to look at Dally. He didn’t want to face any of this. The silence stretched out between them, heavy and suffocating.

Dally slammed his hand on the steering wheel, hard. The sound jolted through the car. “For Christ’s sake, Pony, would you quit actin’ like a damn statue?” His voice was sharper now, like a whip cracking against the quiet. “I’m tryin’ to talk to you, and you’re sittin’ there like I don’t even exist.”

Ponyboy winced but still didn’t look over. He didn’t want to see Dally like this—mad, frustrated, but most of all worried. He hated when Dally worried about him. It wasn’t like him. Dally wasn’t supposed to care. He was supposed to be tough, not someone who got caught up in stupid things like this.

“It’s fine,” Ponyboy muttered, though it came out more hollow than convincing.

“Bull,” Dally spat, his voice low but dangerous now. “You got a busted ankle, there’s Socs on every corner, and you ain’t even carryin’ a blade. And, actin’ like you don’t got people worried sick about you—you don’t know how much your brothers give a damn about you. Do you?”

Ponyboy clenched his jaw, still staring out the window. He felt small under Dally’s gaze, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The pit in his stomach just kept growing, twisting tighter with every word.

Dally let out a rough breath, his voice getting colder. “You wanna keep actin’ like you’re tough? You keep pullin’ stunts like this, you’re gonna end up worse than any of us—broken and pissed at the world, and nobody’s gonna give a damn when it happens.”

That hit hard. The knot in Ponyboy’s throat tightened, and he swallowed, the weight of it pressing down on him. But he still didn’t say anything.

Dally slammed his hand on the dashboard, this time harder. “ Dammit, Ponyboy! Would you at least look at me?”

Ponyboy didn’t want to be here anymore. 

“You think anyone’s got time to keep pickin’ you up every time you screw up? New Yorks not gonna do that for you, nobody is gonna do that for you. You’re not a kid, Ponyboy. Actin’ like one’s gonna get you killed, and if you don’t care, nobody else should either. ”

Ponyboy flinched at the outburst, his shoulders tensing up. His hands curled into fists in his lap as if bracing himself. He didn’t say anything, but Dally noticed the way his breathing changed—shallow, uneven. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. Dally’s anger wavered, and he finally tore his gaze away from the road to look at him.

Ponyboy looked smaller somehow, curled up against the door like he was trying to disappear. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes, which were still fixed on the window, were glassy.

Dally’s frustration slipped, replaced with something heavier—guilt. He let out a long, rough breath, feeling the tension drain out of him. 

“Aw, hell,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. 

This wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t trying to tear Ponyboy down; he just… didn’t know how else to get through to him. For a moment, the only sound in the car was the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle from Dally’s cigarette. The air was thick, suffocating. He knew he’d messed up, and for the first time in a long time, Dally didn’t know what to say to fix it.

He let out a tired sigh, softer this time. “Look… I didn’t mean it like that, alright?” His voice was gruff, but there was an edge of something softer, almost apologetic. He wasn’t used to this—talking like this. It wasn’t his style. “But damn it, kid, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t actin’ like this, you dig me?”

Ponyboy still didn’t answer, but his shoulders relaxed a little, and Dally could tell he was listening.

Dally glanced at him again, his grip loosening on the wheel. “I get it. You’re on edge.” He paused, his throat tight for a second. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. “We all are. But you don’t gotta do it alone. You got your brothers, you got the gang.” The words came out more awkward than he intended, and he quickly looked back at the road.

The unspoken, you got me, hung in the air. 

Ponyboy finally shifted, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes when he thought Dally wasn’t looking. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dally let out a short, dry chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah? Then stop actin’ like you don’t.”

They fell into another silence, but this one wasn’t as heavy. The tension from before had drained, leaving behind a tired understanding between them. Dally could still feel the anger simmering under his skin, but it wasn’t directed at Ponyboy anymore. It was at the situation, at the fact that he couldn’t always protect him, no matter how hard he tried.

After a long moment, Dally sighed again, this time quieter, more resigned. “Look… we’ll get you home, alright? Get that ankle looked at before it gets worse. But quit tryin’ to act like you’ve gotta be so tough. It ain’t worth it.”

Ponyboy gave a small nod, still staring out the window. “Okay,” he muttered. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Dally to ease off, at least for now.

Dally leaned back in his seat, his shoulders relaxing as the weight of the moment lifted. 

He didn’t say anything else, just kept his eyes on the road ahead. 

—

Ponyboy was sitting on the old couch, staring at the flickering TV screen, though he hadn’t been paying attention to it for the past hour. It was real late out, probably closer to 12 am when he’d crawled out of bed and laid on the couch. The muffled sounds of the program played in the background, blending with the distant hum of late night traffic outside. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Maybe nothing. Maybe for something to feel… normal again. But it didn’t. 

He would be lucky if his brothers ever let him out of their sight again. They hovered. And if it wasn’t Darry or Sodapop, one of the gang was always at the house, lingering in the background. It was suffocating. The awkward, nasty tension that hung in the air never seemed to lift. Every conversation felt like a minefield. Every glance felt like a question he didn’t want to answer.

Johnny was the only one who made it bearable. His friend would sit beside him, silent most of the time, but Ponyboy could tell Johnny understood. Even if he didn’t agree with what Pony had done, Johnny didn’t ask questions, didn’t look at him with those same confused, almost accusatory eyes the others did. He was upset, sure, but Johnny got it in a way the others never would.

The rest of the gang? They didn’t understand. How could they? They didn’t get why he would do that—why he, of all people, would have even considered it. He saw it in their eyes, the way they’d look at him like he’d turned into someone they didn’t recognize.

“You’re going somewhere.”
“You’ve got a future.”
“You’ve got a chance.”

That’s all anyone ever used to say to him. Before. Before it all went downhill, before he’d done something he couldn’t take back. Now? He couldn’t stop wondering how much he’d let them down. How much hope he’d crushed in them, in Darry, in Soda—everyone who looked at him like he was still that smart kid, that dreamer who could do something with his life.

But what good was that to him? None of it had mattered in the end. Not when it felt like the world was closing in on him. Not when everything had gotten too heavy. He couldn’t explain it to them. Couldn’t make them understand that having a future, having a chance, didn’t make him immune to all of this.

But they didn’t see that. All they saw was him—the one they thought could make something of himself—the one who tried to throw it all away. They didn’t get it. And maybe they never would.

The front door creaked open, and he heard the familiar heavy steps before he saw Dally. Pony didn’t turn his head—he just stayed there, slouched against the cushions, keeping his eyes forward. Dally moved through the room like a shadow, silent but present, the kind of silence that made Ponyboy’s skin feel too tight.

Dally leaned against the doorframe, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He didn’t look at Ponyboy right away. Didn’t know how to start. Instead, he stared at the back of his head, his jaw tight, like he was holding something back. They hadn’t talked about it. Not since the hospital. Not since everything went to shit.

The TV flickered again, casting long shadows across the room. Dally finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “How long you gonna sit there?”

Ponyboy shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of Dally’s stare until he finally shrugged. 

Dally huffed, the sound sharp in the quiet. “You’ve been doin’ that a lot lately. Gonna go to bed soon?”

Ponyboy knew what he meant. He’d been doing a lot of not saying anything, keeping to himself and not really moving. It being the summer didn’t really help matters, he had no reason to do anything at all. He also couldn’t sleep, so most of his days consisted of laying in bed or on the couch unable to read or absorb anything entertaining. Even if he was sitting in the middle of all of them, he still wasn’t really there. 

And they always looked at his arms. At the sweatshirts he wore constantly. 

“Can’t sleep,” Ponyboy said, though that wasn’t really an explanation. Just words that filled the space between them.

Dally didn’t respond, but Ponyboy could feel the tension from where he sat. That unspoken frustration. Dally wasn’t good with emotions. He never had been. But he sure as hell knew how to feel them—how to let them simmer and build until they boiled over.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to…” Ponyboy started, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dally cut him off, his voice sharp. “Yeah? Well, you did.” 

He wasn’t yelling, but the anger was there—barely controlled, simmering under the surface. But it wasn’t just anger. It was fear. It was the kind of fear that twisted up inside and turned everything sideways, for Dally that fear came from being out of control of the situation. 

Ponyboy didn’t say anything. What could he say? There weren’t words for what he did.

Dally pushed off the doorframe, taking a few steps into the room but stopping short, like he didn’t want to get too close. His hands were still in his pockets, but Ponyboy could see the tension in his posture, in the way his shoulders were squared, how his jaw worked like he was holding something in.

“Why’d you do it,” Dally said, his voice low, quieter than Ponyboy expected. He didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t.

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his throat tight. He didn’t mean to. He wasn’t trying to scare anyone. He wasn’t trying to do anything at all—he was just tired. Worn out. The weight of it all had been too much, and in that moment, it felt like the only way to make it stop.

“I don’t—” Ponyboy started again, but he couldn’t find the words.

“I know,” Dally cut him off again, but this time his voice was softer, though no less strained. “I know you don’t.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the TV and the faint buzz of the lightbulb overhead. Everything felt too loud in the silence.

Dally turned away slightly, his gaze landing somewhere off in the distance, like he couldn’t stand the sight of Ponyboy right now, couldn’t stand the reminder of what almost happened. “I ain’t good at this, kid,” he muttered, the admission rough.

Ponyboy stayed quiet. He wasn’t good at this either.

“I don’t—” Dally paused, grinding his teeth like the words hurt on the way out. “I don’t get it. Why you would—” He didn’t finish the question. Couldn’t. It hung there between them, unfinished but understood.

Ponyboy’s chest felt tight. His fingers curled into the worn fabric of the couch, and he wished more than anything that he had an answer that made sense. But he didn’t. Not to himself, not to Dally, not to anyone. “I just… I don’t know,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. 

It wasn’t enough.

Part of him did know, but another part of him thought he didn’t really need a reason in the first place. It had seemed like the best solution at the time, hadn’t it? Dally’s shoulders tensed at the response, and for a second, Ponyboy thought he was going to snap. But instead, Dally just stood there, his fists still buried in his pockets. 

“Don’t ever pull that again,” he said, his voice barely above a growl. It wasn’t a request. It was something darker, something edged with a kind of fury that didn’t have anywhere to go.

“I won’t,” Ponyboy whispered, but even as he said it, he didn’t know if it was true.

Dally turned back then, but only halfway. His face was tense, eyes hard but not angry. Not really. There was something else there—something Ponyboy didn’t see often. Fear. Maybe even hurt.

“Good,” Dally said, the word clipped, but not harsh. 

—

“What were you thinking?” Darry’s voice was tight, not shouting but carrying that low, restrained anger that Ponyboy knew meant he was more than pissed. His arms were crossed, his face hard as he looked down at him. “No—don’t even answer that. You weren’t thinking. You never do.”

Ponyboy flinched slightly but kept his mouth shut, sitting stiffly on the couch as he looked at the floor. His ankle throbbed, but the tension in the room was worse than the pain.

“Darry,” Sodapop started, his voice calm but cautious, already kneeling by Ponyboy’s leg. “Take it easy. Yellin’ at him’s not gonna fix his ankle.”

“I’m not yellin’ ,” Darry snapped, throwing a sharp look at Soda, but then shook his head, exhaling hard through his nose. He dragged a hand through his hair. “But he’s out there messin’ around, hurting himself, and now—” His voice dropped, filled with frustration. “What if it’d been worse, huh? What if he got jumped? You think about that?”

Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably but still said nothing, knowing there wasn’t much he could say. Darry didn’t want an answer, not really. He just hated that they were talking about him like he wasn’t there. 

Sodapop’s hands were gentle as they hovered over the swollen ankle, inspecting it carefully. “It’s bad, but it ain’t broken. We’ll get some ice on it,” he murmured, glancing up at Ponyboy, his eyes full of concern but not saying much more.

Across the room, Dally stood by the open window, staring out of it like he wasn’t even paying attention. He blew smoke through the screen, one arm resting on the sill. “You’re lucky that’s all you got,” he muttered, not bothering to turn around. “Next time, maybe don’t be so dumb.”

Ponyboy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. His mind was still spinning with everything that had happened, and even though he wanted to defend himself, it didn’t seem worth it. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight he knew he’d lose.

Darry let out a long, slow breath, like he was trying to calm himself down, but his frustration still seeped through. “I don’t get it, Pone. What the hell was going through your mind, you saw what happened to Two, why would you—” His voice was quieter now, more tired than angry, but it cut deeper that way.

“I wasn’t…” Ponyboy started, but his voice trailed off when Darry shot him a sharp look. He clenched his teeth, feeling small under his brother’s gaze, but stopped trying to explain.

Soda glanced between them, clearly trying to ease the tension. “Hey, it’s done now,” he said softly, though there was a slight edge in his voice as he looked back at Darry. “Let’s just fix him up, alright?”

Darry didn’t respond right away, but after a long moment, he nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Fine.” He stood up, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. “Get some ice on that before it gets worse,” he muttered, moving to the kitchen to get it himself.

The room was quieter after Darry left, the weight of the moment lingering, but Sodapop stayed crouched by Ponyboy’s side, his hands carefully avoiding any further pain. “It’s alright, Pone,” he said softly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

Ponyboy just nodded, still staring at the floor. He didn’t feel alright. Not with Darry’s anger still hanging over him, or Dally’s indifferent attitude from across the room. But at least with Soda there, he didn’t feel completely alone.

Dally glanced back over his shoulder, his face hard, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. “Don’t look so destroyed, kid.” he muttered, though it wasn’t as harsh as before. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Ponyboy didn’t answer, only lowering his head, but that silence said enough. 

Dally paused for a moment, stopping just long enough to mess up Ponyboy’s hair in a rare, almost affectionate gesture before heading out the door. Ponyboy watched him leave, his chest tightening as the door clicked shut. He pulled his knees up to his chest, letting his ankle rest awkwardly on the couch. Sodapop was still crouched beside him, his eyes full of concern as they met Ponyboy’s, but Ponyboy quickly looked away, focusing on a spot on the floor.

Darry came back from the kitchen, moving with that stiff, barely-contained frustration that always made Ponyboy feel on edge. He placed the ice pack and a plate of food on the table in front of him, not saying a word at first. His expression was tight, jaw set as he stood over him, arms crossed.

“You haven’t eaten anything all day, have you?”

Ponyboy knew it wasn’t really a question. He shook his head slowly, not daring to look up.

Darry’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Dammit, Ponyboy.” The curse was quiet, but the weight behind it made him flinch. “You gotta stop doing this.” He crouched down, bringing himself level with him, but the tension between them felt thick as ever. “You hear me?”

Ponyboy bit the inside of his cheek, his throat tightening. He didn’t mean to get hurt, didn’t mean for it to turn into this. But the words stuck in his chest, and all he could do was stare at the ice pack in his hands, his fingers cold but gripping it too tightly.

Sodapop was still kneeling beside him, silent now. He hadn’t said a word since Darry walked back in. Normally, he’d have stepped in by now—his calming voice cutting through the tension—but not this time. This time, he stayed quiet. And Ponyboy knew why.

They couldn’t take this anymore.

Darry’s hands gripped his knees for a moment, like he was trying to hold himself together, then stood up abruptly. “You can’t keep acting like this, I mean you're leavin’ for college in two months Pony—” he said, quieter now but still sharp. There was something else in his voice—something worn out, a frustration that ran deeper than just tonight.

Ponyboy felt the knot in his chest tighten. Darry wasn’t just angry—he was scared. And that scared Ponyboy even more.

“You don’t even try to take care of yourself,” Darry muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, his exhaustion creeping into his voice. “I don’t get it, I thought we were past this. Why?”

Why?

The question hung in the air between them, the silence pressing in harder than Darry’s words. Ponyboy’s chest ached, but he still couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to explain it—the feeling that sometimes, no matter what he did, it wouldn’t be enough. That no matter how hard he tried to be okay, he kept falling short.

The tension simmered as Darry looked at him, waiting for something, anything, but there wasn’t much left to say. Ponyboy could see the tiredness in Darry’s eyes, how much weight he was carrying trying to keep everything together. But Darry couldn’t fix this, no matter how hard he tried. And neither could Soda.

Ponyboy glanced at Sodapop, catching the look in his brother’s eyes. He understood. Soda was holding back because he couldn’t stand seeing this—couldn’t bear to watch them keep going through the same cycle, hurting in the same ways. If he stepped in, he might break too.

The quiet between them felt suffocating now. Darry’s frustration was like a rope tightening around them, and Sodapop’s silence only made it worse. There was no one to cushion the blow this time. Darry finally exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head like he was trying to let go of something, but it wouldn’t leave. 

“I don’t know what to do with you anymore.” His voice was softer now, less angry but more defeated. It was that tiredness again—the one that scared Ponyboy more than any yelling ever could.

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his eyes drifting to the floor again. He wanted to say something, to explain himself, but he couldn’t find the words. Not when Darry looked at him like that. Not when Soda was too quiet.

“You need to eat something,” Darry muttered, turning toward the kitchen but not moving. His shoulders were tense, his back to Ponyboy now. “Even if it’s just a little.”

Ponyboy nodded, but he didn’t reach for the food. His stomach twisted, and the last thing he wanted was to eat. The plate sat there untouched, the ice pack cold against his ankle, but none of it seemed to matter. What mattered was the tension, the way it was wearing them all down, slowly pulling them apart.

Chapter Text

June 30th, 1968

Ponyboy woke up the morning of the party with a pounding headache. His mouth was dry, his stomach uneasy, but the worst part was the relentless throbbing in his temples. The sunlight streaming through the window only made it worse, stabbing into his eyes like needles. He pulled the blanket over his head, hoping to block out the world for just a little longer. Maybe if he stayed still enough, the pain would fade on its own. He just needed a few more minutes.

A knock on the door broke the silence. “Hey, Pone, you awake?”

Ponyboy didn’t move at first, wishing the world outside would just forget about him for a little while. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen, not with Soda. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m up.”

Sodapop pushed the door open and stepped in, his easy grin in place like always, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “You alright? You’ve been in here awhile.”

“Just tired,” Ponyboy mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He kept his gaze low, trying to avoid the conversation he could feel coming. His headache pounded behind his eyes, and he didn’t have the energy to pretend everything was fine.

Soda frowned slightly, taking a step closer. “You sure? You don’t look too good.”

Ponyboy forced a small shrug, barely lifting his shoulders. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

The room felt tense with the words Ponyboy wasn’t saying, and he knew Soda could feel it too. But instead of pushing, Soda just let out a long breath, his smile faltering a little. “You want me to grab you some aspirin?”

Ponyboy nodded, grateful for the out. “Yeah... thanks.”

Soda left for a moment and came back with the aspirin and a glass of water, setting them on the bedside table. “Here you go.”

Soda hovered for a second, watching as Ponyboy took the aspirin, and then sat the glass down. He didn’t leave right away though, lingering near the door like he had more to say. Ponyboy could feel the concern radiating off him—something in the way his brother’s eyes flicked toward him, then away, like he was trying to decide whether to push.

“Headaches still hittin’ you, huh?” Soda said finally, his voice casual, but with that undertone of worry Ponyboy had come to expect. 

Ponyboy swallowed, feeling the tightness coil in his chest. “It’s not that bad,” he said, keeping his voice steady as he looked down at his hands. “Just tired, like I said.”

It didn’t help that his ankle still hurt something awful. 

Soda crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, but you’ve been tired for a while now. And you used to get those real bad migraines, remember? Knocked you flat.”

“I’m fine, Soda,” Ponyboy insisted, his voice firmer than before. “It’s just a headache. It’ll pass.”

Soda didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at him with that same worried expression. Ponyboy could tell he didn’t believe him—not really. But he wasn’t going to push it. They both knew that pushing didn’t do any good.

“I’m just sayin’, you used to get those a lot when you were stressed,” Soda said, almost too carefully. He was trying to be gentle, trying not to spook him. “Dar scheduled that appointment, might be able to get you some good meds for school.” 

Ponyboy clenched his jaw, feeling the irritation bubble up. He hated this—hated that everyone thought they had to tiptoe around him like he was fragile. “I said I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “I don’t need a doctor.”

He didn’t want to ruin tonight.

Soda looked at him for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. He wasn’t one to push—Darry was more the one who’d lay into him when something was wrong—but Soda’s worry was harder to ignore. He had a way of getting under Ponyboy’s skin without meaning to, and Ponyboy knew it was because he cared. But that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

“Alright,” Soda said finally, his voice soft. “If you say you’re fine, I believe you. Just... maybe take a nap later if you’re feelin’ rough. No need to push yourself, y’know? The guys won’t be here till later.” 

Ponyboy didn’t respond, just gave a small nod, hoping it would be enough to end the conversation. The headache was still pounding behind his eyes, making it hard to think straight, and the last thing he wanted was to go down this road again. He just needed space.

“I’m heading to work, call if you need anything ok?” Sodapop said, watching with a soft smile as Ponyboy nodded. “I love you, kid. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Love you too Soda,” He mumbled, sinking back into the bed despite himself.  

—

Ponyboy stood off to the side, barely able to focus on the low hum of conversation between Darry and the doctor. His fingers tugged absently at the worn hem of his dad’s old sweatshirt, pulling the fabric tight in his hands. It was an anchor, something to keep him grounded as his ears buzzed with fragments of their conversation.

The doctor’s voice was steady but firm, pushing back against Darry’s every refusal. “In cases like this, it's not uncommon to recommend inpatient treatment. We need to consider what's best for his recovery. It’s not just physical, it’s mental.” The tone was clinical, detached, as though they weren’t discussing his life.

Darry, tense and rigid, wasn’t having it. His voice was low, barely above a mutter, but sharp with underlying anger. “We’re taking him home. He’s not going anywhere else.”

He knew what they did to people there. 

The doctor sighed, exasperated but pushing forward. “Mr. Curtis, we have facilities that specialize in—”

“No.” Darry’s voice was hard, cutting through the hospital’s sterile air. “He’s not going to some place like that. He’ll be home. With family.”

The exchange continued, quieter now, though the tension was thick enough to make Ponyboy’s chest feel even tighter. His eyes dropped to the tiled floor, feeling like an outsider in his own body. The hospital, with its harsh lights and antiseptic smell, seemed worlds away from where he wanted to be.

In the distance, the faint sound of footsteps echoed, pulling his attention down the hallway. His heart stilled as he saw Johnny walking toward him, his small frame somehow looking even smaller. Johnny didn’t look good—his face pale, dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the world on them. The sight of him made something in Ponyboy’s chest twist painfully.

It was only two days ago that he had ended up here—two days since everything spiraled—and now, standing here in the hospital, everything felt so raw. He could barely bring himself to meet Johnny’s eyes. 

Ponyboy hesitated, taking a step away from Darry and the doctor’s argument, his feet dragging him toward his best friend. He could see the mix of emotions flickering across Johnny’s face—pain, worry, and something else, something deeper. Johnny’s gaze flicked downward, his eyes landing on the bandages that wrapped around Ponyboy’s arms, stark against his skin.

Johnny’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his expression cracked. His eyes glossed over, the tears rising before he could stop them, and without a word, he yanked Ponyboy into a hug. It wasn’t soft or gentle—Johnny’s grip was tight, desperate, like if he let go, Ponyboy might slip away entirely.

Ponyboy stiffened for a second, not used to Johnny being this close, let alone hugging him like this. Johnny never liked touching—he wasn’t one for crying either, not even after he bolted from his parents house. But now, in this moment, it was like all those walls Johnny kept up had cracked just enough to let something slip through.

Ponyboy’s chest tightened as he felt Johnny’s arms around him. For a brief second, he didn’t know what to do—he almost wanted to pull away, but something in Johnny’s grip made him stay. Slowly, carefully, Ponyboy let himself sink into the embrace, resting his forehead against Johnny’s shoulder. The quiet tremble in Johnny’s body was barely noticeable, but it was there, and that small, raw emotion hit Ponyboy harder than any words ever could.

He hated that he had done that to Johnny.

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back his own tears. He could feel Johnny’s breathing, shallow and uneven, like he was fighting to keep himself together. When Johnny finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "Don’t… don’t you ever do that again, Pony."

There was no anger in his words, no accusation—just fear, raw and real. The kind that had been eating at Johnny for days. Ponyboy swallowed hard, unable to speak, because what could he say? Sorry wouldn’t cut it. Not for this.

Johnny pulled back slightly, just enough to look at Ponyboy. His eyes were red, glassy, as though he’d been holding back tears for days and they were finally catching up to him. He glanced down at the bandages wrapped around Ponyboy’s arms again, his breath catching, but instead of pulling away, he held on tighter, his fingers gripping Ponyboy’s arms like he was afraid to let go.

Ponyboy’s throat felt tight, and for once, he didn’t push the emotion away. He let himself feel it—Johnny’s fear, his own guilt, the weight of what he’d done. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Just the fact that Johnny was still there, holding on to him, refusing to let him slip away.

He wanted to tell him he wouldn’t do it but he couldn’t. 

They stood there for a long time, not saying anything else, but they didn’t need to. The hug lasted longer than anything they’d ever shared, and Ponyboy had never felt so guilty. 

—

Parties were, decidedly, not Ponyboy’s thing.

The gang began trickling into the house around seven, though Dally and Two-Bit had already decided that five was the perfect time to start drinking. By the time they showed up, they were loud, laughing, and half gone, which wasn’t unusual for them. Ponyboy wasn’t surprised. Dally especially liked to get a head start on any kind of party, no matter how laid-back or reckless it was.

He glanced across the room at Darry, who was standing near the kitchen, talking to Steve about something. Darry never indulged in drinking, not even when they all went out. He always kept a clear head, maybe because he had to, always making sure things didn’t get out of hand. Ponyboy was quietly relieved that his oldest brother was coming along tonight. Darry could be a little overbearing, but at least he wouldn’t get drunk and wild like the others.

"Ya ready for tonight, Pony?" Soda asked with a grin as he elbowed him in the ribs. There was a glint of excitement in his eyes, a lightness Ponyboy hadn’t seen in a while, and it made his stomach twist with guilt. He knew how much his brothers wanted him to loosen up. To be a part of this, to let himself enjoy something—anything—but he wasn’t sure if he could.

He nodded, a smile that he hoped wasn’t tight on his face and Sodaop beamed at him before turning back to the conversation. 

Johnny stood quietly beside him, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his dark eyes observing the room, always on alert. He gave Ponyboy a quick glance, like he could read what was going on in his head. Johnny didn’t say anything, though. He never did when Ponyboy got like this, but his silence was always a comfort, like he knew exactly when to back off and just be there.

The house buzzed with excitement. Steve cracked jokes with Two-Bit, and Soda kept shooting glances at Ponyboy, trying to keep him in the loop. The gang’s high spirits were obvious. They seemed like they were finally ready to have some fun, especially after everything had been so tense lately.

As they headed for the truck, Ponyboy lingered behind, his fingers brushing absentmindedly at the worn hem of his jacket. He didn’t feel anxious, not exactly. It was more like a low hum of tension that sat heavy in his chest, an ache he could never quite shake. He tried to stay in the background, blending into the noise of the night around them, as his brothers and the rest of the gang were caught up in the easy laughter of plans for later.

Johnny was already in the bed of the truck, sitting in his usual quiet way, while Steve stood with one foot propped on the bumper, arms crossed loosely. “You comin’?” Steve called, though it wasn’t teasing—just casual much more like he’d been since Ponyboy had graduated.

Ponyboy climbed into the back, settling next to Johnny without a word. The truck rumbled to life, and as they pulled away, Ponyboy tilted his head back, letting his eyes drift up to the dark sky. The stars were faint, almost hidden, but still there, just enough for him to stare up as the wind hit his face. The wind rushed past, cool and biting, and without thinking, Ponyboy leaned into it, feeling it tug at him, tempting him with that strange sense of release. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he could just let go—like he wasn’t tethered to the weight of everything that had happened. He could escape, even if only for a second, into a place where none of it reached him.

His mind wandered, slipping away from the truck, far from the laughter, far from the quiet, worried looks his brothers thought he didn’t notice. But he always noticed. They had that look in their eyes now, like they were bracing themselves, holding tight to the edges of him whenever they felt him slipping too close to something dangerous in his head. They never said it, but he knew what it meant—that deep, silent fear they had whenever he wandered too far. It scared them because they knew him well enough to see when he was teetering too close to the edge of his thoughts, too close to losing himself in whatever storm was always brewing inside.

Maybe somewhere out there, far from all of this, he could just be. Not burdened, not looked at like that—just him.

But then, before he could drift any further, a hand snagged the back of his jacket, pulling him back just as the wind started to carry him away. He opened his eyes, not urgently and looked back—Johnny’s hand. His grip was tight, his eyes fixed on Ponyboy with that familiar, quiet intensity. Johnny didn’t need to say anything—he rarely did—but the way he held on, the way he watched, was enough.

His eyes said what words didn’t: Don’t go there. 

“Careful, Pony,” Steve muttered from the other side, his voice low, calm. “Don’t need you flyin’ off on us.”

Ponyboy blinked, realizing how close he’d come to tumbling right out of the truck. He straightened up, offering a sheepish half-smile, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yeah... wasn’t thinkin’.”

Johnny didn’t say a word, but his look lingered—soft, concerned. It was just Johnny’s way, always watching without making a fuss, always seeing more than he let on.

Steve didn’t press either, just shot Pony a side glance and let it go. He leaned back, turning his attention toward the front of the truck, where Darry and Soda were laughing at something Two-Bit had shouted. The sound of Two-Bit’s voice got lost in the wind, but the loudness of it, the slur of his words, carried back to them all the same.

Steve shook his head with a faint smirk, muttering under his breath. “He’s gonna get himself killed one day…”

Ponyboy was glad that Two-Bit at least seemed in higher spirits, the bruises on his face had began to heal up turning a yellowish color and he was no longer so tensed up all the time. They were all glad for it, it was hard to see their friend so unlike himself. 

Ponyboy didn’t respond to Steve's comment. Instead, he let the wind brush over his face again, but this time he stayed grounded, his gaze slipping back to the stars above. There was something about them—about the way they just hung there, so far out of reach—that made him feel both small and strangely calm.

Johnny shifted beside him, his voice soft but steady. “You alright, Pony?”

Ponyboy glanced over, giving the smallest of nods. "Mhm."

Johnny didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it either. He just sat back, letting the quiet settle over them like a blanket. 

Buck's was lit up like a beacon against the dark stretch of road behind them. It was loud tonight, packed with familiar faces, greasers from all over town mixing with the usual crowd of college kids trying to sneak in with fake IDs. The place always had this sort of wild energy on weekends, but tonight, Ponyboy felt it more than usual. Maybe it was because everyone kept calling it his celebration, like they were all here to toast him or something. But it wasn’t just for him—he knew that much. Everyone had their reasons for showing up, whether it was the booze or just wanting to let loose.

As the truck rolled to a stop, Ponyboy felt that tightness creeping up again, like something settling too heavy in his chest. He glanced at the bar ahead, lights spilling out onto the gravel lot, and braced himself for whatever came next.

Inside, Buck’s was exactly what he expected—a mess of noise and movement. Music pounded against the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat. People crowded every corner, laughing too loud, shouting over the music, while the bartenders tried to keep up with the chaos.

Two-Bit and Dally had already started drinking, and it showed. Two-Bit was leaning against the bar, half-laughing, half-yelling something at Steve, who looked like he was trying not to get dragged into whatever challenge Two-Bit was throwing at him. Dally, leaning back casually with a drink in hand, was clearly enjoying himself. He had that grin—the one that meant trouble for someone—but he wasn’t looking for a fight yet. Instead, he just gave Johnny’s shoulder a playful ruffle, like a silent reminder that Johnny was part of this too.

Johnny was hanging out with them, not drinking but still part of the fun, just like always. He stood close to Dally, like he naturally gravitated to him, but his eyes were sharper than the rest of them. He caught Ponyboy’s eye for a second, a quiet nod in his direction, before turning back to the conversation in front of him.

Ponyboy hovered near the edge of it all, just watching. That’s how he liked it—taking in the little things, the details everyone else seemed to miss. Two-Bit was already getting loud, the way he always did when he had a little too much, while Steve kept trying to act like he wasn’t being dragged into whatever chaos was brewing. It was clear he was gonna cave, though. Sodapop, leaning on Steve’s shoulder, had that grin that could get anyone on board with whatever stupid plan was forming, and even Steve couldn’t resist that for long.

Darry stood further back, near the bar, holding a beer that he barely touched. He looked relaxed—at least, as relaxed as Darry ever got. His eyes kept sweeping over the room, though, and every now and then, he’d glance their way, checking in without saying a word.

Ponyboy let his gaze drift again. He caught the way Dally’s fingers lingered on Johnny’s shoulder, the easy closeness between them. The way Soda’s laughter seemed to fill up the whole room, drawing everyone in. The way Darry’s brow would furrow every so often, even in the middle of everything, like he couldn’t fully let go.

Ponyboy tried to settle into it, let himself relax a little, but he still felt distant. Even with all the noise, all the energy, it was like he was watching from the outside. The wind from earlier still lingered in his mind, tugging at him, reminding him how close he’d come to getting lost in his head again. That was the thing—his brothers, Johnny, Steve—they all knew that look. They’d seen it too many times before, the way he drifted too close to the edge.

Johnny had noticed earlier, grabbed his jacket before he could lean too far, and now Ponyboy felt their eyes on him even when they were laughing and drinking. They were all watching him in their own quiet ways, checking to see if he was slipping.

He didn’t want to ruin the night. They were here to have fun, to forget for a little while, and the last thing he wanted was for them to worry about him. So he did what he always did—he stayed quiet, let the night swirl around him, and kept his thoughts to himself.

The crowd was thick, the noise almost drowning out his own thoughts, but there was something comforting in that too. In the middle of everything, it was easier to blend in, to just be part of the background.

Two-Bit yelled something at the top of his lungs—something that got lost in the noise but sent Soda into a fit of laughter. Steve shook his head, muttering something under his breath, but even he was grinning now, the tension gone from his shoulders.

Ponyboy leaned back against the bar close enough to the gang to take in the scene. The neon lights flickered overhead, casting a strange glow on the room. The crowd shifted around him, the music thumping in time with his pulse, and for just a second, the tightness in his chest eased up. He wasn’t sure how long it would last, but for now, he let himself sink into it.

When Johnny moved beside him, quiet as ever, Ponyboy didn’t need to say anything. Johnny just gave him a small nudge, a reminder that he was there, that they were all here. It was the quiet moments like that, between all the noise and chaos, that made everything feel bearable.

“C’mon,” Johnny muttered, motioning toward Dally, who was starting to look a little too pale for comfort. Ponyboy caught sight of him leaning against the wall, his head drooping forward slightly, and couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his mouth.

“Man, he’s gonna hurl,” Ponyboy said under his breath.

Johnny gave a short laugh, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, let’s get him outta here before Buck kicks us out.”

Together, they navigated their way through the crowd, the noise fading as they reached the side porch. The cool air hit them as soon as they stepped outside, a welcome change from the heat and smell inside. Dally stumbled out with them, leaning against Johnny for support, though Johnny didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked almost amused, which was a rare sight.

“Jesus, Dal,” Johnny teased, trying to steady him. “Can’t hold your liquor anymore?”

Dally groaned, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. Instead, he reached out and gave Johnny a half-hearted shove, the corners of his mouth twitching. It was the kind of shove that meant everything between them—familiar, comfortable. It wasn’t about the words, never had been.

Johnny let out a quiet laugh, barely enough for anyone else to catch, but Ponyboy noticed. It wasn’t something he heard often—Johnny being at ease, even in the middle of all this. Hearing it made some of the tension Ponyboy had been carrying start to melt away.

“Lookin’ a little green there Dal, you sure you don’t want me to hold your hair back?” Ponyboy said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. For a moment, he hesitated, realizing he might have been intruding on something. He wasn’t Johnny, after all—Dally could pop him if he felt like it.

Johnny and Dally both turned to him, caught off guard. Johnny’s brow lifted just a little, while Dally’s smirk deepened. For a second, Ponyboy thought maybe he’d gone too far, but Johnny gave Dally a light nudge with his elbow, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“Well, well, look who’s got jokes now.” Dally muttered, staring at Ponyboy with mock seriousness before shaking his head, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. “Brats—the both of yous.” 

Ponyboy ducked his head, feeling a warmth that wasn’t from the whiskey or the night air. While Johnny stilifed a laugh, ducking Dally who tried to drunkenly swipe at him. Ponyboy was just glad Dally wasn’t pissed, even if that might’ve been because of the alcohol. Johnny grinned back at him, like he’d been waiting for Ponyboy to let loose. 

“You’ve been hanging out with Two-Bit too much,” he said, his voice soft, but the amusement clear.

Ponyboy shrugged, feeling lighter than he had all night. It wasn’t much—just a joke between them—but it meant something. For once, the weight of the day didn’t feel so heavy, and the three of them stood there, side by side on the porch, with the sound of muffled music and laughter drifting out from inside.

Dally glanced between them, his eyes still hazy from the booze, but there was something else there too—something softer. Maybe it was the alcohol loosening him up, or maybe it was the way Johnny was standing there, more relaxed than he’d been in a long while. In the whole year, really.

Whatever it was, Dally let himself grin a little wider, almost like he was glad to see them like this. Not so guarded. 

Not so damn scared all the time.

The porch was still, the sounds from inside the house muffled by the night air. The three of them settled into a more relaxed rhythm, the kind that only came after too much booze and the kind of exhaustion that made you forget the day. Dally looked like he might puke at any moment, leaning heavily against the railing, a hand over his stomach.

“You good?” Ponyboy asked, amused but trying to keep it light.

Dally gave him a weak smirk. “Better than you’ll be if you keep talkin’, kid,” he muttered, though his usual bite was softened by the booze.

Ponyboy chuckled, shaking his head. He knew Dally wasn’t in any real shape to start a fight tonight and besides Darry was right through the other door. 

Just then, the screen door swung open with a loud creak, and Two-Bit stumbled out, looking just as far gone as Dally. He caught sight of them and let out a loud, sloppy laugh.

“Look at you,” he cackled, pointing at Dally like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “You’re about to hurl, man!”

Dally’s eyes narrowed, but his smirk stayed put. “Mind your business, Two-Bit.”

But that only encouraged Two-Bit, who gave him a playful shove. “What’s the matter, tough guy? Can’t handle your booze?”

They started shoving back and forth, neither of them putting much effort into it, but Ponyboy watched, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was always the same with them—roughhousing, messing around like kids. For a moment, it almost felt normal.

That is, until Two-Bit, in all his drunken glory, managed to push Dally off balance. Dally stumbled back and crashed onto the porch, letting out a groan as he hit the ground hard. Two-Bit threw his hands up in triumph, grinning like he’d just won a great battle.

“Get your ass back here!” Dally called after him from the ground, but the sharp edges of his voice dulled by the booze.

Two-Bit, still grinning, turned toward Ponyboy, his expression softening in a way that was… off. He wobbled over, looking strangely serious for a second. Ponyboy didn’t have time to move before Two-Bit was in front of him, hands suddenly on his cheeks, pulling him into an unexpected embrace of sorts. The drunkenness was clear in his glassy eyes, but the emotion behind them was almost too real.

“Y’know,” Two-Bit slurred, smiling wide, “we’re all real proud of you, kid. College and all that… you’re doin’ good, Ponyboy. Real good.”

Ponyboy blinked, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection as he tried to hide a soft smile. He ducked his head, feeling that familiar warmth of embarrassment creep up his neck at the compliment. Two-Bit was always the goofy one, the joker, but he wasn’t used to this kind of praise. Especially not for him.

“And don’t think we don’t notice it,” Two-Bit kept going, rambling now as he leaned in closer; he had a wide, soft grin on his face when he noticed Ponyboy smiling a little. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, y’know? You’re a good kid. Better than the rest of us, hell, we all know it.”

Ponyboy shifted with uncertainty, his stomach knotting up. He wasn’t sure how to take the words—whether it was just the alcohol talking or if Two-Bit really meant it. He didn’t really believe anything that Two-Bit was saying, especially since his friend was drunk, but he didn’t want to argue about it. 

Two-Bit let out a soft laugh, but it was different now, almost sad. “We’re just glad you’re still here, y’know?” He paused, his words slurring more as he swayed on his feet. “After last year… hell, man, I didn’t think we’d—”

The mention of last year hit Ponyboy like a punch to the gut. His chest tightened, and he felt the air shift. He knew exactly what Two-Bit was talking about—what no one else ever talked about. It was rare that anyone in the gang would even bring up what happened even though nobody was the same afterwards. Even drunk, Two-Bit had never said anything like this. 

He didn’t know what to say. 

Dally and Johnny, who had been leaning against the railing nearby, straightened up a bit, their gaze flicking between them. Dally suddenly looked a lot more sober, his face going tight and Johnny winced at the words the moment they were put out. Two-Bit’s grip tightened on Ponyboy’s shoulders, his eyes going a little too wide, his voice dropping lower. 

“You don’t think we forgot about it, do ya? About you… about what you did?” His words were tumbling out now, faster, messier. “You’re not a bad person, kid. I know you think you are, but you’re not. You didn’t mean—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Dally’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and sober, like he’d snapped out of the drunken fog. He moved forward, grabbing Two-Bit by the arm and pulling him back looking almost sick. 

“You drank too much man,” Dally said firmly, not angry, but not soft either. There was an edge in his voice, something protective, like he could see what was happening to Ponyboy and didn’t like it. “Come on.”

Two-Bit, stumbling a little, let himself be pulled away, but he kept muttering under his breath, something about how they all loved Ponyboy, how they didn’t want him to feel like he was carrying it all alone.

Ponyboy stood frozen, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to keep the rising tide of emotions at bay. His breath was coming quicker now, and he could feel his heart racing in his chest. He didn’t want to think about it—didn’t want to remember that night or everything that he had done. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, an old wound that hadn’t healed.

It was like he couldn’t escape it— no matter how hard he tried. 

Things would be different in New York and he wouldn’t have to be reminded of it every day. Hell, if he tried hard enough, he would never have to say a single word about what he had done or who he had been before college to anyone he met. He wouldn’t have to remember everything and he wouldn’t have to be sitting here feeling more guilt spur into his chest than any other emotions. 

Even if the thought of leaving the gang made that guilt all the more suffocating. 

They’re better off without you. 

Dally and Two-Bit stumbled back into the house, their voices fading into the noise of the party. Ponyboy barely registered it. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, his mind spinning. Johnny stayed, though. He didn’t say anything, just watched Ponyboy with those quiet, understanding eyes. He didn’t have to say it—Ponyboy could feel the concern rolling off of him, the silent question hanging in the air.

“You okay?” Johnny asked softly, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the night.

Ponyboy didn’t respond right away, just stared down at the water in his hands, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He nodded after a beat, but he could feel Johnny’s eyes on him, knowing he wasn’t buying it.

Johnny didn’t push, just ran a hand through his hair and sighed. That sound—it made Ponyboy’s chest hurt even more. He hated that look on Johnny’s face, the one that said he was worried. They’d all been worried enough.

“…Sorry,” Ponyboy muttered, leaning into the porch railing, his voice so low it barely made it out. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling like his skin was too tight.

Johnny blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. “What you apologizing for?”

Ponyboy shrugged, forcing himself to stare at the ground. There was no way to explain it—how everything inside of him felt wrong, like he was just a weight pulling everyone down. But there were no words, and even if there were, no one would get it. Not really.

Johnny’s frown deepened, but he didn’t push. “Ain’t no reason to be sorry for anything, Pony. Not with me.”

Ponyboy offered a shrug once again that barely counted as one. He knew Johnny meant well, but he wasn’t about to unload everything tangled up in his head. They had enough to deal with without him dragging them into his mess. Besides, New York would be different. He’d be out of their lives soon enough—out of the way.

Johnny’s voice cut through the quiet, soft but firm. “Whatever you’re thinkin’... it’s wrong.”

Ponyboy’s stomach tightened, and he glanced up. Johnny wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the night sky, a far-off look on his face, the kind he got when he was remembering things he didn’t talk about.

“I used to think that way too,” Johnny muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like maybe everything would be easier if I wasn’t around. But it ain’t true.”

Ponyboy’s heart skipped a beat. The sudden weight of Johnny’s words made his chest feel tight, like a cold hand was gripping it. He hadn’t heard Johnny talk like this in years—not since things were worse and Johnny didn’t come around as often as he did now. 

He opened his mouth to respond, but Johnny shook his head before he could get a word out.

“I ain’t sayin’ it to upset you, Ponyboy,” Johnny said quietly, turning to meet his gaze. “But you need to stop thinkin’ like that.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, that heavy feeling pressing down on him even more. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” Johnny’s voice was steadier now, his gaze unwavering. “And you’re wrong. We need you around. Don’t start thinkin’ we don’t.”

The air between them felt heavier, like there were things neither of them knew how to say. Ponyboy shifted on his feet, biting the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t ready to talk, wasn’t ready to even think about all the stuff he’d been keeping buried.

Ponyboy looked at him, a bit of shock going through him at the sudden urgency of his words. The two of them stared at each other for a moment; Johnny sighed again, the sound heavy with exhaustion and something like understanding. He didn’t push the conversation any further. Instead, he just stayed beside Ponyboy, quiet as ever, his presence enough to remind Ponyboy he wasn’t alone, no matter how much it felt like he was drifting.

The sound of Two-Bit’s laughter, loud and unmistakable, carried over from the house, followed by Dally’s grumbled curse. Inside, the party was still going strong, oblivious to the two boys out on the porch trying to hold things together. They stared back out into the night, Johnny quietly taking his hand while smoking with the other one. Ponyboy gripped it back just as tight, taking a long drag as he tried his best to keep his eyes from heating up.

God, he always fucked everything up. 

Chapter Text

July 31st, 1968

"Ponyboy, I really expected better from you."

Mrs. Rollens' voice was soft, almost too gentle, as if she thought he'd break if she said it any louder. Her eyes were filled with a strange mix of disappointment and pity, and it made Ponyboy's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"But," she continued, folding her hands on her desk, "I know why this happened, and because of that, I’m going to be lenient with you."

Ponyboy sat slumped in the chair in front of her desk. It was the last week of junior year, the halls buzzing with the excitement of summer looming just around the corner. But here he was—no way to fix what was in front of him. The weight of his failure sat heavy in his chest, pressing down like a rock. He’d really messed up this time. He stared down at the floor, his hands gripping the edge of the chair. He hadn’t studied at all for the final exam—not even a moment. And now he’d failed it. Failed. The word felt foreign to him. He’d never failed anything before. But lately… he’d been so tired. So worn out that he just couldn’t bring himself to crack open a book. He just needed a break, for once.

Waking up at 6 a.m., going to school, practice, homework, study sessions that stretched late into the night—then lying in bed for hours, wide awake until 2 a.m., his mind racing with everything he hadn’t done yet. Then getting up and doing it all over again. Every single day. There was no room to breathe. No room to mess up. But he had. He was drowning, and he didn’t know what to do. 

He’d thought he could get away with skipping just one study session. Just one. What was the harm? He had other finals, other classes, and there was only so much he could juggle at once. He’d been so sure he could pull it off.

But he’d been wrong.

When he saw his grade drop from an 80 to a 65, it had felt like the world stopped turning. His throat had closed up, and he’d had to fight the tears threatening to spill over right there in class. The embarrassment was suffocating. The failure was crushing. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how bad it was—he could feel it in his bones. And yet, when Mrs. Rollens had handed back the paper, she’d looked at him with that same sad, sympathetic expression, like she knew exactly what was going on behind his eyes. It only made him want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

“I know the last year has been hard on you with everything,” Mrs. Rollens said, breaking through his thoughts. She reached for his report card and adjusted his grade in neat, precise handwriting. “Besides, you’ve gotten 90s on everything else you’ve taken—this was just a misstep.”

She slid the paper toward him, the new grade—81%—written in black ink at the top of the page. A gift. A second chance.

"I’m going to let it go. But you need to bring in your guardian's signature before the end of the week for it to be final. Okay?"

Ponyboy blinked at the report card, the numbers swimming in his vision. His heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. Darry’s signature. He’d have to show this—the exam with a large red F on the front— to Darry. His stomach churned at the thought.

“Okay,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Rollens gave him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I believe in you, Ponyboy. You’re going to be fine.”

Fine. The word echoed in his mind, hollow and meaningless. He forced himself to nod, even though he didn’t believe it for a second.

As he stood to leave, the weight on his shoulders felt heavier than ever. He should be relieved. Mrs. Rollens had just saved his grade, saved him from even more trouble. But instead, all he could think about was the look Darry would give him when he showed him the report card. The quiet disappointment. The frustration.

Ponyboy couldn’t tell Darry what really happened—couldn’t admit how close he was to falling apart. Not when Darry already had so much on his plate. Not when he was trying so hard to be everything Ponyboy needed him to be. His fingers gripped the edge of the report card as he walked out of the classroom, the halls of the school suddenly feeling too bright, too loud. Kids were laughing, shoving each other as they passed, their voices blending into a background noise he couldn’t escape.

All Ponyboy wanted was to get out. 

–

“It’s just one movie,” Ponyboy muttered, his voice tight as he tugged the collar of his sweatshirt higher around his neck. The fabric felt heavy against his skin, almost suffocating in the heat, but he wasn’t going to take it off. Not today. “I’ll be there and back in no time.”

Sodapop leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, a lazy smile on his face like he knew exactly where this was going. “I’m just saying, maybe you should wait for Dal or Johnny,” he said, his tone light but with that familiar hint of concern underneath. “I ain’t telling you to stay, just—maybe it’s better if you don’t go alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ponyboy whispered, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. He didn’t feel fine. He hadn’t slept much the night before, his thoughts running in circles until the early hours. Now it was barely nine in the morning, and already his eyelids were heavy.

Soda saw it. Of course he did. He always knew when something was off.

“Pone.”

The sound of his name made him stop. Soda’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, his grip firm but not overbearing. It was the kind of touch that said more than words could. A soft, knowing look passed between them, and for a moment, Ponyboy felt that familiar pang of guilt.

He knew what Soda was thinking. Knew why he was worried.

Ponyboy glanced down at his sweatshirt, feeling the weight of it clinging to his skin despite the heat outside. They both knew why he was wearing it, but neither of them was going to bring it up. Not directly.

“You’re gonna roast in that thing,” Soda said with a huff of laughter, though his eyes didn’t match the laughter.

Ponyboy swallowed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good,” he murmured, shifting his bag over his shoulder. “I get cold easy, you know that.”

Soda’s smile faltered for just a second, but he didn’t push it. He never did, even when he could—even when he should. Instead, he sighed, letting his hand fall from Pony’s shoulder. 

“You know I ain’t trying to keep you cooped up or nothing,” he said, softer now. “I just don’t like you being out there alone, especially with—well, you know.”

Ponyboy felt a familiar tightness in his chest, things kept getting worse ever since Two-Bit had gotten jumped. All the gangs were talking about it around town, thinking about a rumble. But for once, the Socs seem to be trying to plan out what they were doing— and everyone knew why. Johnny and Ponyboy were practically on house arrest enough as it was, he was lucky that Sodapop wasn’t giving him more grief for going. 

But, Soda never did. Not anymore. 

“I just need some air,” Ponyboy muttered, more to himself than to Soda.

Soda’s eyes softened. He reached out again, but this time it was more of a pat on the arm, like he was giving in. “Alright. Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay? You got a blade?”

Ponyboy nodded, the weight of the metal pulling down on his baggy jeans; Darry kept talking about taking him shopping for clothes but he didn’t want to make his brother pay for more than they needed. It wasn’t Darry’s fault he’d lost so much weight, nothing really sounded good to eat. There were some foods that Ponyboy gravitated towards, foods that his mom and dad made frequently—even the spaghetti that Sodapop loved. But he never missed the way his brothers eyes would crinkle with concern when he barely finished his meals. He hated making Soda worry, hated the way things had shifted between them recently. Same with Darry. 

But even as he stood there, wrapped in the comfort of his too-warm sweatshirt, he couldn’t bring himself to back down.

Soda smiled again, but there was a flicker of something deeper behind it. “I’ll see you later, alright?” he said, his voice still easy, but with that brotherly concern lingering in the air.

“Yeah,” Ponyboy mumbled, heading toward the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

As he stepped outside, the hot summer air hit him like a wall, and for a brief second, he considered turning around, peeling off the sweatshirt, and staying home. But he couldn’t. He needed this—the space, the time to clear his head. He couldn’t let them keep worrying about him, he was tired of being the reason everyone was on edge. 

He just need to get out for a few hours. 

—

The movie was playing on the far side of town, right in the middle of the neighborhoods where the houses looked more like mansions. The kind with perfectly manicured lawns and shiny new cars in the driveway. Even though he knew better, Ponyboy didn’t bother taking the longer way around, or checking for a different movie on his side of town. The gang always gave him hell for it, Dally and Darry especially. 

But Pony had made up his mind—he was sick and tired of being scared all the time. 

He wanted to see Rosemary's Baby , this new horror movie that had everyone screaming in the theaters. He loved horror movies, it gave him this thrill that he didn’t get often without some pain to show for it. He couldn’t convince any of the gang to come with him, that he was sure of—maybe, Two-Bit but he just joked around when he was scared of something. Nothing is scary when the person next to you is cracking jokes about the film the whole time. This film was all anyone had been talking about since it came out a few weeks ago, and today was the last day it was showing. He would be damned if these Socs kept him away from one of the only things that gave him comfort anymore. 

His hands clenched inside the pockets of his sweatshirt as he walked, the warmth of the fabric clinging to him in the early afternoon sun. He knew he wouldn’t get back before his brothers got home from work. But he couldn’t turn back, especially when he had already crossed to the other side of town. 

As he walked to the theater, the heat from the sun settled over him, and he tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, feeling the sweat gathering underneath. He knew he should’ve left the sweatshirt behind—it was way too hot for it—but there was no way he’d take it off. Not today. Not any day. He’d rather be hot than seen.

Once he reached the theater, the cool blast of air inside hit him, offering relief from the stifling heat outside. Ponyboy handed over his ticket, muttering a quiet "thanks" to the usher, and made his way to the middle row. He always liked to sit in the middle—close enough to get lost in the screen but far enough from the crowds so he wouldn’t feel boxed in.

He sank down into the cushioned chair and let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The lights dimmed, and the soft glow of the screen flickered to life, casting shadows across the room. Around him, the murmur of conversation, the crinkle of popcorn bags, and the occasional cough faded into the background. He wasn’t thinking about that anymore. He was in his place—his escape.

Movies had always been his way out. When he watched a film, it was like the world melted away for a little while. He didn’t have to worry about Darry watching him too closely, or Sodapop trying to read his mind. He didn’t have to worry about anything, really. For a couple of hours, he could step into someone else’s shoes, live their story, and forget about his own.

The opening scenes of the movie washed over him, the soft glow of the screen pulling him in. The eerie atmosphere, the dim lighting—it should’ve made him uneasy, but instead, it settled him. There was something safe about being in the dark with nothing but the story unfolding in front of him. He could just watch, let the movie carry him, and for a little while, forget about everything else.

As the plot thickened, Ponyboy felt his muscles relax. His ribs still ached, but the distraction was enough to make him forget about the pain. He leaned back in his seat, pulling his knees up slightly, and lost himself in the rhythm of the dialogue and the images flickering on the screen. His mind would drift sometimes, thinking about what he needed to do when he got back home or if he’d be in trouble for staying too late. He wandered if he’d get into another argument with his brothers, he wondered if it would be worse if they didn’t say anything at all. 

He dug his fingers into the armrest, trying to force himself back into the movie, to focus on anything but the mess of thoughts swirling in his head. He didn’t want to think about the bruises hidden under his shirt, didn’t want to remember the sharp sting of fists or the feeling of helplessness that came with it.

The credits started rolling, but Ponyboy hadn’t absorbed half of the film. He blinked, the sudden brightness of the theater lights making him squint. Around him, people stood, stretching and chatting as they filed out of the room. Ponyboy stayed still for a moment longer, his hands still gripping the armrest, as if he could stay in the dark a little while longer.

But the moment was over. The movie had ended, and real life was waiting outside. He stood up slowly, his ribs protesting the movement, and made his way to the exit. The warmth of the sun hit him hard as he stepped outside, but it didn’t bring the comfort it usually did.

He hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

As he walked, his thoughts lingered on the heavy weight of Darry’s words, on the fights they’d had, the expectations neither of them knew how to talk about. Ponyboy’s heartbeat quickened as he rounded a corner, moving deeper into the nicer neighborhoods. The air felt thick, and the growing sense of unease settled back over him like a heavy blanket.

He finally reached closer to his side of town, sighing in relief as the streets got familiar and the restaurants held memories in his mind. But that didn’t help much because that’s when he heard the sound of a car rolling up. 

Faint, but unmistakable. His pulse spiked.

Ponyboy glanced over his shoulder, the sound of distant voices growing closer. He could feel the panic starting to bubble up in his chest.

It was happening again.

—

Ponyboy sat in the passenger seat, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, his heart thudding in his chest. He knew the conversation was coming—he could feel it in the way Darry’s jaw clenched, the silence between them heavy and charged. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the cracked roads as they drove home.

Darry hadn’t said much after picking him up, just the usual “How was school?” and a nod when Ponyboy mumbled back something vague. He hadn’t brought up Mrs. Rollens or the report card yet, but Ponyboy could feel it looming over them, Darry knew something was off.

The car’s engine hummed steadily as Darry turned the corner toward their street. Ponyboy kept his gaze fixed out the window, watching the familiar houses blur by, trying to steady his breathing. His bag felt heavier than usual, the weight of the report card pressing against his back, the memory of the look on his teacher's face clear in his mind.

He knew Darry had expectations—big ones. College had always been the goal, ever since he could remember. Darry hadn’t gotten that chance, and now it was all on Ponyboy to do what Darry couldn’t. It was a lot of pressure, but Ponyboy knew Darry just wanted the best for him. Still, it didn’t make moments like this any easier.

They pulled into the driveway, the tires crunching over the gravel. Darry put the car in park but didn’t move to get out. Instead, he sat there for a moment, staring straight ahead. Ponyboy could feel the tension building like a dam about to burst.

"So, what did Mrs. Rollens have to say?" Darry asked finally, his voice low, carefully measured.

Ponyboy’s throat went dry. His hand tightened around the strap of his backpack, knuckles turning white. He could lie. He could make something up—anything to avoid this conversation. But Darry would find out eventually.

"I... I failed the exam," Ponyboy said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Darry’s head snapped toward him, and for a second, there was nothing but stunned silence. Ponyboy could see the flicker of shock in Darry’s eyes before it was replaced with something else—disappointment. It was subtle at first, but then it hit, sharp and cutting, like a knife twisting in his gut.

"You what?" Darry’s voice was tight, controlled, but Ponyboy could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface.

"I failed the exam," Ponyboy repeated, his voice trembling. He didn’t dare meet Darry’s eyes.

The silence stretched on, unbearable. Darry didn’t yell—not yet. He just sat there, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were turning white. Ponyboy braced himself for what was coming next.

"I thought you said you passed," Darry said, voice forcefully calm and Ponyboy wondered if it was because they had promised Sodapop they’d stop fighting so much. They’d been doing better. 

"I did," Ponyboy shot out. "I mean, Mrs. Rollens... she changed my grade. She bumped it up to a passing score, but I—"

"What?" Darry cut him off, his voice rising just a fraction as disbelief flooded his voice. "Why didn’t you pass it in the first place?"

Ponyboy felt his chest tighten, his heart pounding in his ears. He knew this was bad. He could feel the weight of Darry’s disappointment crushing down on him, suffocating him.

"I did my best," Ponyboy mumbled, irritation settling in his chest.

Darry never understood, he was always perfect—how would he be able to understand? 

"Your best isn’t good enough," Darry shot back, his voice hard. "You think I’m on your case for fun? You think I don’t see how smart you are? I’m pushing you because I know what you’re capable of—because I know you can make something of yourself. You could have a future, Pony. You could get out of here."

"Maybe I don’t want to get out of here!" The words exploded from Ponyboy before he could stop them, his voice cracking with anger. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t breathe. 

Darry jerked back like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, his eyes shot to Ponyboy with shocked confusion. 

“What are you talking about? Of course you do. You’ve got a shot at something better, and you’re going to throw it away? For what? To stay here and end up like—" Darry cut himself off, his hands gripping the wheel so hard it looked like it might snap.

Ponyboy’s breath hitched. He knew what Darry had been about to say. He didn’t need to finish the sentence. To stay here and end up like Mom and Dad. Or worse—like the rest of them. Stuck. Always trying to claw their way out of something but never getting far enough.

"That’s not fair," Ponyboy said, his voice quieter now but still trembling. "You don’t understand."

Darry’s jaw tightened, his knuckles going white against the steering wheel. “Then explain it to me, Pony! Make me understand! Because right now, all I see is you not even trying. I push you because I know what it’s like to lose everything. You think I want to be on your case all the time? To argue with you day and night? You think I want to make things harder for you?”

His brother's voice was so desperate, like he was trying so hard to understand something that he never could, like he was fighting for a relationship that was long gone. 

“I don’t know!” Ponyboy’s voice cracked, his hands clenched hard. “Maybe you do! Maybe I’m just not good enough for you, no matter what I do!”

Darry flinched like Ponyboy had hit him and for a long moment, Darry didn’t say anything. 

His eyes were hard, his expression unreadable. Ponyboy could feel his own heart racing, the tension between them growing heavier with every passing second. And then Darry’s voice came, quiet but there was this tone of disbelief trembling with anger. 

“I’ve given everything for you, Ponyboy. Everything. So you could have a shot at a life that isn’t like mine. But I guess you don’t care. You’re wasting it. And you know what? Mom and Dad would be so disappointed in you.”

The words hung in the air, slicing through the silence like a knife. Ponyboy felt the world tilt beneath him. It was like Darry had ripped the ground out from under his feet. The air in his lungs vanished, and for a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

His chest tightened painfully, the weight of Darry’s words crushing him. Disappointed. His parents… the thought tore through him, and all he could do was sit there, stunned, unable to find the words to fight back. Darry didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but Ponyboy saw the flash of regret that flickered across his brother’s face. He knew. He knew he’d gone too far.

“I…” His brother wiped a hand down his face, his look of deep regret crawling down his features as he took in a deep breath. “Ponyboy I–” 

“I’m not… I’m not throwing it away,” Ponyboy managed to whisper, his throat burning, the tears threatening to fall. “I just can’t—I don’t know what you want me to be. I’m trying.”

Darry’s hands tightened on the wheel. The silence between them was suffocating now, thick with things neither of them knew how to say. Ponyboy swallowed hard, fighting the tears. He didn’t want Darry to see how badly those words had hurt.

Darry let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair, frustration and regret pulling at his features. “I know you are,” he muttered, more to himself than to Ponyboy. “I’m trying too, Pony. I’m trying so damn hard to make this work, but you make it so hard when you fight me all time.”

Ponyboy’s voice was barely audible. “I know.” 

The words hung in the air as they pulled into the driveway. They both sat there for a moment, neither of them moving. The heavy weight of what had been said sat between them like a wall, impossible to ignore.

Darry sighed again, rubbing his hand across his face, weary now. “We’ll talk about this later.” His voice was quieter, almost resigned.

Ponyboy nodded, his heart still pounding. He grabbed his bag, the weight of the report card inside feeling like a boulder strapped to his back. He thought about saying something, about trying to fix the mess that had just unfolded, but he couldn’t find the words.

As he stepped out of the car, the evening air felt cold against his skin, and the silence between them seemed even colder. Something had changed between them. Something that felt irreparable. And as the door shut behind him, Ponyboy couldn’t shake the gnawing, hollow feeling that Darry’s words had left behind. 

Mom and Dad would be so disappointed.

—

Don’t turn around. Don’t look. Just keep walking.

He picked up his pace, his heart thudding faster with each step. The car wasn’t just passing by—it was slowing down. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Socs.

His mind flashed back to the last time he’d heard that sound—the night by the fountain. The terror of being held underwater, the icy coldness seeping into his bones, the feeling of drowning. It all came rushing back, the fear choking him like it had that night, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

The car screeched to a stop in front of him, blocking his path, and Ponyboy felt his stomach drop. He forced himself to stand still, to keep his expression neutral, but his heart was slamming against his ribs. He could feel the sweat on his palms, his legs tensing as though ready to bolt—but there was nowhere to go.

Laughter echoed from the car as the doors opened, and several Socs spilled out onto the street. The leader, a tall guy with dark hair perfectly combed, sauntered toward him with a grin that made Ponyboy’s skin crawl. He knew that look all too well—it was the same one Bob had worn before they dragged him to the fountain.

“Well, well, look what we’ve got here,” the leader sneered. His voice was lazy, dripping with false amusement, but there was an edge to it. The kind of edge that promised things would go south, fast. “Out alone, Greaser? Thought you’d all learned your lessons by now.”

Ponyboy didn’t say anything. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy. Think, Pony, think. He could run, but they’d catch him. Fight? He wasn’t tuff like Dally. He’d maybe have stood a chance against two a year ago but between the weight loss and his own panic—there was no way he could. And there was absolutely no way, he could take on five Socs by himself. 

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” The leader stepped closer, his smile gone now. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Ponyboy clenched his fists at his sides, trying to steady his breathing, but his mind was racing, heart hammering in his ears. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to run, to do something , but his legs wouldn’t move. All he could see was that fountain, the water closing over his head, the icy cold filling his lungs as he struggled, panicking, knowing he was going to die—

He yanked out his blade, he wasn’t actually going to use it, or maybe he was, he was just scared. 

But before he could get it out, the leader grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the nearest wall. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up his spine, and for a moment, everything went blurry. He blinked, his breath catching in his throat as the Soc leaned in, his face inches from Ponyboy’s.

“Oh, sorry did you need this?” One of his buddies asked, reaching down and grabbing the switch Dally had just given him. He placed it into the back of his pocket like it was a trophy to be held. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” The guy who had him pinned to the wall muttered. “Too scared to talk, huh? There isn’t anything to be scared about Grease, we’re all just having a nice chat.” 

Ponyboy gritted his teeth, forcing his head to clear. Get it together, Curtis. You can’t show them you’re scared. But he was scared—more scared than he’d ever been. This wasn’t some random run-in with the Socs. These guys… they weren’t just messing around.

Another Soc, standing behind the leader, frowned, squinting at Ponyboy as if trying to place him. “Hang on, now,” he said, stepping closer. “Isn’t this the kid? The one Randy was looking for?”

The leader turned, raising an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

The second Soc’s eyes widened slightly, his lips twisting into a mean look. “Yeah… yeah, that’s him. That’s one of the kids that stabbed Bob.”

Ponyboy felt his stomach twist violently. No. 

No , no, no.

He tried to pull free, but the leader’s grip tightened, his expression hardening as he looked Ponyboy up and down, realization dawning on him.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “It is him.”

Ponyboy’s heart sank. His mouth went dry. His pulse pounded so loud in his ears, he could barely hear anything else. The terror he’d felt earlier was nothing compared to what flooded through him now. He was no longer just another greaser on the wrong side of town. He was the kid who had nearly died at that fountain. The kid Johnny had killed for. And now, the friends of the guy who’d tried to drown him were standing right in front of him, piecing it all together.

They hated him. They hated him because of what Johnny had done for him. And now they had him cornered.

The leader’s expression shifted, a twisted smile spreading across his face. “Bob was a good friend of mine, you know,” he said, his grip tightening on Ponyboy’s collar. “We never got the chance to settle things after what your little buddy did. But maybe we can now.”

Ponyboy’s throat constricted, his mind reeling. He could feel the panic rising, threatening to choke him. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

Run.

His body screamed at him to move, but he couldn’t. He was trapped. His mind flashed back to the fountain, to Bob’s hands on him, to the water filling his lungs. He felt like he was drowning all over again.

The first punch landed square in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Ponyboy doubled over, gasping, but another fist caught him in the ribs before he could recover. Pain exploded through his side, and he barely had time to process it before another blow hit him hard in the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The pavement was cold beneath him, and everything felt distant. His vision blurred, his thoughts fractured. Johnny, where are you?

But Johnny wasn’t here. Johnny wasn’t coming to save him this time.

Laughter rang in his ears as one of the Socs kicked him in the side, sending another wave of pain shooting through his ribs. He tried to curl in on himself, to shield his body, but they kept coming, one guy grabbed him up to hold him while another hit him in the gut. 

His mind was spiraling, fragments of memories flashing through the haze. The fountain. The sound of Bob’s voice. The water. Johnny’s knife. And then… blood. So much blood.

“I bet you think you’re tough now, huh?” The leader’s voice cut through the fog, venomous and filled with hate. He crouched down next to Ponyboy, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head up so their eyes met. “Killing someone doesn’t make you anything but a murder .” 

He knocked the wind out of his chest. 

Ponyboy’s chest ached, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted to say something, to fight back, but the pain was too much. His ribs felt like they were on fire, every breath sending a sharp jolt through his chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

The world started to go dark at the edges, his vision tunneling as the pain became overwhelming. His heart pounded in his chest, fast and erratic, and for a second, he thought he might pass out.

But then, just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, a voice cut through the chaos—sharp, loud, and angry.

“ Hey! Get the hell off him! ”

The Socs froze, their heads snapping toward the source of the voice. Ponyboy barely registered what was happening, his mind too foggy, his body too broken, but he heard the sound of footsteps, heard the shouts, and suddenly the weight was lifted from him.

The voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Ponyboy blinked, lifting his head just enough to see three figures charging down the alleyway. Relief surged through him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a new wave of fear. The greasers were coming to his aid, but they were from a different gang. He recognized them as part of Shepard's crew, no one he recognized on site but he was relieved none the less.  

The Socs hesitated, exchanging a quick glance, but the leader, sensing the odds were no longer in his favor, barked out, “Let’s go!” His voice was sharp, cutting through the cold night air. The gang scrambled back to their car in a frenzy, their shoes scuffing against the pavement, leaving the scene in a trail of revving engines and screeching tires.

Ponyboy lay on the ground, his body tight, instinctively curling into himself as pain surged through his ribs like an electric shock. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Everything hurt, but the adrenaline was still coursing through him, numbing the worst of it. His vision blurred for a second, and the sharp sting of cold against his skin made him all too aware of the blood trickling down the side of his mouth.

He was barely aware of the greasers who came to his aid, their footsteps a thudding rhythm on the cracked pavement. One of them rushed past him, making a break for the car, arms outstretched as if he could catch one of the retreating Socs. He cursed loudly when he came up short.

The other two loomed over him, casting shadows in the dim streetlight. “You’re a Curtis, right?” one asked, crossing his arms. His voice was gruff but curious.

Ponyboy struggled to focus, blinking against the dizzying ache in his head. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough, his throat raw. His heart pounded erratically, the adrenaline refusing to let go.

“You good?” the greaser asked, his brow furrowing as he looked down at him, eyes dark with suspicion or maybe concern—Ponyboy couldn't tell. The question seemed too casual for the tension still humming in the air.

“Yeah, just a couple of punches,” Ponyboy forced out, trying to play it off like it was nothing. But his ribs screamed with every breath, and his legs felt like jelly beneath him. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt.

The greaser wasn’t buying it. He smirked, though his expression hardened with a flicker of something that looked like pity. “You sure? You look like you got your ass handed to you.”

“I said I’m fine,” Ponyboy shot back, his voice sharper than he intended. He winced as he pushed himself to his feet, one hand pressing against his side to stop the burning pain that flared up. The world tilted for a second, but he forced himself to stay upright. He had to look like he could handle this.

The greaser shrugged, his smirk fading. “Whatever, man. Just keep your head up,” he said, turning away. “They’re gettin’ bold comin’ over here,” he muttered, more to himself, as he gestured for the others to follow. The sound of their footsteps faded, leaving Ponyboy standing there alone.

He swallowed hard, wiping at the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. His legs shook as he took a tentative step, the throbbing in his ribs making it hard to breathe. But he couldn’t stay here. He had to go. The cold seeped into his skin, and his whole body felt heavy, like it was about to collapse under the weight of everything.

Ponyboy glanced around the dark, empty streets as he walked, the night closing in on him. Every shadow seemed sharper, more threatening, and his mind replayed the attack in flashes, reminding him how close he’d come to something worse. He hadn’t fought back hard enough, hadn’t been fast enough. His brothers would’ve torn into him if they knew. Darry would have—

He forced the thought away, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he trudged home.

When Ponyboy finally made it home, the house was dark, quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He was thankful that it seemed no one was home yet, they must have gone to the races. His ribs ached with every step, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning out loud. He didn’t want to wake anyone. He didn’t want to explain.

He stood in the doorway of the living room, leaning heavily against the frame as he kicked his shoes off. The tension in his muscles was unbearable, a knot of pain and exhaustion. He could hear Darry’s soft snoring from down the hall, and for a moment, Ponyboy thought about going into his room, waking him up just to tell him what happened. Maybe Darry would understand. Maybe he’d know what to say to make it better.

But then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

The words stuck in his throat. What could he even say? Darry was already on him too much, and this would just give him another reason to watch him like a hawk. Ponyboy hated it, that look Darry gave him—the one that was always on edge, like he was just waiting for something to go wrong. Telling him about the jump wouldn’t help. It’d just make things worse.

Ponyboy dropped onto the couch instead, carefully lying back as he closed his eyes, his body stiff and sore. His hand hovered over his ribs, but he didn’t press down. He didn’t want to think about how close it had been, how out of control he’d felt. He’d be fine. He had to be. He wouldn’t give Darry or anyone else another reason to think he couldn’t take care of himself. 

—

"You ok?" Sodapop's voice was soft, almost hesitant as he crawled into bed beside him, the familiar scent of cheap soap and cigarettes clinging to him. It was late, but not late enough for Ponyboy to be in bed already, and they both knew it. "You don’t go to bed this early usually."

Ponyboy didn’t respond right away, his body stiff as he lay on his side, facing the wall. The fabric of his shirt clung uncomfortably to the sweat and dirt still on his skin, his muscles sore and aching from the fight earlier. His ribs burned with every shallow breath, but he kept quiet, not wanting to give anything away.

"I’m just tired," he muttered, his voice low, the words half-muffled by the pillow. It wasn’t a complete lie—he was exhausted, but not in the way he wanted his brother to think. He shifted slightly, wincing as the rough sheets brushed against his bruised ribs. He was thankful he was facing away from Sodapop, hiding the pain on his face.

Soda wasn’t convinced, though. "You sure?" he asked, his tone gentle but probing. He wasn’t pushing too hard yet, but Ponyboy knew the concern was there, just under the surface.

Ponyboy swallowed, trying to keep his breathing steady, ignoring the way his heart pounded uncomfortably against his sore chest. "Yeah. I’m fine." He forced the words out, even though his voice cracked slightly.

He could feel Sodapop’s eyes on his back, studying him, probably noticing the way his shoulders were hunched, the tension that hadn’t left his body since he crawled into bed. There was a long pause, and Ponyboy held his breath, hoping Soda would just let it go.

But Sodapop never did.

“You know,” Soda began, his voice softer, more casual like he was trying not to spook him, “if something’s bothering you, you can talk to me, right?”

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut, wanting so badly to say everything—the jump, the punches, the way his ribs still ached—but the words stuck in his throat. He bit his lip, still faintly tasting blood from earlier.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, the word barely making it past his lips. He knew how weak it sounded.

There was a long pause, the kind that made Ponyboy’s heart beat faster, hoping Soda wouldn’t push.

But then Sodapop spoke again, his voice a little quieter, more serious. “It just feels like… you’ve been somewhere else lately. Like I’m talkin’ to you, but you’re miles away.” He paused, his tone lighter but still carrying that weight. “I’m not tryin’ to bug you, I just don’t want you goin’ through somethin’ alone, you know?”

Again. Going through it again, is what he didn’t say. 

Ponyboy’s throat tightened, the lump there making it even harder to speak. The silence dragged on, and he could feel the concern hanging in the air. Soda let out a soft sigh, a familiar sound that told Ponyboy his brother was still watching out for him, even if he didn’t have all the pieces yet.

“Alright,” Soda finally said, his voice easing back to its usual warmth, though there was still a hint of worry. “You don’t have to say anything now, but just… don’t shut me out, okay? I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Ponyboy nodded weakly, not trusting himself to speak again. He could hear Soda shifting on the bed next to him, getting comfortable.

“Get some sleep, little buddy. I’ll be here in the morning,” Soda added softly.

Ponyboy swallowed, the words thick in his throat as he nodded, though Sodapop couldn’t see it. He kept his back to his brother, his face buried in the pillow, trying to ignore the sharp ache in his ribs and the dull throbbing in his side. He could feel the bruises forming, knew they’d be worse in the morning. But what bothered him more than the physical pain was the feeling that he’d let his guard down again. He hadn’t wanted to be scared anymore, but here he was, crawling back into bed like a wounded animal, hiding from his own brother.

The room grew quiet, the soft sound of Sodapop’s breathing eventually evening out as he drifted off to sleep. But Ponyboy stayed awake, his mind replaying the attack in flashes. The fists, the kicks, the helplessness. He tried to push it all away, to focus on anything else, but every time he closed his eyes, it all came rushing back.

And through it all, that same, nagging thought whispered in the back of his mind: I should’ve listened. I should’ve waited for Dal or Johnny. I shouldn’t have gone alone.

But it was too late for that now. All he could do was lie there, waiting for sleep that didn’t come, trying not to let the pain and guilt swallow him whole.

Chapter Text

July 3rd, 1968 

“Come on, honey,” Darry’s voice was softer than Ponyboy had ever heard it, barely above a whisper, like he was scared to speak too loudly. “Don’t you wanna see them before it’s time?”

Ponyboy could only shake his head, his throat too tight to speak. He didn’t want to see them. He couldn’t see them. The casket felt like it was looming in the corner of his vision, dark and polished, its presence suffocating. His feet felt glued to the floor, the room pressing down on him like the walls were closing in. 

He remembered what they had looked like in those photos. The ones Darry had tried so hard to hide, shoving them under stacks of papers on the kitchen table when the cops came, but Ponyboy had seen them. He wasn’t supposed to, but he had. The mangled, broken bodies of his parents. His mom, her face bloody and bruised. His dad—what was left of him, anyway. He hadn’t been able to sleep since. The images haunted him, playing over and over in his mind like a horror reel he couldn’t shut off.

How long does it take for someone hit by a train to die? The thought kept looping in his mind, like an echo he couldn’t escape. Was it instant? Or had they felt the terror, the pain? Did they hear the horn blast before it happened, realize what was coming, and feel the world crashing down around them?

Did his mother see? Was she looking at his father in those final moments, helpless? Did she hear his screams or feel the crushing, brutal force? Could she feel the seatbelt pressing her too tight against the seat? Did her head snap—did she feel it break? Did his father feel his brain implode? Could they feel it?

If he looked again, if he saw them now—he’d know. He’d know the answer.

“I don’t…” he started, but his voice failed him, a choked whisper at best. He shook his head again, feeling smaller, more helpless than he had since the day of the accident.

Darry knelt in front of him, a hand on his shoulder, his face etched with helplessness. “Pone…” He didn’t know what else to say. There were no right words. Not for this. On the other side of the room, Sodapop was crying quietly, his face buried in his hands, Steve was standing next to him but it was no use. Darry’s eyes flicked between the two of his brothers, torn in a way that made Ponyboy’s chest ache even more.

The door to the back room creaked open, and the mortician stepped inside. She was a tall woman, her face lined with age but softened by something warm in the way she moved. Every gesture was deliberate, practiced, but her presence held a quiet kindness.

Darry’s hand was still on Ponyboy’s shoulder, steady but uncertain. "I know it’s hard," he whispered, though his voice sounded strained, as if he were pulled in two directions at once. “But I really think you should come see—“ 

Across the room, Sodapop’s quiet sobs broke through the silence, and Darry’s gaze flickered back and forth between his two brothers.

Soda needed him.

Ponyboy could feel the tension in the air, could see the way Darry hesitated, torn. He didn’t want to make him choose, didn’t want to add more weight to the burden Darry already carried. So, without thinking, Ponyboy gave a small nod, even though every part of him screamed to run.

Darry hesitated for just a moment longer before gently squeezing his shoulder and murmuring, “I’ll be back.” He crossed the room toward Sodapop, leaving Ponyboy standing there, suddenly feeling exposed, his heart pounding in his chest.

The mortician stepped forward quietly, filling the space Darry left behind. Her voice was low, careful, as if she knew exactly how fragile the moment was. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she said, her tone calm but filled with that quiet understanding. “They’ve been taken care of, they look peaceful.”

Ponyboy’s hands trembled at his sides. He remembered those photos—the twisted limbs, the broken bodies, images burned into his mind that no amount of reassurance could erase. He wasn’t sure he could believe her.

But she stayed beside him, her presence neither rushing him nor forcing him forward. Just there, solid in the stillness. After a long pause, she reached out, gesturing toward the casket. “Would you like to see them?” she asked softly.

Ponyboy’s throat tightened, his feet frozen in place. He wasn’t sure he could do it. But with Darry across the room, comforting Soda, he felt like he didn’t have a choice. Slowly, painfully, he nodded.

The mortician moved ahead, her steps light as if even the floor knew not to creak beneath her feet. The casket loomed large in front of him, polished and dark, the lid already open. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his chest felt tight, his breaths shallow. He was convinced that if he looked inside, all he would see was the wreckage—the same broken bodies from those photos, only worse, more real.

But when he finally lifted his eyes to look, it wasn’t like that at all.

His mother’s face was soft, peaceful in a way that made it seem like she was only sleeping. She looked whole. Fixed. Not like the images he had been carrying in his mind for days. His father lay beside her, just as serene, his expression calm. There was no sign of the violence, no sign of the brokenness that had haunted Ponyboy.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The weight he’d been carrying since the accident—the fear, the nightmares, the twisted, awful images—suddenly lightened, just a little.

“You fixed them,” Ponyboy whispered, barely a breath, his voice trembling. The mortician stood quietly beside him, letting the words hang in the air.

“They’re at peace,” she said gently, not pushing for more, just letting him take it in. “They’re okay now.”

Nothing was ok anymore, but she was right—they did look better, they didn’t look like they were in pain anymore.  Ponyboy’s breath hitched, his vision blurring with tears he hadn’t realized were falling. They didn’t look like the people from the photos anymore. They looked like his parents again. Like the woman who held him during storms. And the man who would put him on the top of his shoulders so he could reach up into the trees where his brothers would climb. 

“They’re okay,” he whispered to himself, the words shaky but real. 

His chest tightened with emotion, but the images in his mind, the ones that had tormented him, started to fade, replaced by the stillness of the scene in front of him. He kept staring at them, hoping the images would fade and they did slowly, just not right away. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t right.

But, at least they didn’t look like they were in pain anymore. 

—

Ponyboy woke with a scream, his body jolting upright as the terror from his nightmare clung to him. 

His ribs protested violently, a sharp, searing pain stabbing through his side, but it was drowned by the fear that still held him in its grip. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering in his chest, each beat reminding him of how trapped he still felt inside his own head. He wrapped his arms around his aching body, shaking uncontrollably, as if trying to hold himself together. It didn’t work. He felt like he was falling apart at the seams, the sob lodged in his throat finally breaking free. 

He hated this—hated feeling so weak, hated being the reason for the quiet footsteps that padded toward his room.

Within seconds, Sodapop was sitting up, pulling him into his arms without a word. Ponyboy clung to him, his body trembling, every sob tearing at the guilt that gnawed at his insides. He hated making them go through this—again. Every time felt worse than the last.

Sodapop’s embrace was warm and steady, and though Ponyboy could feel the exhaustion in the way his brother held him, it didn’t stop him from staying close. The quiet of the room was thick with the sound of sobs and quiet whispers of reassurances. 

This was the routine, the consent sleepless nights that had become all too familiar. This wasn’t new, it had been happening for months now. Sometimes twice a week, or once if he was lucky. It was routine, but that didn’t mean it was easy.

Ponyboy’s chest hitched as he sucked in another shallow breath, each inhale pulling against the bruises on his ribs. The pain throbbed, deep and relentless, but it wasn’t just the physical pain that made it hard to breathe. It was the guilt—the guilt of knowing that his brothers were drained, that he was the reason they had to keep doing this.

“It’s ok, honey. I got you.” 

He buried his face in Sodapop’s shoulder, trying to stifle the sobs that still shook his body. He could feel the weariness in Sodapop’s arms, in the way his brother’s hand gently rubbed slow circles on his back. Even in his exhaustion, Sodapop didn’t let go. His breathing was slow and deep, like he was trying to calm Ponyboy without saying anything. 

Darry entered the room quietly, his heavy steps as familiar as the night itself. Ponyboy didn’t lift his head, didn’t dare meet his older brother’s eyes, though he could sense him hovering nearby. He always felt terrible when Darry would climb out of bed each time to come and check on him, but it didn’t mean he didn’t want his brother there. 

Darry set a glass of water on the bedside table, his movements slow and deliberate. Ponyboy didn’t need to look up to know that his brother was tired too. He always was, especially now. The strain had become etched into his face, his features worn from the constantness of it all; this was all he could give his brothers anymore—this broken, shattered version of himself. 

Darry sat down beside the bed, close but not crowding, his hand finding its place on Ponyboy’s knee.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to, Darry gently gesturing to a glass of water on the bedside table. Ponyboy wiped at his eyes hard, reaching out to take a sip of water before hastily putting it back down. He met his oldest brother's eyes but immediately looked away as he met that tight, concerned expression. 

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back another wave of tears. He didn’t want to cry anymore, didn’t want to make this harder on them than it already was. He was supposed to be stronger. He shouldn’t need this much from them, not after everything they’d already done for him.

But even as the guilt twisted inside him, they never left him till he was ready. Sodapop’s grip never loosened, his hand never stopped moving in those steady, soothing circles, and Darry’s touch stayed solid on his knee, grounding him without forcing anything more than Ponyboy could give.

Eventually, the sobs tapered off, leaving only the soft, uneven breaths that still hitched occasionally in his chest. The pain in his ribs throbbed beneath the surface, but it wasn’t as sharp now—dulled by exhaustion more than anything.

Ponyboy didn’t move, didn’t pull away. He stayed there, pressed against Sodapop, feeling his brother’s chest rise and fall in that slow, rhythmic way that always calmed him, no matter how bad it was. Darry’s hand stayed where it was, a quiet reassurance, his thumb brushing soft, soothing patterns against Ponyboy’s leg. No matter how tired, no matter how strained, they’d stay.

Eventually, the tension in Ponyboy’s body began to ease, his eyelids growing heavy again as his exhaustion overtook him. His ribs still ached, but it was manageable now, like a dull hum in the background. What mattered was that his brothers were here, steady and unyielding, carrying him through the darkness without complaint.

The guilt didn’t go away—it never did—but there was no comfort like the one they could offer him. He just hated that he couldn’t seem to stop taking it from them, he felt like he was always taking and never offering anything back. And though Ponyboy hated being the reason for their exhaustion, he just couldn’t let go.

As his body sagged into Sodapop’s arms, sleep creeping in once more, he felt Darry rise from the bed, his hand finally lifting away. 

—

Ponyboy winced as he pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric brushing against his sore ribs. He gave one last glance in the mirror, his eyes trailing over the deep purple bruises that stretched across his side. At least nothing felt broken. He wasn’t about to worry his brothers more than he already had.

He glanced at the bottle of medication sitting by the sink, the orange label peeling from being handled too many times. Darry had been the one to remind him every day to take it, his voice tight with that controlled concern he always tried to mask with a smile. Ponyboy didn’t like taking it, not unless he had to. It always made him feel like a zombie, knocked out for hours, and there was too much to think about lately to waste the day sleeping.

He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the bottle. No migraines yet today, just a dull ache behind his eyes that hadn’t hit full force. He wanted to take one. But then he remembered the look on Darry’s face when the hospital bill came, the way his jaw tightened and his shoulders stiffened like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back. Ponyboy hated that look, hated knowing that he was part of the reason it was there. With a sigh, quietly put the pill back in the bottle and slipped it into the cabinet—he had to make these last. 

He grabbed out the aspirin bottle instead and stuck four in his mouth with practiced easy. 

By the time he wandered into the kitchen, Sodapop was already up, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand and a half-eaten piece of toast in the other. He gave Ponyboy a lopsided grin, his eyes bright despite the early hour.

“Mornin’, Pone. Did you end up gettin’ any sleep?”

“Yeah,” Ponyboy lied, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the counter. His ribs protested as he bent down, but he ignored it, keeping his movements slow and careful. The last thing he needed was Sodapop noticing anything was off.

Soda gave him a long look but didn’t push it. “Good. You got anything planned today?”

“Not really,” Ponyboy muttered, eyeing the apple in his hand uncertainty before sticking it in his bag. He wasn’t in the mood for much, but the thought of laying around the house all day wasn’t any better. “Might hang out with Two-Bit later.”

Sodapop nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “Darry’ll be back around 5ish. He said to remind you to take it easy, though.”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Soda.”

“I know you are, kid brother.” Sodapop’s tone was light, but there was that normal concern lurking just beneath the surface. “Just don’t overdo it, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ponyboy grumbled, tossing the apple core into the trash. He glanced at the clock, noting it was still early. The house was quiet, and it felt like one of those days where nothing much would happen. He almost preferred it that way. After the events of the past few days, a little peace wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Hey, maybe later we could hit up the drive-in?” Sodapop suggested, brightening at the thought. “Take a break, see a flick?”

Ponyboy shrugged, not committing to anything but not outright rejecting the idea. “Maybe.”

Soda smiled, clearly satisfied enough with that. “Well, I’m headin’ out to the station. Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone, alright?”

Ponyboy shot him a half-hearted grin. “No promises.”

As Soda grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, the house fell into a familiar stillness, the kind Ponyboy used to like but now found a little suffocating. He rubbed at his side absentmindedly, wincing at the soreness that still clung to him. He figured he’d head down to hangout with Two-Bit for a bit while then head over to the DX. 

He just needed to ride out these bruises and he’d feel just fine. 

— 

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of Ponyboy Curtis coming down to see me today?” Two-Bit asked, leaning back from the counter with that wide, lopsided grin. “Is it Christmas already, or am I just that lucky?”

Ponyboy didn’t visit friends at work much, unless it was his brother and Steve over at the DX. They had their routine there, and their boss barely batted an eye when he showed up. Two-Bit, though, wasn’t exactly the most focused worker when people dropped in, and Ponyboy didn’t want to be the reason his friend got canned. But Sodapop had been jittery all morning, watching him too closely, trying too hard not to hover, and Ponyboy knew his brother didn’t want to leave him alone. Not after the night they’d had.

So, here he was.

Two-Bit, as always, was a decent enough second choice.

“You’re full of it,” Ponyboy muttered, giving him a light wave as he slipped past to grab a Pepsi from one of the side fridges. 

Two-Bit didn’t say a word about it, just kept grinning, seemingly just glad his joke landed with Ponyboy enough to earn a response. His buddies face didn’t look so rough anymore and after going out with everyone he seemed in much higher spirits. 

It wasn’t like this place got much business anyway. Two-Bit had started working here, the mom-and-pop grocery store near his mom’s house, back when Ponyboy was still in high school. It’d been around forever, though most people went to that fancy new supermarket on the west side now. The place always smelled like a mix of stale bread and cleaning products, and the worn tile floors had lost their shine years ago. But Two-Bit seemed to like it well enough, always bragging about his discount on beer, and his mom had been thrilled he even graduated. Ponyboy figured it wasn’t so bad to work in a place where time seemed to stand still.

“You know,” Two-Bit said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “I get off in 20 here. Wanna go grab something to eat after?”

Ponyboy hesitated, looking down at the Pepsi in his hand. He wasn’t sure he was really up for much today, but the thought of food settled strangely in his stomach. He hadn’t had breakfast, and now that Two-Bit mentioned it, the dull ache of hunger was making itself known. Maybe a distraction wasn’t the worst idea.

Ponyboy nodded, staring at the bottle with mild irritation as he realized he didn’t have his switch anymore to open it. His mind flashed the guy who’d swiped it from him after they hit him in the gut, Dally had given him that after Two-Bit got jumped. He hoped the older greaser didn’t want it back. 

“You gonna drink that or just stare at it?” Two-Bit teased, rifling through his wallet to check how much cash he had. 

“We gonna go to the DX?” Ponyboy said instead, stirring the conversation back towards the main topic and ignoring the look Two-Big gave him. 

His buddy glanced up, catching the flatness in Ponyboy’s volice, and for a moment, his grin faltered. Just a moment, though, before he plastered it back on, shoving the wallet into his back pocket. 

“You gotta get out more, man. No way we’re going to the DX today—what about that burger place down the street? It’s cheap, greasy, and probably a heart attack waiting to happen. My kinda joint.”

Ponyboy gave a half-hearted chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Two-Bit’s banter was always light, but lately, it just felt like something distant, like a noise in the background that barely registered. He felt like he was moving through quicksand, like everything was just a little slower, a little harder to wade through. But he couldn’t show that, not here. Not to Two-Bit, who always had a joke on hand, always a laugh to keep the mood light.

He’d do it for Sodapop’s sake, he thought. At least make an effort. Even if it felt like that same heavy blanket was still wrapped around him, squeezing the air from his lungs.

“Yeah, alright,” Ponyboy agreed, voice softer than before.

The smile Two-Bit gave him was wide, but there was a flicker in his eyes now, the tiniest flash of something like concern. He didn’t press, though, that was something Ponyboy loved about his friend. Instead, he slapped the counter and stood up, pulling his vest off.

“You waitin’ here or you wanna help me close up?” Two-Bit asked, already moving toward the back.

Ponyboy didn’t really feel like sitting still. “I’ll help.”

As they moved around the store, collecting stray carts and locking up, Ponyboy felt the weight in his chest shift just a little. It was the mindless tasks, the busy work, that kept him grounded. Two-Bit’s chatter filled the silence, mostly about his mom’s latest date and some fight he saw at the bar last weekend. Ponyboy only half-listened, his thoughts slipping away as he followed behind Two-Bit through the aisles.

Around the fourth aisle, a pretty girl with blonde hair and a uniform made her way up to Two-Bit. Ponyboy didn’t pay her much mind at first, until he realized Two-Bit was laying on the charm, dropping cheesy lines with that goofy grin of his. They flirted for a minute or two, and Ponyboy watched the way Two-Bit always managed to make people laugh, even in a place as dull as this.

“Hey, can you stick this down there for me, kid?” Two-Bit asked, suddenly tossing him a box of macaroni with one hand while still leaning against the counter. “I’ll be right there.”

Ponyboy caught it, biting back the urge to roll his eyes. He gave Two-Bit a quick nod and turned down the aisle toward the pasta section, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above.

His mind wandered as he placed the box on the shelf, aligning it with the others. He thought about dinner—Sodapop had mentioned maybe making something tonight, but he hadn’t been acting like himself lately. Jumpy. Ponyboy frowned, remembering the way his brother had fussed over him this morning, trying to hide the worry in his voice but failing. The bruises on his ribs still ached, the deep purple fading into sickly yellow. He hadn’t given them much time to heal, still pushing himself more than he should have. But it was easier to deal with the physical pain than the way his head felt like it was always swimming in thoughts he couldn’t quite untangle.

He reached up absentmindedly to rub his side, wincing as his fingers brushed over one of the more tender spots. He could practically hear Darry’s voice in his head, telling him to take it easy, to stop running around so much. But Ponyboy didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to slow down and let everything catch up with him.

A voice behind him cut through his thoughts.

“Hey.”

Ponyboy turned, already starting to reply, “I don’t work—”

His voice caught in his throat, freezing as his eyes locked with Randy’s.

The two of them just stared at each other for a beat, the air around them suddenly thick with tension. Ponyboy’s heart pounded in his chest, and all at once, the memory of those Socs cornering him a few days ago came crashing back. The things they said. The way they looked at him.

Shit, shit, shit.

His throat felt tight, but he forced his voice out, trying to make it sound stronger than he felt. “What do you want.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a defense. A wall he was throwing up, something to keep Randy from seeing just how badly he wanted to bolt, to run back down the aisle and find Two-Bit. But his legs felt like lead, and his mind raced, scrambling for an exit.

Randy’s expression was hard to read, his eyes darting around like he was checking to make sure no one else was nearby. There was something uneasy about him, a tension that didn’t quite match the arrogant confidence Ponyboy remembered from the past. 

“I’m not here to start anything,” Randy said, holding up his hands like he was trying to make peace. “I just wanna talk.”

His words were clipped, tight with something unsaid.

Ponyboy didn’t move. “About what?”

“About Bob.” Randy’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he said the name. That name always hung heavy in the air. It had been a long time, but not long enough for any of them to forget. And for Randy, Ponyboy realized, it was never going to be long enough.

The mention of Bob's name sent a jolt of unease through Ponyboy, stirring up memories he’d been trying to shove aside for months. He was tired of the ghost of Bob Sheldon hanging over them—over everything—but no matter what he did, it always seemed to come back. Each year around the time Bob had died, greasers would get jumped and rumbles were quick to be scheduled. Randy hadn’t let it go, wasn’t like he’d hoped he would but he was just tired of being on edge all the time. 

“I thought we were past that,” Ponyboy said, his voice shaky but resolute. “It wasn’t our fault.”

Randy let out a short, humorless laugh, taking a step closer. “Is that what you tell yourself? Because from where I’m standing, my best friend is dead, and you—” His voice dropped, bitter and sharp, “—you’re still walking around like nothing happened.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard. “Johnny—he didn’t have a choice.” 

“No choice? No choice? ” Randy’s voice rose, anger bubbling to the surface. His eyes flicked over Ponyboy, narrowing. “You should’ve gone to prison for it, both of you.” 

There was a bitter twist in Randy’s voice, something that Ponyboy could feel crawling under his skin. He clenched his fists, the familiar anger and guilt twisting together, a tangled mess in his chest. He didn’t want to fight Randy—he didn’t want to dredge all of this up again—but Randy was pushing him, and part of him felt like he deserved it.

“I’m not doing this with you, Randy.” Ponyboy took a small step back, hoping to diffuse whatever this was before it went any further. His ribs were still sore, his body aching from more than just the bruises. He didn’t need another fight.

“Yeah, well maybe you should,” Randy shot back, his voice sharp and filled with venom. “You think you can just walk away from what happened? You think you can live your life like it doesn’t matter? Like Bob didn’t matter?”

Ponyboy stiffened, his heart racing. He wanted to say something—anything—to defend himself, but the words stuck in his throat. He had never been good at confronting the things he couldn’t fix. And no matter how many times he told himself it was self-defense, it never felt like enough.

Randy’s lips curled into a sneer, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You don’t get it, do you? You and your greaser friend killed him. And you didn’t even have to answer for it.”

Ponyboy’s chest tightened. He knew what Randy wanted. It wasn’t just about Bob anymore; it was about the unfairness of it all. Randy wanted justice—or at least, what he thought justice looked like.

“You both tried to kill me,” Ponyboy said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Randy’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, there was something unreadable in his expression—something dark and conflicted. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. Ponyboy’s pulse quickened, and he forced himself to stand his ground.

“You would have got what you deserved,” Randy said, his voice low and biting. “Your friend should have gone to the chair for what he did .”

Ponyboy didn’t see it coming. 

One second Randy was glaring at him, and the next, his fist was flying toward him. It wasn’t a hard hit—not enough to do real damage—but it was enough make his face burn, sending him stumbling back into the shelf behind him. Boxes of pasta clattered to the floor, the sound echoing around them.

Pain flared in his side from the impact, where the bruises hadn’t fully healed, and Ponyboy gritted his teeth, trying not to let it show. His face started radiating with heat immediately, and instinctively he raised his hand to his face to hold it. He should have expected it—should have known Randy might have hit him—but it still caught him off guard.

“I’m not letting you walk away from this,” Randy muttered, standing over him. “He killed my best friend. You got no idea how that—“ 

Ponyboy’s head was spinning, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He wanted to shout for Two-Bit, to get out of there before Randy could do any more damage. But before he could gather his thoughts, Randy was yanked back.

“ Hey, hey —what the hell’s going on here?”

Two-Bit’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, and suddenly he was between them, yanking Randy away from Ponyboy with more anger than he’d ever seen Two-Bit show.

“How many times am I gonna have to tell you to get lost?” Two-Bit growled, shoving Randy back with a firm hand, his voice low and dangerous. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t cracking a joke to ease the tension—he looked like a hood, true to the word.

Randy stumbled back but didn’t leave. He was breathing hard, chest heaving with rage, his fists still clenched at his sides. For a moment, it looked like he might take another swing. His eyes flicked to Ponyboy, then back to Two-Bit. The air was thick with hostility, the kind of tension that left Ponyboy's heart hammering in his chest.

“You better back the hell off before I knock your lights out,” Two-Bit warned, his voice cutting through the stillness. His jaw was tight, fists clenched, ready for a fight.

Randy stood there for a long second, glaring at both of them, his lips pulled back in a sneer. He was shaking with fury, barely keeping himself from lashing out again. “You think this is over?” His voice was shaking, bitter and twisted with grief and something darker. “You’ll get what’s coming to you. All of you.”

With that, Randy spat at Ponyboy’s feet—anger and disgust dripping from his words—before finally turning on his heel and stalking toward the front of the store, his boots echoing against the tile. Even as he left, his tension lingered in the air like smoke, choking the space between them.

Ponyboy stood frozen, still holding his face where Randy had struck him. The throbbing pain in his cheek matched the pounding in his head, but that wasn’t what bothered him most. It was Randy’s words, the way they clawed at him, sinking deep into the places he didn’t want to acknowledge. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. He could feel the bruise forming, but he barely noticed the sting of it—his mind was too busy replaying Randy’s parting threat.

Two-Bit watched Randy go, his body still tense, his fists balled so tightly that his knuckles turned white. It took him a second to relax, to let out the breath he’d been holding. He didn’t look at Ponyboy right away; instead, he stared down the aisle, as if daring Randy to come back for another round. When he finally did turn, there was a deep crease between his brows, worry shadowing his usually light expression.

“You okay, kid?” he asked, his voice softer now, but the undercurrent of anger hadn’t completely faded.

Ponyboy nodded, though he wasn’t sure he was really okay. He could still feel the tension hanging in the air, his heart racing, his mind spinning. “Yeah,” he muttered, lowering his hand from his face, trying to shake off the lingering dread. “I’m fine.”

Two-Bit’s eyes lingered on Ponyboy for a second longer, and he shifted on his feet. “He hasn’t been hassling you, has he? Randy, I mean. Or any of his buddies?”

Ponyboy hesitated. He could still hear the things Randy’s friends had said to him the other day, the ugly words that had stuck with him, gnawing away. He didn’t want to bring it up, didn’t want Two-Bit making a big deal out of it. “Nah,” he muttered, half-true. “Not really.”

Two-Bit gave him a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing, clearly not buying it entirely. But he didn’t push. Instead, he let out a slow sigh and leaned against the nearest shelf, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well, if they ever do—just say the word.” He paused, smirking a little. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to take a swing at Randy anyway. You know, for all the free entertainment.”

Ponyboy huffed a laugh, though it felt shaky. Two-Bit’s way of dealing with things always managed to make the worst stuff seem less serious, and Ponyboy appreciated that, even now, when his ribs ached and his nerves were still rattling from the encounter. He didn’t miss the way Two-Bit himself looked ready to swing if given the chance, he was still dealing with his own jumping. 

“You sure you’re alright?” His buddy asked, and his tone was casual, but there was something softer underneath. 

Ponyboy glanced at him, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m fine,” he said, but the way his voice came out thin wasn’t convincing anybody, least of all Two-Bit. “Swear it.” 

Two-Bit just snorted, shaking his head with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Yeah, you look real fine,” he teased, bumping his shoulder lightly against Ponyboy’s. “Tell you what—let’s get outta here before boss man makes me actually work. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”

Before Ponyboy could say anything, Two-Bit threw an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the front of the store. The casual gesture was so familiar, so easy, that Ponyboy let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Don’t think about it too much, kid,” Two-Bit said as they headed outside, his voice low and steady, a rare moment of sincerity slipping through. “You’ve already got enough going on in that head of yours.”

Ponyboy gave a small nod, leaning into the touch as they headed out of the store. 

—

“He what?” Darry’s voice was tight as he snapped his head up from the stove, immediately pulling the pot off the burner. Without missing a beat, he moved toward Ponyboy, his brows drawn together in worry.

Ponyboy shifted in the wooden chair he’d flopped down in as Darry took his face in his hand and turned it to look better at the forming bruise. 

“I told you, they’re lookin’ for trouble,” Two-Bit added, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wooden panel separating the kitchen from the living room. His tone was casual, but it carried a sharp undercurrent of frustration that hadn’t left since they walked through the door.

Darry was already rummaging through the freezer, his focus on the bag of peas he pulled out before handing them to Ponyboy. His eyes flickered over the darkening bruise on Ponyboy’s cheek, jaw clenched. “You alright? Both of you?”

Two-Bit smirked, but there was a tightness in the way he stood, his fingers tapping impatiently against his arm. “No need to worry about me, Superman,” he said, keeping his voice light, though the tension was still there, just under the surface. “Ponyboy here’s the one who got knocked into the macaroni.”

Ponyboy pressed the bag of frozen peas to his cheek, wincing as the cold bit into his skin. He could feel Darry’s eyes on him, scrutinizing, searching for any sign of something worse. It was a look he knew all too well—a mix of concern and the weight of responsibility.

“I’m fine, Darry,” Ponyboy muttered, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. He glanced at Two-Bit, hoping he wouldn’t start in on any of the details that might make Darry worry even more.

Darry’s expression softened slightly, but the worry hadn’t left his eyes. “I don’t care how fine you say you are—Randy has no business layin’ hands on you.” His tone was firm, the kind he used when he was trying to keep his anger in check. “From now on I don’t want you going anywhere alone. You got that?”

Ponyboy nodded, but he could feel the frustration building in his chest. He didn’t want to be treated like a kid who couldn’t handle himself. “It wasn’t like I was lookin’ for trouble,” he mumbled, shifting under Darry’s intense gaze.

Two-Bit spoke up before Darry could respond, his voice breaking through the tension. “Don’t worry, Dar—your kid brother here handled it just fine. I was there to make sure nobody went flyin’ into a display of canned goods.”

Ponyboy shot him a look, but Two-Bit’s smirk was enough to lighten the mood, at least a little. Darry’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though he still looked like he was ready to knock Randy’s block off himself. 

“I know that, Ponyboy,” Darry said, his tone softening as he ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath. “But I don’t want anyone walkin’ alone anymore, not till we take care of this. I’ll tell Soda—”

“Tell me what?” came Sodapop’s voice as the front door slammed shut behind him. He and Steve walked into the house, looking from Darry to Two-Bit to Ponyboy, a grin already forming on Soda’s face as if he’d just walked in on some kind of joke. But when his eyes landed on Ponyboy’s face and the dark bruise blooming across his cheek, the grin disappeared in an instant.

“What happened?” Sodapop asked, his eyes narrowing in concern as he strode toward Ponyboy, reaching out to inspect the bruise.

Ponyboy flinched away, turning his head to avoid Soda’s hand, the irritation flaring up again. He hated being fussed over like he was some fragile kid. “I’m fine, Soda,” he said, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended.

Soda paused, his hand still hovering in the air for a second before dropping to his side. His expression tightened, but he didn’t push it, though the worry didn’t leave his eyes. Steve stood a little behind him, arms crossed as he glanced between them, his eyes analyzing his friend with a look that said he knew about something Ponyboy didn’t.

Darry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, looking almost caught off guard by the tension between his brothers. 

“I was gonna tell you,” he said, looking over at Soda. “With everything that’s happened—Two gettin’ jumped the other night, now Randy got in Pony’s face today at the grocery store —we gotta be more careful. I think we’re gonna have to talk to Tim, see if he’s up for a rumble. If they’re pushin’ us like this, we can’t just sit back.”

The room felt like it had shifted, a mix of unease and something heavier lingering in the air. Ponyboy’s stomach twisted at the thought of another rumble. He hadn’t said it out loud, but the last one had done something to him—left him raw in a way that hadn’t gone away, not even after all this time.

He looked at his brothers, saw the concern etched into Darry’s face and the tension in Sodapop’s posture. They meant well, but they couldn’t know how much all of this churned inside him, how it felt like every time they talked about fighting, it pulled him deeper into something he didn’t know how to climb out of. He didn’t want them to worry about him, but at the same time, he hated being treated like he couldn’t handle himself.

But Darry’s voice broke through his thoughts, firm and steady. “We’ll talk to the others tonight, make sure everyone’s watchin’ out for each other. We can’t take any chances.”

Ponyboy didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded again, but his mind was already miles away, drifting back to the last rumble, the sound of fists hitting skin, the way everything blurred together in a rush of adrenaline and pain. He wasn’t sure if he could do it again—if he could face all that violence and walk away feeling like himself.

As the room settled into silence, Ponyboy kept his gaze on the floor, pressing the bag of frozen peas harder against his cheek. He wanted to say something, maybe even tell them how much he hated the thought of another rumble, but the words got stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. He was sick of the fighting, sick of everyones eyes on him, and sick of feeling like this every single day. 

He just had to hold out till college. 

Just two more months. 

Chapter Text

July 6th, 1968

Storms in Tulsa weren’t out of the ordinary, but this one—this one was something else. It had been raining since yesterday, and the steady downpour showed no sign of stopping. The roads were flooded, the sky was gray, and it felt like the whole world had slowed to a miserable crawl. What made it worse wasn’t just the storm itself—it was being stuck inside, day after day, with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

The rain had gotten so bad that Darry hadn’t been able to go to work for a couple of days now. At first, Ponyboy didn’t mind. He liked when Darry was around more—he didn’t always get to see his older brother much between work and taking care of things around the house. They’d even gone out to dinner the other night, just the two of them, trying to make the best of a bad situation. But even that had been tense, with both of them thinking about the money they couldn’t really afford to spend. The storm meant no work, and no work meant no paycheck.

Now, though, the extra time with Darry was starting to wear on him. Ponyboy wasn’t used to having the house this crowded during the day. Usually, he’d have a few hours to himself—time to think, to read, or just be alone without the constant pressure of someone being around. It was the time he used to reset before the noise of the evening started, and he relied on it more than he realized. But with Darry home all the time now, that peace was gone. The walls felt like they were closing in, and the house felt smaller than ever.

It wasn’t like Darry was doing anything wrong. He was just...there. His presence filled every room, a quiet tension hanging between them that Ponyboy couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t the kind of tension that came from fighting, just the awkward, heavy kind that built up when two people were stuck together for too long without a break. Ponyboy could tell Darry was feeling it too, though he wasn’t saying much. He moved through the house with this quiet frustration, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, and his back wasn’t helping. Ponyboy noticed how stiffly Darry moved, the way he winced when he thought no one was looking. His back was bothering him again, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, especially with the rain keeping him from work. 

His brother seemed constantly in a state between desiring rest and resenting every moment of it. 

Ponyboy sighed, shifting on the couch as the rain continued its relentless drumming against the windows. Normally, he’d go for a run when he felt like this—when the restlessness started building up in his chest and he needed to clear his head. But the storm made that impossible. The streets were a muddy mess, and the thought of getting drenched just trying to get out the door wasn’t worth it. Even sneaking out for a smoke was out of the question. Darry had been keeping a closer eye on him lately, and besides, the rain would ruin his cigarette before he even got it lit.

He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the dull headache that had been creeping in since yesterday. The constant sound of the rain wasn’t helping, nor was the feeling of being cooped up with no escape. Ponyboy needed space, time to himself that he wasn’t getting. 

He glanced toward the kitchen, where Darry was moving around, cleaning up the dishes from lunch. His brother’s face was tight, like he was deep in thought about something. Probably the same thing that had been on both their minds lately—the bills, the groceries, the rain that couldn’t seem to leave. It all added up, piling on top of everything else, and even though neither of them had said it out loud, Ponyboy could feel it in the air between them.

Darry hadn’t said much since breakfast, and Ponyboy couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not. Sometimes, he wished Darry would just talk, that they could break through whatever was making things feel so heavy, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to deal with whatever conversation that might bring. Besides, it wasn’t like they were mad at each other. It was just the storm, the cabin fever creeping in. Ponyboy knew Darry cared, knew he was doing his best to make things work, but right now, it felt like they were stuck—both waiting for something to change, but not sure how to make it happen. And with Sodapop at work all the time, there was no medium between them—they had to make it work. 

He stared out the window again, watching the rain hammer against the glass, and sighed. He needed out of the house, even just for a little while, but the storm had him trapped.

The door creaked open, bringing a gust of cold, damp air into the house as Dally and Johnny stepped inside. Dally shook his head, water dripping from his hair onto the floor, and glanced out at the storm still raging.

"Man, it's really comin' down out there," Dally muttered, slamming the door behind him. He wiped the water from his face with the sleeve of his jacket, giving the room a quick once-over. His sharp eyes flicked to Ponyboy, then to Darry, who was still lingering by the kitchen sink. "Feels like the damn sky’s tryin' to drown us or somethin'."

Johnny, quiet as ever, moved toward the couch, his shoulders hunched a little from the rain. He sat down next to Ponyboy, his expression calm, but there was a tension in his movements—like he on edge over something. He didn’t say much at first, just offered a small nod of acknowledgment to Ponyboy before leaning back into the couch, as if the weight of the day had finally settled in.  Ponyboy glanced over at him, noticing how tired Johnny looked, tired his best to catch his friends eye. Johnny gave him a knowing look, but didn’t much offer anything in the way of an explanation. For a moment, they sat there in a shared silence, the rain outside filling the gaps in conversation.

Johnny finally spoke, his voice low so that only Ponyboy could hear. "How you holdin’ up, Pone?"

Ponyboy shrugged, still rubbing at his temple where his headache throbbed dully. "I’m alright, just...sick of this storm. Feels like it’s never gonna end." He paused, glancing toward the kitchen where Dally was now talking to Darry in a low voice. "You?”

Johnny nodded slightly, though his eyes flicked to the floor like he wasn’t sure how to answer. "Same. Just waitin’ it out, I guess."

Ponyboy could feel it then—the unspoken words of whatever was on Johnny’s mind. It was there in the way he spoke, the way his fingers tapped nervously against his knee. His friend didn’t have any bruises on his face, which meant he’d actually been taking Ponyboy’s concern and staying with Dally more often. Still, before Ponyboy could ask him about it, Dally cut into the conversation, his voice sharp but controlled.

“Hey, Darry,” Dally called, jerking his chin toward the corner of the room. “Need to talk to you for a sec.”

Darry, sensing the seriousness in Dally’s tone, wiped his hands on a towel and moved over to him, his brows drawn together in a way that made Ponyboy uneasy. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but the low murmur of their conversation was enough to put him on edge. Darry stood with his arms crossed, his body stiff as Dally spoke in quick, hushed tones. Something about the way Dally kept glancing toward the door made Ponyboy’s stomach twist.

Johnny shifted next to him, clearly picking up on the same vibe. “What do you think it’s about?” Johnny asked, his voice quieter now.

Ponyboy shook his head. “Dunno, but it can’t be good.”

Johnny bit his lip, his eyes darting toward Dally and Darry, before looking back at Ponyboy. “I heard somethin’ happened with Curly Shepard the other day. Dally mentioned it on the way over.”

Ponyboy felt his chest tighten at that. He hadn’t heard about Curly, but judging by the look on Dally’s face, whatever had gone down wasn’t just some small scuffle. He and Johnny exchanged a glance, both of them tensing without even meaning to. It was like the air in the room had shifted, growing thicker with the kind of tension that always came before something bad.

Dally leaned in closer to Darry, his voice dropping even lower, but Ponyboy caught a few words—"jumped" and "bad shape"—and that was enough to make his pulse pick up. He swallowed hard, glancing over at Johnny, who looked just as unsettled.

“Curly got jumped?” Ponyboy asked, keeping his voice low. Johnny nodded, confirming what he already feared.

“Yeah,” Johnny muttered, his jaw clenched. “Real bad, from what I heard.”

Ponyboy’s stomach turned at that. He wasn’t close with Curly, not like he was with Johnny or the rest of the gang, but Curly was still one of theirs. The thought of him getting jumped, beaten up so bad it was a topic of conversation, only added to the weight in Ponyboy’s chest. The rain outside seemed to echo that feeling, tapping relentlessly against the windows.

Dally ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration. “Told you things were heatin’ up again. Should’ve seen it coming. These punks are itchin’ for something.” He leaned against the wall, glancing over at Ponyboy and Johnny. “And Curly’s got a big target on his back, bein’ Tim’s brother and all.”

And Ponyboy’s friend.

Darry said something in reply but it was lost to Ponyboys ears as he felt his heart tighten a little at how bad things seemed to be getting. Dally must’ve noticed, because he pushed off the wall and clapped Ponyboy on the back, a little too hard but still familiar. 

“Alright, enough hangin’ around here. I’m takin’ you two out for lunch. You look like you’ve been cooped up in this house too long.” His voice was gruff, but the way he said it left no room for argument.

Ponyboy blinked in surprise, then glanced at Johnny, who shrugged but didn’t object. Truth be told, getting out of the house sounded like a relief. The storm had kept them all stuck inside for what felt like forever, and Ponyboy was starting to feel like he couldn’t breathe. Even if it was just the diner down the street, it would be a break from the tension.

“You bailing us out, Dal?” Ponyboy asked, a half-smile pulling at his lips, though he still felt uneasy after hearing about Curly.

Dally smirked. “Yeah, I’m bailing you out, kid. Can’t have you all locked up in here with nothin’ to do. You’ll start actin’ like old men.” He jabbed a thumb toward the door. “C’mon, let’s move.”

Johnny shifted on the couch, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. “You sure about this, Dal? The storm’s bad.”

Dally waved him off. “I ain’t scared of a little rain, Johnnycake. And neither are you. We’ll get there in one piece.”

Ponyboy glanced at Darry, waiting for him to protest. But Darry just sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Go ahead. Just don’t get into any more trouble,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “And be back before the storm gets worse.”

Dally gave a mock salute. “Yeah, yeah, Superman. We’ll be back in one piece. You stay here and take care of yourself.”

Ponyboy caught the slight shift in Dally’s expression as he turned toward the door—just a flicker of something that vanished as quickly as it came. Dally had been acting different lately, especially after everything that happened last year. He still gave Ponyboy grief, but there was something else there too—something like how he was with Johnny, just a little more protective.

As they headed out the door, Johnny lingered for a second, glancing back at Darry. “We’ll be careful.”

“I know,” Darry replied, though his eyes stayed on Ponyboy a little longer, like he wasn’t fully convinced.

Outside, the rain was still pouring down in sheets, and Ponyboy shoved his hands into his pockets as they made their way toward Dally’s car. The cold air bit at his skin, and he hunched his shoulders, trying to stay dry.

“You think Curly’s gonna be okay?” Ponyboy asked, keeping his voice low so Dally wouldn’t hear. The question had been gnawing at him since Johnny first mentioned it, and now, out in the rain, it felt like it needed to be said.

Johnny shrugged, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I dunno. Dal didn’t say much, just that it was bad.”

Ponyboy’s stomach twisted again, the knot of worry tightening. But before he could dwell on it, Dally’s voice cut through the downpour.

“Hey, quit draggin’ your feet! I ain’t waitin’ around for the storm to wash us all away.”

Johnny managed a faint smile, and the two of them hurried to catch up. By the time they climbed into the car, the rain was pounding harder, but inside, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke and old leather offered some strange comfort. Dally revved the engine, the grin still on his face.

“Let’s get somethin’ to eat before the world ends,” he said, pulling onto the slick streets like the storm didn’t even phase him.

Ponyboy settled into the seat, glancing at Johnny in the back. The tension from earlier still hummed beneath the surface, but at least for now, they were out of the house, out of the storm, and together—whatever that meant for the rest of the day.

–

“Darry?”

“Yeah, baby?” His brother’s voice was soft, almost drowsy, as he gently carded his fingers through Ponyboy’s hair. He was pressed against Darry’s side, his brothers arm wrapped around him as he stared up at the ceiling. They were curled up together in their parents' bed—Darry’s bed now, but it still smelled faintly of their mom’s perfume. The sheets were worn and familiar, like an old memory.

Ponyboy hadn’t done this in years, not since before Darry got too big and too serious for things like this. Back then, when a nightmare hit or a storm rolled through, Pony would always crawl into bed with his big brother, nudge at him until he scooted over, and everything would feel okay again. Darry had always been his strong bother, the one person who could take out anyone.

But after their parents died, those moments vanished. They’d argued too much, had too much distance between them for these small comforts. And when things got bad, Ponyboy had always gone to Sodapop instead. Until now.

“I’m worried about Soda,” Ponyboy whispered, breaking the silence.

Darry’s hand paused in his hair for just a second before continuing its gentle rhythm. “Why’s that?”

Ponyboy hesitated, his throat tight. It was hard to explain. “He doesn’t… he doesn’t say anything, he ain’t actin’ like he normally would.”

Darry’s fingers stilled completely this time, and Ponyboy felt his brother’s chest rise and fall in a long, deep breath. “He’s just trying to keep us all together, you know that.” His voice was steady, but Ponyboy could hear the strain underneath. “He’s always been like that—he’s just worried.”

“I know,” Ponyboy murmured, curling in tighter against Darry. “But, he looks so tired all the time…it’s because of me.”

“It’s not you, kid,” Darry said quickly, his voice a little firmer. “It’s not you, and it’s not your fault. We’re all tired. But it’s because we’re working through this. It’s just gonna take him some time, you dig?”

Ponyboy swallowed hard. “But what if I just make it worse?”

Darry’s arms tightened around him, a protective reflex. “You don’t,” he said firmly. “Soda wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s worried about you, yeah, but that’s just because he loves you. We both do.”

Darry said it quick, like he was desperate for Ponyboy to know that. 

Ponyboy stayed quiet for a moment, his mind racing with all the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to. He felt like a burden sometimes—most of the time. Every time he looked at his brothers eyes and their indents that he grown deeper and deeper each day, he felt a sense of guilt. 

“I don’t want him to worry about me anymore,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just I want things to be normal again.”

Darry exhaled, long and slow, like he was trying to find the right words. 

“I know, Pone. I know you do.” His voice softened again, the hand in Ponyboy’s hair starting up its gentle rhythm once more. “But we don’t care if you’re okay or not right now. You’re here. That’s all that matters. We’ll get through the rest.”

The guilt gnawed at Ponyboy, an ache deep in his chest that wouldn’t let go. He was the one who had scared them, the one who had almost left them behind. How could he let that go?

“I didn’t mean for any of this,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Darry’s hand stilled, and for a moment, there was silence. 

“I didn’t mean to…” Ponyboy’s voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard. “To make everything worse. For you. For Soda.”

Darry shifted under him, propping himself up slightly so he could look down at his brother. There was something raw in his eyes, something that made Ponyboy’s chest tighten. 

“You didn’t make anything worse,” Darry said slowly, deliberately. “You’re my kid brother, and I’m not losing you. Not now. Not ever.”

Ponyboy’s eyes burned with tears, but he didn’t let them fall. He felt like a little kid again, crawling into his big brother’s bed after a bad dream, needing to feel safe. He hadn’t felt safe in a long time. But here, with Darry’s arms around him, it was almost like before.

“Will it get better?” Ponyboy whispered, his voice barely audible.

Darry was quiet for a long moment, his hand resting on the back of Ponyboy’s neck, a solid, comforting weight. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, his voice thick. “I hope so. I really do, little buddy.” 

Ponyboy pressed his face into Darry’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under his cheek and nodded once. They laid there in the quiet, the weight of their words hanging in the air between them. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t fix everything. But it was enough for now. Darry’s arms around him, the steady sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body—it was enough to make Ponyboy feel like he wasn’t completely lost.

—

“How come Buck ain’t come for his car yet?” Johnny asked, his voice carrying a light edge of curiosity as he glanced out the rain-soaked window. The heavy downpour distorted the familiar streets into a blur of gray and slick pavement.

Dally snorted, revving up the engine with that signature cocky grin. 

“Shoot, kid, who said he hasn’t?” he said, weaving around a puddle like it was second nature. The tires splashed through smaller potholes, but he didn’t bother with the deeper ones, letting the car jolt over them with little care. It was a rough ride, but nothing out of the ordinary for Tulsa’s weather-beaten roads. 

Ponyboy shifted in the backseat, feeling a familiar churn in his stomach. He regretted not eating before they left, the hunger and the jerky ride making him a bit queasy. The cigarette Johnny passed him came as a small relief, and he took it gratefully, lighting it up and inhaling deeply. The taste was familiar, calming, and for a brief moment, it soothed the tension knotting his body.

Outside, the storm had only worsened. Sheets of rain pelted down, hammering the car roof and flooding the streets with muddy water that glistened under the dim gray sky. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, but it felt like it was right over them. Even the trees on the side of the road looked beaten down, their branches sagging under the weight of the rain. He hoped there wouldn’t be a tornado but it was the season for one and the weather didn’t give much hope. 

Dally’s voice broke through the steady hum of rain and the low rumble of the engine. “How’s Darry?” he asked, the question coming out more casual than it really was. He didn’t look back, just kept his eyes on the road, but there was something a little more curious in his tone.

Ponyboy shrugged, exhaling smoke slowly. “His back’s been bothering him some,” he said, glancing out the window at the rain. “The storm’s been good for that, I guess since he don’t have to work.” 

He could see Dally shift in the front seat, a subtle move like he’d just noticed something Ponyboy hadn’t.

“Your face still feelin’ busted up too?” Dally asked, the words stiff like he was forcing them out. 

His hands tightened on the wheel, his tone hard to read. It wasn’t often Dally asked about anyone’s well-being, not without having a good reason to.Ponyboy gave him an odd look from the back, then quickly turned back to the window, not wanting to give Dally the satisfaction of knowing he was surprised. 

“It’s fine,” he said shortly, not in the mood to talk. “Randy didn’t even hit me too hard.” 

His face wasn’t the only thing that stung still, his ribs still hurt, a dull ache that flared every now and then. The bruises, once a deep purple, were starting to fade into ugly greens and yellows, the kind of colors that didn’t look like they belonged on skin. But he wasn’t about to tell Dally that. He didn’t need the fuss. 

Dally glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching Ponyboy’s for a split second before he scoffed. 

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, clearly not buying it, but he let it drop. Instead, he turned his attention back to Johnny, who was still looking back at his best friend with a look of thought on his face. 

Ponyboy zoned out, staring out at the rain-soaked streets as the car splashed through more puddles. His mind wandered, focusing on the way the water ran down the glass in jagged lines. He didn’t notice the quiet conversation between Dally and Johnny. Didn’t care much either. His ribs throbbed with each bump in the road, the ache nagging at him, but he stayed silent. He didn’t want to deal with their worried looks or their questions. He just wanted to get through the day, maybe get home and crawl into bed, where the storm could drown out everything else.

The rain hadn't let up by the time they pulled into Buck’s lot. The familiar neon sign flickered dimly through the sheets of water, casting a faint, erratic glow on the drenched pavement. Dally parked the car haphazardly, the tires splashing through a small lake forming near the curb as he killed the engine.

“We won’t be long,” Dally said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “Just gotta grab my check from Buck for that last rodeo.”

Ponyboy leaned back against the seat, still feeling the gnawing discomfort in his gut. The cigarette earlier wasn’t sitting well, and now the rain made everything feel heavier. With a small sigh, he glanced at Johnny, who offered him a slight shrug, the same quiet, unreadable expression he always wore when he didn’t feel like talking much. They both knew the drill—when Dally had business with Buck, it wasn’t going to be a quick stop.

“Come on,” Dally said, gesturing for them to follow as he slammed the car door shut. Without waiting, he took off towards the bar, his boots splashing through the ankle-deep puddles.

Johnny and Ponyboy didn’t hesitate, sprinting after him. The cold rain soaked them in seconds, but neither complained.

The bar, though far from crowded, had its usual rough-around-the-edges vibe. The dim lights flickered in time with the crackle of a nearby jukebox, its old speakers spitting out a familiar country tune. A few of Tim Shepard’s gang were scattered near the back, slouched over a few rickety tables. They weren’t paying much attention to anything besides the poker game in front of them. Other greasers lingered around, too, most of them nursing beers or bottles of something stronger. A few of the regular drunks hunched over the counter, lost in their own worlds.

It was a place you either knew or avoided—definitely not the sort of spot you’d stumble into unless you had a reason.

Ponyboy and Johnny slipped into an empty booth near the corner, just out of view but close enough to keep an eye on the room. Dally headed straight for the bar where Buck was, leaning casually against the counter, talking with him in low tones about his check.

As they settled in, Ponyboy glanced around, instinctively taking stock of everyone inside. There was a tension in the air, the kind you could feel but not quite place. His stomach twisted, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the cigarette or the bar itself.

Johnny, sitting across from him, didn’t say much, just fiddled with the edge of his jacket sleeve. Neither of them needed to talk. They’d both been here enough times to know the routine—wait for Dally, don’t cause any trouble.

It wasn’t long before the sound of boots approaching made Ponyboy glance up. Tim Shepard was making his way over, his gaze flicking between them with a quick, calculating look. Tim wasn’t the type to waste words, and his presence alone was enough to make anyone sit up straighter.

“Look who’s here,” Tim said, smirking as he stopped in front of their table. His eyes lingered on Ponyboy and Johnny for a second longer than was comfortable before turning towards the bar where Dally stood.

Johnny shifted in his seat but didn’t say anything. Ponyboy felt a bead of tension settle at the base of his spine. Tim’s reputation wasn’t for nothing—he was tough, and like Dally, he didn’t have a soft spot for anyone, except maybe Curly. But that didn’t mean he was reckless either; every move he made was with a purpose.

“Relax, kids. Ain’t nobody here to start anything... tonight,” Tim added, his grin sharp, before turning his back on them and heading toward Dally.

Ponyboy watched as Tim caught Dally’s attention, the two exchanging quick words, sharp and low. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem friendly, not with Dally’s stance tightening, jaw clenched like he was ready to throw a punch. For a moment, Ponyboy could’ve sworn he saw something flicker in Tim’s eyes—more than just irritation. But then, just as quickly, the tension broke, and the two of them started laughing, like nothing had happened. They were both giving Buck hell about something now, shaking their heads, and leaning against the bar like old friends.

Ponyboy exchanged a glance with Johnny, but neither of them spoke. That was how things went sometimes—one second, it was a powder keg ready to blow, and the next, it was all jokes again. Still, there was something off. Something that kept Ponyboy on edge.

He barely had time to think about it when he saw two greasers heading their way. Ponyboy recognized them instantly—these were the same guys who had stepped in and helped him out when he got jumped. He raised a hand in a half-wave, acknowledging them as they approached, though he silently hoped they’d keep their mouths shut.

“Hey, little Curtis,” one of them said, nodding as he leaned against the booth. “You doin’ alright?”

Ponyboy forced a small smile, though his stomach twisted, still sour from the earlier events. “Yeah, I’m good,” he muttered, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. He didn’t want to look weak, not in front of Johnny, and definitely not in front of Tim’s boys.

Johnny stayed quiet beside him, his eyes flicking between the newcomers and Dally, who was still at the bar. The tension wasn’t lost on Johnny, though his lips stayed shut.

“Glad to hear it,” the other greaser said, though his tone was casual, there was something sharper in his eyes. “You hear about Curly?” 

“Yeah,” He responded, shifting to glance behind him where Dally and Tim were finishing up. “He good?” 

“Yeah, you know Curly,” One of them said with a wave, which was only something that made sense when it came to Curly Shepard. “He got the same deal that you had last week, got jumped by some of Randy’s friends walkin’ back.”

Ponyboy felt the blood drain from his face. He stiffened, his breath catching in his throat before he could even process the words. Johnny’s head snapped up like a shot, his eyes wide and questioning, and before Ponyboy could even think of how to explain, he heard it—Dally’s voice slicing through the noise behind them like a blade.

“What?”

It wasn’t loud, but it carried. Everything seemed to go still. Ponyboy slowly turned, already knowing what was coming.

Dally stood there, his posture rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Tim loomed beside him, his face caught somewhere between amusement and mild curiosity. But Dally—Dally’s expression was anything but casual now. His eyes were narrowed, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back.

“What’s this about?” Dally pressed, his voice hard and sharp enough to make the whole room feel smaller. His gaze was locked on Ponyboy, and there was no dodging it.

One of the greasers shrugged, like this was just casual news. “Just lettin’ him know. Curly got jumped, same as he did. But no harm done.”

Johnny’s eyes darted to Ponyboy, wide with alarm and confusion, searching his face for answers. Tim’s boys stood nearby, smirking, almost like they were enjoying the show. But Dally—he wasn’t amused.

His jaw tightened, and he took a step forward, eyes blazing with something dangerous. 

“What do you mean, ‘same as him’?” The question wasn’t really a question; it was a demand, low and cold, like a storm waiting to break. 

His stare drilled into Ponyboy, and under the weight of it, Ponyboy felt his chest tighten, exposed in a way he hated. One of the greasers raised his hands in surrender, anyone knew better to mess with Dally when he got like this. 

“Kid got cornered off on 5th a few days back. We saw ‘em, they’d roughed him up, but we stepped in before it got too bad.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Johnny was staring at him now, his incredulousness and worry clear. Ponyboy could feel it, thick and heavy, but it was Dally’s reaction that made him feel sick. Dally’s face was tight, his anger barely held together, a thin line of tension keeping him from snapping. It was the same look he got when he was seconds away from breaking someone’s nose.

Dally’s voice was low, simmering with barely contained fury. “You didn’t think to tell me?” 

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He didn’t have an answer—no excuse, no explanation that would make this better. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know, especially Dally, but now it was too late. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Dally’s eyes narrowed further, his gaze burning through him. “So you just keep somethin’ like that to yourself? Huh? You think that’s smart?”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Ponyboy managed, though his voice was small, shaky, nothing like he intended.

Dally let out a sharp breath, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You think you get to decide that?” His voice was quieter now, but colder, each word dropping like a stone. “After what’s been happening, you don’t just keep your mouth shut. And you don’t wait ‘til I have to hear it from some fuckin’ nobody.”

Ponyboy dropped his gaze, his face burning with shame. He couldn’t meet Dally’s eyes.

Dally turned sharply, directing his anger at Tim now. “You still gonna be good for that rumble?”

“Yeah,” Tim just shrugged, his grin wide and infuriating. “Especially after what they did to Curly, you tell Darrel to call me and I’ll fix it up.” 

That was enough for Dally. 

His eyes flashed with anger, and without another word, he grabbed Ponyboy by the arm, dragging him toward back door of Bucks where he lived. Johnny trailed behind, silent, as always, but the look on his face cut deeper than anything Dally could have said.  Dally slammed the door behind them, the sound echoing through the small space. He had practically dragged Ponyboy up the stairs, his grip like iron. Johnny followed, silent but with that unmistakable look on his face—worry, anger, and something deeper, something that hurt to see.

The second they reached the bedroom, Dally spun around and shoved Ponyboy backward onto the bed. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. Ponyboy braced himself on the mattress, his heart pounding as Dally stood over him, jaw tight, eyes like steel. Johnny hovered by the door, his arms crossed, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, watching the whole thing unfold with a kind of quiet sadness.

“Let me see,” Dally said, his voice was hard and tight despite not even raising it. 

Ponybou shifted uncomfortably, he didn’t want them to see the bruises littering his chest, especially because they didn’t hurt as much as they did a few days ago. But they didn’t look good either. He didn’t open his mouth to protest, especially when Dally gave him a warning look so after a second he quietly began to pull off the sweatshirt. 

Slowly, he peeled off his shirt, wincing as the fabric dragged across his ribs. The bruises stood out dark and ugly, spreading across his side. Dally’s eyes flicked over them, his face hardening, but he didn’t say anything at first. Johnny cursed quietly, wincing as he saw the blackened and blued bruises around his chest. 

Dally yanked open a drawer off to the side and pulled out some bandages along with salves from the dollar store before he kneeled in front of the bed. 

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Dally muttered, shaking his head as started fixing the bandages none too gently. “Why the hell didn’t you say somethin’?”

Ponyboy winced but kept his mouth shut, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I had it handled,” he said after a beat, his voice barely above a whisper. “They don’t even hurt no more.”

Dally let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You call this handled?” He gestured to the bruises, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up in a ditch.”

Ponyboy stayed silent, jaw clenched. It wasn’t the first time he’d been jumped, but he’d never kept it from the gang before. That was their one rule—look out for each other. He was just tired of everyone always looking out for him .

It didn’t take long before Dally finished wrapping and tossed the roll aside. His eyes locked onto Ponyboy’s, sharp and unrelenting. “Who did it? Which of Randy’s friends?”

“I don’t know,” Ponyboy mumbled, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He recognized a few of them from high school, but saying it would only make things worse. “Didn’t get a good look.”

“That’s bull, and you know it.” Dally tossed Ponyboy’s top at him. “Who?”

Ponyboy’s hands shook slightly as he pulled the sweatshirt back on. “Just leave it, Dal. It’s done.”

“You think I’m just gonna let this slide?” Dally’s voice cut through the room like a knife. “What the hell’s the matter with you lately?”

“It’s not—” Ponyboy’s throat tightened. “It’s not a big deal. Just—please don’t tell Soda and Darry.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“If you think I’m not telling your brothers, you’ve got another thing coming,” Dally shot back, his irritation turning into full-blown anger. He looked at Ponyboy like he couldn’t believe how stupid he was being.

Ponyboy flinched at the intensity in Dally’s voice. “They don’t need to worry. It’s not that big of a—”

“Shut your mouth.” Dally’s face twisted, eyes wild with frustration. “You think keepin’ quiet makes you tough? What if it was Johnny? You want him doin’ the same?”

Ponyboy’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “No! That’s not—”

“That’s what I thought,” Dally cut him off, his voice sharp like a whip. “I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ through your head, actin’ so stupid out here—

Ponyboy’s face went red, embarrassment, cleaning to a few features along with irritation. His fists clenched at his sides, his anger rising to the surface before he could stop it. 

“What do you care!” he yelled, his voice cracking under the pressure of everything he’d been holding in.

Dally’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. His whole body seemed to tense, like he was ready to explode. For a moment, Ponyboy thought he might’ve crossed a line, but then Dally just let out a low, harsh laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“What do I care?” Dally repeated, his voice loud, but his hands were clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles turned white. He shook his head, jaw clenched tight enough to make the muscles in his neck stand out. “You think I’m doin’ this for fun, huh? You think I’m wastin’ my breath on you for no reason? “

His words were laced with anger, but the heat behind them felt like it came from something deeper—something he didn’t know how to express. His eyes flashed with a mix of fury and something else, something he couldn’t let himself say out loud.

The room felt too small, the air heavy with tension. Johnny, who had been watching silently, moved quietly from the door and sat down beside Ponyboy on the bed. He didn’t say a word, just leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. His presence alone was calming, even though he hadn’t spoken. 

When he did, his voice was soft, measured. “Cut him a break, Dal. He didn’t mean it.”

Dally let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t snap at Johnny—he couldn’t. Not with Johnny looking at him like that, like he understood the anger but wasn’t afraid of it. Dally took a step back, rubbing his face with his hands like he was trying to shake it off. 

“Goddammit, Ponyboy,” Dally muttered, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. 

Ponyboy just sat there, feeling the weight of Dally’s frustration and Johnny’s quiet presence pressing down on him. He didn’t know what to say. He thought he’d been doing the right thing—keeping them out of it. But now, looking at Dally and Johnny, he wasn’t so sure. Johnny leaned a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“You could’ve told me, y’know.” Ponyboy nodded, but it was an empty gesture. He knew he should’ve. But it was too late now. Too much had already happened, and all he could feel was the guilt gnawing at his chest.

Dally’s voice cut through the haze, low and firm. “Tell me who it was. Don’t lie.”

Ponyboy looked up, his eyes locking with Dally’s. This time, there was no escaping it.Ponyboy glanced at Johnny, his pulse quickening. Johnny was staring at his hands, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. The fear was written all over his face, and it made Pony’s stomach knot. He shifted his gaze to Dally, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“It was Randy’s buddies,” Ponyboy whispered. “They were lookin’ for us. One of them’s named Danny—I don’t know who else.”

Johnny flinched at Randy’s name, and Dally froze, his jaw tightening as his eyes narrowed. “What’d they want?”

“They were talkin’ about Bob,” Pony continued, his voice shaking. “They want payback.”

Dally’s face darkened. For a moment, it felt like the room was closing in. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his eyes locking on Ponyboy’s. “Tim wasn’t kiddin’. They’ve been jumpin’ greasers all over town. Even three years later, they won’t let this go?”

Ponyboy nodded, his palms sweating. “They ain’t happy we killed their buddy.”

“You didn’t kill nobody,” Johnny interrupted, his face tight as he leaned forward. “I did.”

“Nah, it was self defense and you know it,” Dally shot him a glance, his tough façade cracking just slightly. “I told you I’d take care of this. Ain’t nothin’ happening to either of you. We’ll rumble if we have to.”

Ponyboy shook his head, guilt pressing down on him. “I didn’t want anyone else in trouble. I thought… maybe they’d back off.”

Dally snapped, “It don’t matter what you thought. You should’ve come to us right away. They could’ve killed you, you get that?”

Ponyboy looked away, bile rising in his throat.

Johnny’s voice was barely a whisper. “They were gonna kill Ponyboy. I had to—”

“I know, Johnny.” Dally muttered, placing a hand on Johnny’s neck, his tone softening. “I told you, nothing’s gonna happen to either of you.”

Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably, his chest tightening. “I didn’t think it’d get this far. I thought layin’ low would work.”

“Layin’ low don’t mean nothin’ when they’re already gunnin’ for you,” Dally interrupted, his eyes hard. “I’ll talk to Tim. After what they did to his kid brother, he’ll want in. Maybe we can scare Randy off first.”

The room fell silent, Dally’s words settling over them like a heavy fog. Johnny’s hands shook, his face pale as he pressed his back against the wall, like he wanted to disappear.

Ponyboy bit his lip. “I don’t want to drag Darry and Soda into this. They’ve already got enough on their plates—”

“Enough of that shit,” Dally cut him off, his hand tightening on Ponyboy’s shoulder. “Your brothers were in this the second Randy jumped you.”

The three of them sat in silence until eventually Dally let go of his shoulder standing up and looking down at the both of them with a tight expression. Like all that he had been hoping for was gone now, all the times that pony boy thought he was past this faded. It made him sick to think about, he never thought he’d have to deal with this again that it might have been in the past. Getting jumped was normal, but this wasn’t getting jumped. They would actually try to kill him— try to kill both of them. Dally grabbed his jacket, pulling it on with a determined look. 

“C’mon,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. “Let’s get you two home.”

Ponyboy stood slowly, feeling the dull ache in his bruises. His friends matched his pace, saying nothing when he stumbled.

“And Johnny,” Dally added, “You’re stickin’ with me or goin’ to the house, no exceptions”

Johnny nodded stiffly. There wouldn’t be any protest, even if his pride demanded it. “Yeah, alright.”

The air felt cool against Ponyboy’s skin as they walked toward the streetlight, the sharp silence of parking lot. The rain had stalled just long enough for them to take their time getting to the T-Bird. 

Johnny hung back, his footsteps barely scuffing the ground. “You okay?” he asked, voice soft.

Ponyboy glanced at him, rubbing his side where the bruises were deep. “I’ll live.”

Johnny didn’t say anything for a minute, eyes focused on the cracks in the pavement. “Y’know, you don’t gotta handle everything yourself,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. 

Ponyboy wanted to argue, wanted to say that they shouldn’t have to be—he wasn’t their responsibility. But Johnny’s words, quiet as they were, had a weight to them that settled in Ponyboy’s chest.

“I didn’t want you or the others gettin’ dragged into this,” Ponyboy murmured. He looked away, his hands jammed into his pockets. “You’ve already been through enough.”

Johnny sighed, a sound so small it might’ve been the wind. “Ain’t about that, Pony,” he said, glancing over at him. “I’ve always got your back, it don’t matter who it is. Your dig?”

Ponyboy offered a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I dig.” 

“Ponyboy,” Dally grabbed his arm before he climb in the car, letting Johnny go around to the other side to get in the passenger seat. “It’s my business what I choose to care about or don’t. So, don’t do that shit again—you hear me?” 

Ponyboy stared at him for a long moment, catching those unheard words and felt guilt crawl into its familiar home once more. He nodded once, and Dally released him, giving him a once over before climbing into the driver seat.  They piled into the T-Bird, all three feeling exhausted but still heading towards the diner—Ponyboy was glad he’d have a second before he had to talk to his brothers. 

It couldn’t go too bad could it?

—

“Think he’ll still be upset in the morning?” Ponyboy asked, voice barely above a whisper, as he glanced over at Darry, who was leaning back in the recliner, his expression as tired as ever.

Darry’s gaze didn’t waver. “Would you?” he replied, not unkindly, but his voice was firm, daring Ponyboy to disagree. After a moment, his tone softened. “Come sit down, Pone.”

Ponyboy hesitated. He was still standing by the TV, facing the sofa and the recliner where Darry sat, unmoving. Sodapop had stormed out not long after the argument they’d all gotten into. The tension still hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. He thought back to earlier that day when he had come in after lunch with Dally and Johnny. They’d played a few rounds of blackjack, the cards shuffling back and forth as they joked and laughed—at least for a while. His brothers had joined in briefly before Dally and Johnny headed out.

Ponyboy grinned faintly at the memory of winning a few hands, though only the ones that he delt. They still didn’t let him deal ever since the time he’d drawn six aces in a row—face up. Dally got so pissed, he said that Ponyboy was counting cards which Ponyboy denied but who’s to say he wasn’t?

It wasn’t long after that when things got complicated. Darry had gone out to pick up Sodapop, whose car had broken down—again. Dally, patient for once, waited until everyone was settled before he brought it up. He’d talked to Tim. Ponyboy got jumped. They would be a rumble.

Ponyboy had tried to play it cool, but when Dally told Darry, all hell broke loose. Dally had made a quick exit after the conversation, taking Johnny with him, heading back to Buck’s place for the night. Ponyboy had been grateful for the bandages Dally gave him—his ribs still throbbed from the beating, but Dally had wrapped them up tight so Darry couldn't see how damage was. 

That hadn’t stopped Darry from going off on him. 

The frustration and anger had rolled off his older brother in waves, his voice rising as he tore into Ponyboy for not mentioning the fact that he’d been jumped. He couldn’t understand how Ponyboy could act so casual about something so serious. Darry’s anger wasn’t new, but what hurt most was Sodapop’s reaction. Sodapop, usually the one to stay calm, had been silent, his hands clasped tightly together, staring at the floor as if he couldn’t bear to be a part of it.

When Darry had finally started to trail off, his voice losing some of its bite, Ponyboy had tried to turn to Soda, maybe to get him on his side, or at least see how he was feeling. But when Ponyboy called his name, Sodapop’s head snapped up, emotion blazing in his eyes. Without a word, he stood, storming off and slamming the door to his room so hard the walls shook.

Both Ponyboy and Darry had just stared, slack-jawed, as the house fell silent again. Guilt settled like a heavy stone in Ponyboy’s stomach. 

Now, the silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Darry, though he was no longer yelling, still looked worn out, the deep-set worry never fully leaving his face. His eyes were tired, a look that made Ponyboy feel even worse. He shifted in the recliner, wincing like his back was bothering him.

Without thinking, Ponyboy headed to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet. He poured out a couple of pills, filled a glass of water, and brought them over to Darry.

“Here,” he muttered, handing them to his brother before sinking onto the sofa, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

Darry took the pills, glancing at Ponyboy. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” Ponyboy cut in, staring down at his hands. “I just… I know your backs been bothering you.”

Darry didn’t say anything for a moment, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He leaned back in the recliner, letting out a long breath, eyes staring off into the distance.

“What am I gonna do with you, kid brother?” he muttered, his voice quiet but loaded with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. He didn’t look at Ponyboy, who had settled into the couch, trying to make himself as small as possible.

The silence that followed felt thick, but not suffocating. It was the kind of quiet that always came after their arguments, when the anger fizzled out, leaving only the exhaustion and worry behind. Ponyboy lay down, his head resting on one of the worn-out pillows, an old talk show playing in the background. It was just noise, a distraction from the tension neither of them wanted to face. He waited for Darry to go to bed, but his brother just couldn’t seem to settle. Darry shifted every few minutes, trying to ease the discomfort in his back, his unease filling the room.

Ponyboy could feel the words bubbling up, but he didn’t know how to say them without sounding like a burden. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and unsure.

“I’m just sick of people worrying about me,” he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The confession felt strange, like it didn’t belong to him, but it was the truth.

Darry didn’t respond right away. His eyes flicked toward Ponyboy, and he let out a huff, almost like he was challenging him. “You think we’re wrong to?” he asked, his voice harder now, though still not unkind.

Ponyboy didn’t have an answer for that. He knew why they worried—of course he knew. But every time he tried to explain it, the words seemed to slip away, leaving him feeling like he was drowning under the weight of it all. He stayed quiet, and that seemed to frustrate Darry even more.

“I’m not just talkin’ about today,” Darry continued, his voice softer now but still firm. “It’s been like this for a while, Pony. You think we don’t notice? You think I don’t notice?”

Ponyboy swallowed, feeling the familiar knot of guilt and frustration tighten in his chest. He had no good answer, nothing that would make it better. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Darry’s eye, and he could see it—the exhaustion, the fear, and something else buried underneath it all.

“You barely talk to us anymore, kid,” Darry continued, his tone somewhere between frustration and concern. “You don’t come to me or Soda when somethin’s eatin’ at you, and I’m not blind—I see how you’ve been shutting us out. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but it’s nothin’ good.”

Ponyboy flinched at the words, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever. But Darry wasn’t going to let him off that easy. He could feel his brother’s eyes on him, waiting for a response, but all he could do was stare at the floor.

Darry sighed again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. “You think I don’t worry every damn day that I’m not doin’ right by you? That I’m not enough to keep you safe? I’ve seen you go through hell, Ponyboy. But lately, I feel like you’re slipping away and I can’t—" he stopped, his voice catching slightly. 

Ponyboy’s breath caught in his throat. His first instinct was to tell Darry he was overreacting, that he was fine. But he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. The words he wanted to say stuck in his throat like they were tangled in barbed wire.

Darry sighed, running a hand through his hair before leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Sometimes…” He trailed off, the words coming slowly, like they were too heavy to push out all at once. “Sometimes I look at you, and I feel like I’m losing you all over again.”

The words hit Ponyboy like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless. Darry never talked like this, never let the cracks show. Hearing him say it, hearing the rawness in his voice, made it all too real. His throat tightened, and he blinked hard, refusing to let himself cry.

“I—” Ponyboy stuttered, the words caught in his throat as the familiar feeling of nausea crawled up from his gut. He clenched his fists, trying to hold it all together. “I’m not gonna do it again.” The promise came out shaky, unsure. He wasn’t even sure if he believed it himself.

Darry’s eyes softened, but there was still something haunted in his gaze. “Maybe not,” he said quietly, his voice more choked than Ponyboy had heard in a long time. 

“But you ain’t gonna get better if you keep doin’ this.” He paused, his jaw tightening as he looked away for a moment. “And that’s almost worse.”

Ponyboy closed his eyes, glad that neither of them were looking at each other as the tears slid down his cheeks.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it felt final. Ponyboy shifted on the couch, staring at the TV, not hearing it really. He sank deeper into the couch, as Darry sat back, the flickering light from the TV casting shadows across his face. They didn’t need to say anything else, and maybe that was the scariest part. 

He wanted to get better.

He just wasn’t sure if he could anymore. 

Chapter Text

July 9th, 1968

It was early in the morning, and rain still pattered against the windows, casting the house in a muted, gray light. A week of unrelenting storms had left everything feeling damp and closed-in, and the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance only added to the heavy atmosphere. Darry was out at the store, leaving just Ponyboy and Sodapop alone in the quiet house, though it felt far from peaceful.

Ponyboy sat on the couch with a worn book in his lap, pretending to read but struggling to focus on the words. Restlessness twisted inside him, building each day that he’d been stuck in the house, and it felt like the walls were slowly closing in. Since the argument over hiding his injury, things had been tense—too tense. Sodapop had spent the last two days home from work, trying to break through Ponyboy’s mood, but every attempt felt like another weight pressing down on him.

Across the room, Soda leaned against the kitchen counter, his gaze fixed on Ponyboy. He’d watched his little brother grow quieter, more withdrawn, every day they’d been cooped up. He missed the way they used to get eachother, how easy things had felt before all this tension settled between them. He wasn’t angry; he was just worried—maybe more than he’d admit. He could tell Ponyboy was on edge, but no matter how he tried, it was like his words just bounced off a wall.

After a moment, Sodapop took a deep breath, trying to keep his tone light, hopeful. “You wanna head out later?” he asked gently. “Steve and Two-Bit were asking about you. We could go catch a movie or something. Get out of this house for a while.”

Ponyboy’s eyes didn’t lift from the book. He stared blankly at the page, his shoulders tensing slightly. “I don’t feel like it,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Sodapop sighed, the patience in his voice unshaken as he leaned forward a little. “C’mon, Pone. You’ve been cooped up for days. Fresh air might do you good.”

But Ponyboy’s tone grew sharper as he repeated, “I said I don’t feel like it,” his grip on the book tightening.

A beat of silence passed, and Sodapop straightened, the worry on his face deepening. He took a slow step forward, dropping the casual tone and softening his voice even more. “You’ve been like this all week. You can’t keep this up. It’s not good for you.”

The words hit something raw in Ponyboy, sparking frustration he’d been trying to hold back. Everything felt wrong—every question, every push just another reminder of how he was messing things up. “Just leave me alone, Soda,” he bit out, his voice low but laced with tension.

Sodapop paused, frowning, but his voice was still gentle. “I’m just trying to help, Pone. You’ve been acting like this ever since—”

“ For the love of God, Sodapop, please just leave me be,” Ponyboy interrupted, voice more irritated and sounding like he was arguing with Darry. His hands curled into on his book, his head still down and determined to keep reading. 

There was a long pause, the silence hanging heavy between them. Sodapop didn’t move, but there was something different in his posture now—like he was trying to decide what to say next, trying to figure out how to reach his brother. There is also the tension that he never saw from his brother, like he was ready to yell at Ponyboy but couldn’t bring himself to. 

“Okay,” Soda said quietly, stepping back. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it. But you can’t just sit here, Pone.”

Ponyboy finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “I’m reading, Soda. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t fine,” Sodapop’s expression softened, his voice growing quieter, more careful. “I wish you would come out with us for once, it would make you feel better—“ 

“Soda, just stop already!” The words came out sharper than he meant, he sat his book down feeling more irritated than he wanted to be. “I just want to be left alone, why are you jumping down my throat about this!”

Sodapop flinched, the hurt flashing across his face like a crack. He stood there for a moment, stunned into silence, before the weight of Ponyboy’s words fully sank in. 

“All I'm trying to do is talk to you, Ponyboy!” Sodapop snapped, but it was more full of hurt and disbelief than anything else. 

Ponyboy’s heart twisted at the sound of Soda’s voice, but the anger kept spilling out, unstoppable now. “I don’t need you to keep checking up on me like I’m some little kid you have to take care of!” 

Soda’s eyes dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping and Ponyboy took in just how exhausted his brother looked. He didn’t say anything at first, and when he finally looked up, there was a sadness there that made Ponyboy’s stomach churn with guilt. 

“Fine then,” Sodapop said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Ponyboy blinked, caught off guard by the quiet hurt in Soda’s words. “Soda?”

Sodapop stepped back, the distance between them feeling wider than it had before. “Go out with Steve and Two-Bit, please. They’re waitin’ for you anyway.” He paused, his voice thick. “Just… go.”

Ponyboy opened his mouth to say something, to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to leave it like this, didn’t want to see that look in Soda’s eyes—the look that said he’d been hurt deeper than any words could fix. “Soda, I—”

“Please, Ponyboy,” Sodapop interrupted, his voice breaking now, desperate. “Just leave.”

The words hit harder than any shout or angry retort could have. Ponyboy’s chest tightened, his breath hitching as he stared at his brother. He wanted to fix it, to take back everything he’d said, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

Soda turned away, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the counter. “I don’t wanna fight anymore,” he whispered, his back to Ponyboy. “So just… go.”

Ponyboy stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding in his ears. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door. His hands shook as he yanked it open, the cool morning air hitting his face as he stepped outside, guilt and regret swirling in his chest.

He hadn’t meant any of it—not the anger, not the words that had stumbled out of his mouth. But the damage was already done.

—

There’s dirty laundry in the corner of the room.

It’s never clean anymore—not really. There’s always something left out, a shirt tossed carelessly on the chair or socks left by the bed like breadcrumbs to a place he’s long since stopped searching for. It wasn’t always like this. He used to fold things neatly, place them in drawers, keep his life ordered in a way that made sense. That was before he switched rooms. Before he told Sodapop that he just needed more space. He said it like it was a practical thing, something to help him prepare for dorms, for college—if he made it that far.

If.

Such a small word, isn’t it? Such an unassuming thing. It doesn’t even feel like it should matter, but it hangs there in the back of his mind, lingering like an unfinished sentence. If he gets into college. If he manages to keep his grades up. If he even makes it through this year. If, if, if. It’s endless, infinite.

Funny how if can feel so much heavier than everything else. It’s the kind of word that wraps itself around your thoughts until it’s the only thing you can hear, the only thing you can focus on. Until it’s more real than anything else.

He glances at the pile of clothes, not really seeing them, but feeling the weight of them just the same. It’s strange, how something as small as laundry can feel like proof that time’s still moving. Even when everything else feels like it’s stopped. It’s like an unspoken countdown. If you don’t wash it, if you don’t clean up the mess, it’ll just keep piling up. And then what?

He’s not sure.

There’s a book sitting on his nightstand. One he’s almost finished reading, but he hasn’t touched it in days. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s afraid to. If he finishes it, what’s next? There’s nothing else waiting on his shelf. No new stories to escape into. Just the empty space where a next chapter should be, and isn’t that just like everything else?

An unfinished book. Laundry left in the corner. Shampoo running low.

The little things feel big all of a sudden, pressing down like they have more meaning than they should. Stupid things, really—like whether he has enough toothpaste or if there’s food in the fridge or whether he remembered to turn off the light in the hall. Does it even matter?

He used to think it did. Used to think there was some kind of order to it all. But now... now he isn’t so sure. Now, it all feels distant. Like watching someone else’s life through a foggy window, too far away to really make sense of anything. The mess feels bigger than him. The laundry pile looms. The silence presses in.

There’s always something unfinished. Always something half-done. And he can’t tell if that’s a reason to keep going or just proof that he’s already stopped trying.

“Why don’t you care about this?"
"Why aren’t you trying hard enough?"
"Why didn’t you say something?"
"Why don’t you eat?"
"Why are you always so tired?"
"Why can’t you just try harder?"

Why, why, why, why, why, why—the word feels like a heartbeat, relentless, pounding in his head until it drowns out everything else. It’s always there, repeating itself in a loop, endless and unforgiving. Why aren’t you good enough? Why can’t you do this right? Why can’t you just be normal? They don’t even have to say it anymore. He can hear it in the silences, in the looks they give him when he says he’s fine and they don’t believe it. He can feel it in the weight of their expectations, their disappointment pressing down on him like the laundry in the corner, like the half-finished book on his nightstand. He can feel it in everything.

Pain is funny like that. It’s always there, even when you think it isn’t. Sometimes it’s sharp, like a knife twisting in your gut, quick and brutal, leaving you breathless. Other times, it’s dull and heavy, like a weight pulling you down, slow and steady, until you don’t even realize it’s dragging you under. Which one’s worse? He’s never really figured it out.

Is it a blessing to feel? To know you’re still alive, still human, still here? Or is it a curse—a never-ending, inescapable curse? He’s not sure anymore. He used to think that feeling too much was better than not feeling anything at all. But now he’s starting to wonder if maybe the real curse is that he can’t stop feeling. Like his heart doesn’t know how to shut off, even when it should. Even when it’s too much.

It’s exhausting. All this feeling. Like there’s too much of it and not enough space inside him to hold it all. And no one ever tells you what to do when it gets like that—when the pressure builds and builds until you feel like you’re going to break apart if you don’t do something.

He wishes he didn’t feel so much. Wishes he could turn it off. Maybe if he could just stop feeling everything so hard, so deeply, it wouldn’t hurt like this. Maybe if he could just be like everyone else, if he could just fix it—then maybe the questions would stop. The why’s. The endless demands for explanations he doesn’t have.

They keep asking him why he’s not trying harder. Why he doesn’t care. Why he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t try. As if it’s that simple. As if all he has to do is try harder and everything will magically fall into place. But what they don’t understand is that he is trying. He’s always been trying. It’s just... some days, trying isn’t enough.

Some days, he isn’t sure if he’s asking himself those questions or if it’s them.

He does the dishes this morning. The water is too hot, burning the tips of his fingers as he scrubs the plates clean, but he doesn’t adjust it. He lets it sting. It’s something to feel, something to focus on besides the noise in his head. When he’s done, he wipes the counters down, neat and methodical, before moving on to making breakfast for Darry and Sodapop. It’s simple—eggs, toast, a couple strips of bacon. They’ll appreciate it, he thinks, even if they don’t say anything.

He pockets what little spending money he has left and heads out to the store. It’s a quiet walk, too quiet, like the world is holding its breath. He buys the groceries, nothing fancy, just enough to get them through the week. When he gets home, he makes a few small lunches for them, wraps them up neatly and sets them aside. It’s the least he can do, right? It’s the summer—he’s not doing anything else. No one is coming over today. He’s got all the time in the world.

He cleans the living room next. Sweeps the floors, dusts the shelves. Throws away Two-Bit’s empty beer bottles still scattered from the last time he was over. It feels good to tidy up, like he’s putting things in order, making everything neat and organized. It’s easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.

But it doesn’t matter. Because no matter how much he cleans, no matter how much he scrubs, there is still dirty laundry in the corner of his room.

There’s dirty laundry in the corner of the room.

Maybe it will always be there.

It’s funny how something so small, so insignificant, can feel like the heaviest thing in the world. That pile of clothes, that tiny mess in the corner, feels like a monument to everything he can’t fix. He’s cleaned the whole house, but he can’t make that pile go away. It’s like a stain, a mark that just won’t come out.

He’s done all these things today—made breakfast, bought groceries, cleaned up—and none of it matters. Because in the end, there’s still a mess he can’t clean, a weight he can’t lift. Maybe it’ll never be clean. Maybe it’ll always be there, staring at him from the corner, a constant reminder that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t fix it. He can’t fix himself.

The thoughts swirl around him, spiraling tighter and tighter, faster and faster, until they’re all he can hear, all he can see. The laundry, the mess, the questions. The endless why’s.

Why can’t you be better? Why can’t you fix this? Why can’t you just try harder?

Maybe if he stops, the questions will stop too. 

Maybe if he stops, the mess will finally go away.

—

As Ponyboy stepped out of the house, a hollow ache settled in his chest, sharp and relentless like a piece of glass lodged deep within him. The words he’d thrown at Soda echoed in his mind, and though he tried to tell himself he’d been right to say them, the memory of his brother’s hurt expression made him feel sick. His stomach twisted as he swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, quickening his steps toward the car.

He climbed into the backseat, forcing a tight-lipped smile in the hope that maybe, just maybe, he could hide the turmoil churning inside him. But as soon as he glanced up, Two-Bit’s easygoing expression shifted, eyebrows drawing together in faint concern.

“Everything good?” he asked, his usual teasing tone softened. Steve, who’d been checking the rearview mirror, gave Ponyboy a quick once-over, then shot a look out the window, almost as if he was expecting to see Sodapop running out to join them.

“Soda said to go without him,” Ponyboy mumbled, the words sticking to his throat. He hoped they wouldn’t press him, that they’d just let it drop, but he could feel the heat of their eyes on him, Two-Bit’s brow quirking up in that familiar, skeptical way.

“Yeah? That don’t sound like Soda,” Steve said, leaning back and folding his arms, studying Ponyboy with a mix of curiosity and quiet concern.

Ponyboy shifted under the scrutiny, looking away as casually as he could manage, though his insides felt knotted tight. His mind whirled with the thought that he’d messed up—again. He could still see Soda’s face, the hurt shadowing his eyes. The shame gnawed at him, making him feel like he’d ruined something precious. Steve let out a low sigh, glancing toward the house. 

“Well, shoot, I was kinda hopin’ we’d all hang out,” he said, half to himself, “Could’ve grabbed a bite. I think I’ll head inside, you guys go without me.” 

He glanced back over his shoulder, looking like he was ready to go inside and pull Soda out himself. Before he could get any ideas, Two-Bit gave him a swift nudge in the ribs. 

“Give it a rest, man,” he murmured, a quiet hint of warning in his voice, catching the strain in Ponyboy’s expression. Steve rolled his eyes but let out a heavy sigh, settling back into his seat with a reluctant shrug.

“All right, all right,” Steve muttered, reaching for the keys and turning them in the ignition. The engine hummed to life, and they pulled out onto the road, the low murmur of the rain tapping against the car roof filling the silence.

They fell into an easy chatter, mostly Steve and Two-Bit bouncing jokes off each other, each one louder than the last, but Ponyboy stayed quiet in the back seat, staring out the window at the blurred world outside. His fingers fiddled absently with a loose thread on his sleeve, a familiar itch of panic prickling at the edges of his thoughts. He tried to focus on their voices, to ground himself, but the echo of his last words to Soda kept flooding back, a reminder of the line he felt he’d crossed.

Every so often, Steve would glance in the rearview, his eyes flickering with a trace of worry that he tried to cover with a grin. Two-Bit shot Ponyboy a knowing look, like he could see right through the silence, but he didn’t push, just settled back and kept the jokes coming, hoping, maybe, that one of them would finally get a laugh out of him.

He sat in the back, staring out the window, but the world outside felt too distant, too blurry. Their voices were still in his head, louder than the noise of the car. It wouldn’t stop. He kept thinking about everything that had gone wrong—everything he’d done wrong. How he’d messed up again, let Sodapop down, just like always.

Ponyboy’s breathing was getting shallow, but he didn’t notice it at first. His chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air, but he couldn’t focus on that. All he could think about was how badly he’d messed up. How Sodapop had looked at him like that—disappointed, frustrated, angry. It felt like he was sinking, falling deeper into this pit he couldn’t climb out of.

"Pony? You okay back there?" Steve glanced over his shoulder, but Ponyboy couldn’t answer. His throat felt tight, and his breaths were coming quicker now, too quick. His fingers dug into his jeans, knuckles white as he gripped the fabric. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

Two-Bit turned around in his seat, his joking expression dropping the second he saw Ponyboy’s face. "Hey, you look kinda pale, kid."

Ponyboy barely heard him. The panic was taking over now, creeping up from his chest, twisting tighter around his lungs. His heart was racing, pounding so hard it hurt. He gasped for air, but it felt like he couldn’t get enough. He was suffocating, the feeling of everything pressing down on him, squeezing the breath out of his body.

Two-Bit reached into the backseat, face starting to grow panicked as he took in Ponyboys expression. He latched onto Ponyboy’s arm, and tried to get him to look at him but Ponyboy just looked away. Two-Bit tightened his grip, his own heart racing as he felt the trembling beneath his arms. He’d never seen his friend like this, and it scared him.

Ponyboy kept messing things up.  

“Pony, c’mon, breathe man,” Two-Bit urged, his voice low and steady, trying to be the anchor he knew Ponyboy needed. He glanced at Steve, who looked more lost than ever, unsure of how to help. Steve sat there, hands tightly grasping the steering wheel, like if he let go the car might spin out of control. 

“What’s going on with him?” Steve finally blurted out, his tone wavering. “Is he… having a heart attack or something?” 

It sounded stupid, but in that moment, it felt like the only explanation for Ponyboy's panic—honestly thats what Ponyboy felt like too. Two-Bit shook his head, his brow furrowing in frustration. 

“I don’t know! Just help me out here!” He looked back at Ponyboy, whose face was pale and glistening with sweat, and swallowed hard. “Pony, just listen to my voice, alright? You gotta breathe, just like I’m doing.”

Ponyboy’s breaths came in sharp gasps, and the world around him felt like it was closing in. He felt hot and cold all at once, his skin prickling with anxiety. Two-Bit’s grip on him was grounding, and even though he wanted to push him away, there was a part of him that clung to it.

“Hey! Hey, Pony!” Two-Bit said, trying to catch his attention. “Focus on me. I know it’s hard, but just breathe with me.” He inhaled deeply, exaggerated, but Ponyboy couldn’t keep up.

“I can’t… I can’t!” Ponyboy choked out, his voice strained, cracking like ice beneath the fear. It felt like he was drowning, a heavy weight pinning him down, and each shallow breath sent a wave of suffocation crashing over him.

“Two-Bit!” Steve’s voice was laced with panic, sharp as broken glass. “What do we do?” His eyes darted nervously between the rearview mirror and the backseat, searching for guidance.

“Just chill out, Steve!” Two-Bit snapped, his tone snapping like a rubber band, but it wobbled with his own uncertainty. “Pull over the car, would ya?” He turned back to Ponyboy, who was trembling violently, his hands shaking like leaves caught in a storm. “Look, it’s okay kid, you’re safe.”

But Ponyboy felt himself slipping further away, engulfed in a tidal wave of guilt and panic. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,” he gasped, he raked his hands up and down his arms the scratching soothing the panic and grounding him.

“Stop that,” Two-Bit insisted, trying to adjust his grip to grab onto Ponyboy’s hands, his voice firm yet softening. “You don’t gotta apologize, just calm down. Just keep trying to breathe, okay?” 

As the car lurched to a stop, Two-Bit quickly slid into the back seat beside him, instinctively wrapping his arms around Ponyboy from behind. The sudden warmth enveloped him, like a blanket on a cold night, but at first, Ponyboy stiffened, feeling trapped in a cocoon of his own panic. Two-Bit put Ponyboys hands on his arms to keep him from scratching them and took in exaggerated breaths. 

“I gotcha, Pony. Just hang on, alright? I’m not letting you go.” Two-Bit’s voice dropped to a soothing whisper, Ponyboy tried his best to pull them in, shaking as he did so.

“Come on, kid, focus on me,” Two-Bit urged, his breath warm against Ponyboy’s ear. “In and out, nice and slow. Just like this.” He inhaled deeply again, demonstrating, his chest rising and falling steadily, hoping Ponyboy would mirror his rhythm.

It took a good while for them to calm him down. By the time that they had gotten him to start breathing better he was exhausted, his body shaking and drooping from the exertion of the panic. Two-bit had settled into a rhythm of breathing exaggeratedly and muttering quiet reassurances behind his own panic. Steve, still in the front seat, watched helplessly, his heart pounding like a war drum. 

“You good back there, Pony?” he asked, voice tight with worry, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror, searching for any sign of improvement.

Ponyboy nodded, though the gesture felt heavy and unsure, like trying to lift a weight too heavy for him. The world around him still felt like a dizzying blur, but with Two-Bit’s solid presence beside him, the chaos began to quiet, just a little.

“Yeah,” Ponyboy managed, his voice a mere whisper, laced with uncertainty. “I’m okay.”

Steve exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over his features. He exchanged a glance with Two-Bit, who nodded, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to ease.

After the silence had stretched just a little too long, Two-Bit eased his grip but left his hand on Ponyboy’s shoulder, a grounding presence that seemed out of place on his usually easygoing friend. Ponyboy could still feel the weight of his own embarrassment, pressing down like a weight that wouldn’t let go. He glanced up and caught Two-Bit watching him with a serious expression—a look that, on Two-Bit, felt oddly foreign.

A laugh slipped out before Ponyboy could stop it, sounding a little more surprised than amused. “If you keep looking at me that hard, Two-Bit,” he mumbled, managing a shaky grin, “you might strain something.”

The serious look faltered, then melted into wide-eyed surprise, and Steve’s snicker came from the front seat. Two-Bit’s brows shot up, and he looked between them, finally breaking into a grin that was pure relief. 

“Hey now I can use my brain when I need to, I’ll have you know.” He said, with an exaggerated shrug. “Can’t always be the comedian, right?”

Steve chuckled, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the two of them. “A serious Two-Bit—now that’s real scary,” he said, grinning.

Two-Bit scoffed, giving Ponyboy a light shove. “Alright, alright,” he teased, his usual grin back in place. 

Ponyboy relaxed a little, his breathing finally settling, and for the first time since the panic had overtaken him, he felt the tightness in his chest starting to loosen. The laughter had shifted the air around them, and the quiet that followed felt warmer, more familiar.

— 

The water starts to fill the bathtub, the sound echoing in the quiet room. It’s loud, almost too loud for the stillness around him, but he doesn’t flinch. He watches it rise, slow and steady, inch by inch.

The blade—clean, untouched, but not unfamiliar—rests gently on the edge of the tub. He’s stared at it before, thought about it before. It’s been sitting there for a while now, almost like it’s waiting for him. Someone gave it to him a while ago, he thinks it might have been Curly.

The dirty laundry still sits in the corner of his room, untouched. Maybe it’ll always be there. Maybe it’s always been there, a part of the background, just like the rest of the things he’s left undone.

None of it really matters anymore. The mess. The small things left unfinished. They blend into the fog that clouds his thoughts.

He’s ready to not feel anymore. 

— 

“You feel any better?” Two-Bit kept his voice light, an unspoken gentleness threading through his words as he leaned against the hostess stand. They were waiting for a table, Steve having ducked into the bathroom. The short walk into the diner had helped Ponyboy shake off some of the tension, but his body still felt heavy from the panic attack, leaving a dull ache he couldn’t quite shake.

Ponyboy shrugged, forcing a small smile, though he knew it probably looked as tired as he felt. “Better than before,” he admitted, but he couldn’t hide the exhaustion creeping into his voice. The panic had ebbed, sure, but the embarrassment lingered, thick and uncomfortable.

Two-Bit tilted his head, giving him a curious look, clearly not buying the brush-off. “Something happen?” he asked, trying to keep it casual. Ponyboy hesitated, casting a sidelong glance at him before looking away. He didn’t feel like explaining—not now, maybe not ever. But part of it slipped out before he could stop himself.

“I messed up… should’ve kept my mouth shut with Soda,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the low murmur of the diner.

Two-Bit’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You and Soda fightin’? Hell must be frozen over.” He tried for a grin, but the light tone didn't quite match the concern that flashed in his eyes.

Ponyboy shot him a tired look, one that barely hid the guilt simmering underneath. “It’s not funny, Two-Bit. I really messed up this time.”

“Aw, kid,” Two-Bit said softly, nudging him with an elbow, “Sodapop can’t stay mad at you for long. You know that.” 

He tried to reassure him, but Ponyboy couldn’t shake the pressure in his chest. It wasn’t about Sodapop’s forgiveness—not really. It was about all the times he’d messed things up, all the times his brothers had to worry about him, pick up the pieces, try to keep him steady. The past few years felt like a series of burdens he’d unknowingly piled onto them, one after another.

He could feel Two-Bit’s eyes on him, waiting for a response, but he didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t just this one fight—it was everything. All he managed was another shrug, his gaze fixed on the chipped linoleum floor.

Just then, Steve reappeared, slapping his hand on the counter as he joined them, his usual smirk slipping when he noticed Ponyboy’s quiet expression. Two-Bit’s hand shifted to give Ponyboy’s shoulder a light squeeze before he let go, a silent reassurance, but he didn’t press him further. Instead, he leaned back, putting on a grin as the hostess called them to their table, letting the conversation settle as they slipped into their usual routine, almost like nothing had happened.

—

As Ponyboy stepped into the house, he found Darry on the couch, glancing up from his newspaper. Darry’s head tilted slightly, his expression calm but knowing—a silent acknowledgment that he was already aware of what had happened between him and Sodapop.

“Soda awake?” Ponyboy asked, hesitating in the doorway.

Darry folded his newspaper, setting it aside. “I’d let him cool off, alright? Give him a bit of space.” His tone was gentle, almost resigned. There was no trace of anger—just a patience that reminded Ponyboy of all the times Soda had probably felt the same, playing peacekeeper back when they were younger.

Without another word, Ponyboy crossed the room and sank into the couch beside Darry, who leaned back in his recliner. This had become their routine lately, an unspoken truce—a way to sit together in peace without needing to fill the silence. Sometimes an old TV show would be on, one of those reruns they both pretended to watch. Other times, it was just the quiet hum of the room around them. The comfort came not from what they were doing, but simply from being there, side by side.

The familiar stillness settled over them, and Ponyboy felt his eyes grow heavy, the exhaustion from the day’s events catching up with him. Before he knew it, he was drifting, the last thing he felt was the steady warmth of Darry nearby.

He woke to the gentle sensation of being lifted, cradled in Darry’s strong arms as he carried him down the hallway to the spare room. Ponyboy kept his eyes closed, barely conscious, but feeling the quiet affection in each step. As Darry laid him down, he felt the soft brush of Darry’s hand on his forehead, followed by a gentle kiss—and he felt like crying.

“Goodnight, kiddo,” Darry whispered, lingering for a moment. Ponyboy sensed him there, standing watch, just like he used to when things were simpler. Then, with a sigh, Darry turned, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

Ponyboy prayed he wouldn’t dream tonight. 

—

A scream tears through the silence, sharp and raw, and nothing will ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 1968

In the week following the intense storm, a heatwave hotter than he’d ever been alive for had hit Tulsa. 

The gang was over for the night, but they’d been over a lot this week due to the jumping and setting up of the rumble. Each night proved worse than the last as more and more gangs got involved, the set up for the rumble was coming and no one could stop it. Ponyboy was sat against the porch, a book open on his lap as the rest of them tossed a football around. Two-Bit and Dally were playing euchre for drinks and cigarettes inside the house but everyone else was outside. 

The sun was relentless, beating down with an intensity that made the air shimmer around them. Even in the shade of the porch, the heat was unbearable. Ponyboy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, the weight of his sweatshirt heavy on his shoulders, his skin prickling beneath it.

“Pone, you gotta take that off,” Darry called from the yard, his voice gruff but edged with concern. He was watching Ponyboy closely, his hands resting on his hips, sweat beading at his brow. “You’re gonna get heat stroke wearing that thing.”

Ponyboy tensed, gripping the fabric tighter as if holding on would make the conversation go away. “I’m fine,” he muttered, keeping his gaze on his book.

“You’re not fine,” Darry shot back, stepping closer now. His tone wasn’t angry—not yet—but there was that familiar firmness in it, the one that always made Ponyboy feel cornered. “It’s over a hundred degrees out here. I’m not letting you get a heat stroke ‘cause you’re too stubborn to listen.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He could feel the heat pressing in on him from all sides, and it was getting harder to ignore the dizziness creeping in. But taking off the sweatshirt—letting them see—he wasn’t sure he could handle that either.

Darry stood there, waiting, his eyes narrowing slightly when Ponyboy didn’t move before sighing heavily. 

“Pony,” he said, more quietly now, a thread of tiredness weaving through his voice. “C’mon, kid. Please. Just… take it off.”

Ponyboy hesitated, his fingers curling into the hem of the sweatshirt. He knew he was pushing it, knew Darry wouldn’t let this go. With a deep breath, he finally relented, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and dropping it onto the porch beside him, leaving him just with a short tank top and his jeans. 

The air hit his bare arms like a wave, and for a second, Ponyboy felt a brief sense of relief. But then he caught the look on Darry’s face—the way his eyes flickered, just for a second, down to Ponyboy’s arms.

Darry didn’t say anything, but the expression on his face was enough. His jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a tight line as his gaze lingered on the marks—even a year later, still too fresh on everyone’s minds. The kind that made Darry’s stomach turn every time he saw them, even though he’d seen them before.

Ponyboy could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating. He shifted awkwardly, pulling his arms close to his sides as if that might somehow make them disappear.

Darry swallowed hard, his eyes dark with something that looked like a mix of anger and heartbreak. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but stopped himself, his shoulders sagging slightly. He turned away, running a hand through his hair.

“Thank you,” Darry said, his voice rough. “Just don’t stay out too long. We’re eating in a bit.”

Ponyboy nodded, grateful for the out, even though he could feel Darry’s eyes on him as he turned to walk away, slipping into the game of the yard. As he sat there, pretending to watch the game but keeping to the sidelines, the heaviness settled in his chest. 

Sodapop was definitely still upset.

The knot in Ponyboy’s stomach tightened at the thought. He and Soda never stayed mad at each other for long, but this time felt different. Last week’s argument hadn’t been like the usual squabbles they’d had growing up. Sodapop had barely looked at him since then, let alone talked to him. Every time Ponyboy tried to bring it up, it felt like there was a wall between them, something neither of them knew how to get past.

He shifted uncomfortably, leaning back against the rough wood of the fence as he pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. He could hear the faint murmur of Steve’s voice from the front of the house, probably still talking to Sodapop. They were both out a lot lately, gone for long stretches of time, and Ponyboy hadn’t thought much of it at first. But now… now it was obvious.

He was avoiding the house. Avoiding him .

The thought made Ponyboy’s chest ache. It wasn’t like he blamed them. After everything that had happened last year, after the nightmares and the way he’d pulled away from everyone, it was only a matter of time before they got tired of trying to deal with him. He’d pushed them away, even when he hadn’t meant to, and now it felt like they were finally giving up.

Soda especially. Ponyboy had always been able to count on him, always knew he’d be there when things got rough. But lately, Sodapop seemed… distant. His smiles didn’t reach his eyes anymore, and his usual easygoing nature had been replaced with something more strained, something that made Ponyboy feel like he was constantly walking on eggshells around him.

He regretted it the second the words left his mouth, but by then it was too late. The damage was done, and Soda had gotten this hurt look on his face before storming out, slamming the door behind him. Since then, he’d barely been home, and when he was, he’d been quiet, avoiding eye contact and conversation.

Ponyboy sighed, letting his eyes fall to the patch of dirt beneath his feet, tracing patterns in the earth with the toe of his sneaker. He didn’t know how to fix things, didn’t know how to reach his brother when he was like this. And it wasn’t just Soda. Darry was worn out, stretched thin from trying to keep everything together, and Steve… well, Steve had always been protective of Sodapop. 

Steve had been glaring at him since the day after and Ponyboy knew that he knew why.

Ponyboy leaned his head back against the fence, staring up at the darkening sky. The stars were just starting to peek through, faint pinpricks of light that usually brought him some kind of comfort, but tonight they just seemed distant. Everything felt distant.

Ponyboy exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He wished he could talk to Soda, explain how he felt, but every time he tried, the words got stuck in his throat. How could he explain something he didn’t even fully understand himself? He didn’t want to admit how lost he felt, how scared he was that things were slipping out of his control, but at the same time, he couldn’t stand the distance between him and his brothers.

From inside the house, the low murmur of voices drifted through the open window, muffled but unmistakable. Ponyboy could catch snatches of conversation, just enough to know that Steve and Soda were still talking. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, shoulders hunched, lost in his own thoughts, before he heard the soft crunch of footsteps approaching from behind. Instinctively, he tensed, but when he glanced over his shoulder, it was just Johnny, his expression soft but concerned as always.

Ponyboy let out a slow breath and offered a small smile, a little forced but genuine enough. He scooted over to make room for Johnny, who quietly sat down next to him on the grass.

“Pone?” Johnny’s voice was tentative, his eyes searching Ponyboy’s face for some kind of answer as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. His movements were slow, deliberate—like he was giving Ponyboy time to speak if he wanted to.

Ponyboy didn’t say anything at first, just watched the tiny flicker of the lighter’s flame in the dark before Johnny passed the cigarette over. With a quiet “thanks,” Ponyboy accepted it, relief washing over him as he took a long drag, the familiar burn easing the tension in his chest, if only for a moment.

“Hm?” He finally replied, exhaling a stream of smoke that curled up into the night air.

Johnny shifted, glancing at him sideways, his expression still a little hesitant. “Did something happen between you and Soda?”

Ponyboy’s heart sank at the question, even though he knew Johnny didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t blame him for asking—it was obvious that something was off. Soda had barely spoken to him for days, and when he did, the words felt sharp, like they were laced with frustration he was holding back. Ponyboy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

He took another drag off the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat longer than necessary before letting it out in a slow sigh. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice low and rough. “I guess.”

Johnny nodded, waiting patiently, like he always did when Ponyboy wasn’t ready to say more. He didn’t push, just sat there, quiet and steady, his presence a comfort even without words.

For a long moment, Ponyboy stared down at the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ash build up at the tip. Finally, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think he’s mad at me. Been avoiding me all week.”

Johnny frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in that quiet way he did when he was trying to figure something out. “Mad? At you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Soda doesn’t get mad at you, Pone. Not like that.”

Ponyboy shrugged, flicking the ash off the cigarette and watching it scatter on the ground. “He does when I screw up,” he muttered. “I said something during a fight. I wasn’t thinking.”

Like always. 

He didn’t need to explain what had been said—Johnny knew him well enough to fill in the blanks. When Ponyboy got upset, his words had a habit of coming out sharper than he meant them to, and once they were out, there was no taking them back.

Johnny stayed quiet for a second before offering, “Maybe he just needs time. You know how Soda is—he doesn’t stay mad for long.”

“Yeah, but it’s different this time,” Ponyboy said, his voice strained. He turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Johnny’s profile in the dim light. “I don’t think he’s just mad. I think he’s... disappointed or something.”

Johnny’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered that, then he nodded, passing the cigarette back to Ponyboy. “Disappointed? Nah, Pone. Soda loves you. He’s probably just... tired, y’know?”

Ponyboy took another drag, but Johnny’s words did little to ease the knot in his stomach. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Johnny’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Just give him some time,” he said quietly. “He’ll come around. You guys always figure it out.”

Ponyboy nodded, but the doubt still lingered. He took one last drag from the cigarette before handing it back to Johnny, who stubbed it out on the ground. “I just wish things didn’t feel so... messed up all the time,” he muttered.

Johnny gave a soft, understanding nod, his eyes distant for a second. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I get that.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them stretching comfortably as the sounds of the evening carried on around them. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and the voices from the house grew quieter, more muffled. Ponyboy could still hear Soda’s voice faintly from inside, probably finishing up with some of the cooking. He shifted, feeling a small tug in his chest.

He could at least try.

As soon as Ponyboy entered the living room, the familiar sight hit him—Two-Bit lounging on the couch with a beer, Dally sitting on the armrest beside him, both of them caught up in some ridiculous card game. When they spotted him, Two-Bit grinned wide, his eyes lighting up with mischief.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Two-Bit said, loud enough to fill the whole room. “Come on, Ponyboy, get over here! You can be the deciding factor in whether or not I kick Dal’s ass in this game.”

Ponyboy smirked despite himself but shook his head. “There’s not enough people for that,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe.

Two-Bit raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh yeah? You sure about that?” Without warning, he lunged forward and grabbed Ponyboy by the leg, yanking him down onto the couch with a grunt.

“Two-Bit! Knock it off,” Ponyboy huffed, trying to squirm away, but Two-Bit was having none of it. His grip wasn’t rough—more playful than anything—but strong enough to keep Ponyboy in place.

“You know you love it,” Two-Bit teased, wrestling him onto the couch as if Ponyboy were still the kid he’d known for years. “Come on, don’t be such a stiff! We’re havin’ fun here!”

Ponyboy struggled for a second, trying to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not a stiff!” he muttered, finally letting out a laugh when Two-Bit ruffled his hair like an annoying older brother.

“There it is!” Two-Bit crowed, throwing his hands up triumphantly like he’d just won a championship. “Ain’t nobody can resist the charm of ol’ Two-Bit!”

Ponyboy shook his head, grinning now despite the weight still sitting in his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Two-Bit replied with a wink, slumping back into the couch. “Come on, sit down. We’ll even let you in on the next round.”

As Ponyboy sat back up, his eyes caught Dally’s, who was watching the whole scene with a bemused smirk. Dally had that calculating look, but when Ponyboy glanced over, he saw Dally slip one of the cards from his hand and switch it, quick as a flash.

Dally shot him a wink, clearly pleased with himself, but before Ponyboy could say anything, Two-Bit had already clapped him on the shoulder. “All right, all right, break it up, Dallas. You know you’re about to lose anyway.”

“Like hell I am,” Dally shot back, leaning back lazily.

Before the conversation could escalate, Ponyboy glanced up and caught a glimpse of Sodapop and Steve standing in the kitchen doorway. Steve had his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, but Soda... Soda looked softer. His eyes lingered on Ponyboy with that quiet, tired relief, like he was just happy to see his little brother laughing again, even if only for a second.

Steve’s expression was more guarded—still protective, still watching. He didn’t say anything, just leaned back against the doorframe with that analyzing look that he usually reserved for people he was trying to figure out.

Before Ponyboy could say anything, Two-Bit stood up shooting a meaningful look towards Steve and Dally, who also began to stand up with him. 

“C’mon, boys. Cards and euchre are calling our names,” Two-Bit announced, tossing the deck in the air and catching it expertly. “Time to show these amateurs how it’s done.”

Before they left, Steve gave him this hard look like he wasn’t sure if he should leave Sodapop by himself, like Ponyboy might snap the minute they left but Two-Bit practically dragged him out the door so he didn’t have much say. As the door closed behind them, Ponyboy sighed, turning to help with the food. He could still feel the weight of everything pressing down, but for a moment, it didn’t feel as unbearable.

“Need any help?” he asked, his voice quieter than he meant for it to be.

Soda glanced up from the stove, a small, grateful smile crossing his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Set the table, would ya?”

Ponyboy nodded, moving to grab the plates, the tension between them softening just a little as he worked quietly beside his brother. The clatter of silverware was the only sound for a few moments, the faint scent of something burning in the air. It wasn’t unbearable, but enough to make Ponyboy wrinkle his nose as he set the last plate down.

He hesitated, glancing at Sodapop, who was stirring a pot with a bit more intensity than necessary, his shoulders tight. The room still felt heavy, like the words from the fight last week hadn’t fully cleared out. Ponyboy opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He could feel the pressure in the air, the weight of all the things left unsaid hanging over them.

Finally, Ponyboy cleared his throat. “Hey, Soda?”

Sodapop didn’t look up, but his hand faltered slightly, the spoon tapping against the edge of the pot. “Yeah, Pone?”

Ponyboy swallowed, the apology already tangling in his chest. He shifted on his feet, suddenly unsure of how to begin. “I’m sorry I yelled—last week, I mean. I didn’t mean it, honest.”

For a second, Soda blinked, his expression unreadable, like the words hadn’t fully registered. Then his brows knitted together, and he turned to look at Ponyboy, his mouth opening slightly in surprise. The spoon in his hand hovered over the pot, dripping sauce onto the stove, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Pone,” Sodapop’s voice was softer now, but there was something else there, something raw and tired. He set the spoon down and wiped his hands on the dish towel. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Ponyboy cut him off, his voice wavering just a little. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I just...wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t mean what I said.” His hands tightened around the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. “I didn’t mean it.”

Soda’s eyes softened, but there was still that tension in the way he stood, like he didn’t quite know how to respond. He took a deep breath, wiping a hand across his forehead, the tired lines of his face standing out in the dim light of the kitchen. 

“I know you didn’t, Pone. I just…” He trailed off, glancing over at the stove as if it might offer him the right words, but they didn’t come. 

The silence stretched between them again, only this time it felt heavier, more painful. Ponyboy could see the exhaustion etched into Soda’s face, the way his brother was holding onto something deeper, something he wasn’t saying.

“I really am sorry,” He whispered it again, voice teetering on the edge of desperation, but not pushing over enough. 

Sodapop nodded, whatever he wanted to say, seem to fade in the back of his throat and he just put his arm out. Ponyboy sat down the rest of the dishes and wrapped his arms around his brother letting him pull him into a side hug. He knew that he hadn’t fixed it, but it seemed like neither of them could really handle being separated from each other even so.

‘Things will be better when I’m gone,’ He thought not for the first time. 

—

When Ponyboy woke up, the world felt distant, muted. The steady beeping of a heart monitor was the first thing he registered, a sound that tugged at him like an anchor pulling him back into reality. His body felt heavy, weighed down by something he couldn’t quite name. The smell of antiseptic filled his senses, sharp and sterile, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly in the background.

He blinked slowly, his vision swimming in and out of focus as he tried to make sense of where he was. The white hospital sheets were crisp against his skin, too clean, too cold. The machines around him clicked and whirred quietly, monitoring him, keeping him tethered here. He felt numb—physically, mentally, emotionally. There was no panic, no real sense of fear or regret. Just… nothing.

He stared at the ceiling, the blank tiles overhead offering no answers, no comfort. He should have been dead. That was what he’d expected, wasn’t it? To not wake up at all? Yet here he was, his heart still beating, his lungs still filling with air, even though it all felt wrong. His mind was a foggy blur, trying to process the fact that he was still alive, but there was no emotion attached to it—no relief, no disappointment. Just emptiness.

It took him a moment to realize there was someone beside him. He turned his head slightly, and his gaze landed on Sodapop. His brother was slumped in a chair next to the bed, his head resting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, one arm draped across his stomach while the other hung loosely at his side. His face was pale, his eyes red and puffy, even in sleep.

Ponyboy’s eyes lingered on him, watching the slow rise and fall of his brother’s chest, the soft snores escaping him every now and then. He looked exhausted—more exhausted than Ponyboy had ever seen him. His hair was messy, like he hadn’t slept properly in days, and there was a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

For a moment, Ponyboy just watched him, feeling strangely detached from the whole situation. He knew he should feel something—guilt maybe, or sadness—but all he could do was stare blankly at the sight of his brother crumpled beside him. It was like watching a scene play out in someone else’s life.

His throat felt dry, and he shifted slightly, the movement barely audible over the hum of the machines. It was enough to stir Sodapop awake.

Soda jolted, blinking blearily before his eyes locked onto Ponyboy. The relief that flooded his face was immediate, and for a second, Soda just stared, as if making sure what he was seeing was real. Then, without warning, his expression crumbled.

“Pony,” Soda breathed out, his voice cracking, raw from a mix of exhaustion and something deeper—something broken. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the bed with white-knuckled hands as if anchoring himself to reality. “Jesus, you’re awake.”

Ponyboy didn’t say anything, just stared blankly at his brother. He wasn’t sure what to say. His mind felt distant, foggy. The words wouldn’t come, even if he tried.

Sodapop swallowed hard, his throat working against the flood of emotions clearly building inside him. He reached out, gently brushing the hair back from Ponyboy’s forehead like he always did when they were kids. But his hands were trembling, and there was something frantic in his movements, something desperate.

“I thought…” Soda’s voice hitched, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip, shaking his head as he tried to keep himself together. “I thought I lost you, kid. I—I walked in, and you—” His voice cracked again, and he dropped his head, both hands now gripping the bed rail. His knuckles were white.

Ponyboy’s eyes flickered toward Soda’s hands, noting how tightly he held onto the bed, how tense his shoulders were. The sight of it stirred something inside him, something uncomfortable, but he still couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Sodapop let out a shaky breath, rubbing at his face like he was trying to wake up from some kind of nightmare. “You can’t—” His voice cracked again, harsher this time, like the words were stuck in his throat. “You can’t do that, Pone. You just can’t.”

Ponyboy’s gaze shifted to the ceiling. It was easier to focus on the blank, sterile tiles than to look at his brother’s face. He didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know how to explain that he hadn’t planned on waking up—that he hadn’t wanted to. The silence stretched on, heavy and thick between them.

Soda’s breath hitched again, and before Ponyboy could process what was happening, his older brother was crying. The sound was muffled, like he was trying to hold it in, but the way his shoulders shook gave him away. It was a sound that didn’t belong to the Sodapop Ponyboy knew—the one who was always smiling, always holding things together. This was a different kind of breaking, something deeper and raw, the kind of breaking that came from finding your little brother bleeding out in the bathroom.

Ponyboy just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his chest tight, but still feeling that same overwhelming numbness. He wanted to say something to make it better, to stop the tears, to fix whatever had broken between them, but his throat felt like it was filled with cotton. The words wouldn’t come.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Soda whispered through the tears, his voice shaking, almost a plea. “You’re my baby brother, Pone. You can’t do that to me. You can’t leave me like that.”

Ponyboy’s eyes burned, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the fluorescent lights or something else. He swallowed hard, trying to push the knot in his throat down. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think I’d wake up.”

Soda froze, his tear-streaked face lifting to look at Ponyboy, eyes wide and red-rimmed. There was silence for a long moment, broken only by the faint beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed.

Soda didn’t say anything at first, just stared at him, like he didn’t know what to do with the those words. Then, slowly, he sank back into the chair, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, and this time, the sobs were quieter, more subdued, but no less painful.

Ponyboy didn’t move. He just watched his brother break down in front of him, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest, but the numbness still clinging to him like a fog. He wanted to feel something more—needed to feel something more—but all he could do was lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sobs that filled the room.

 —

The TV buzzed softly in the background, a sitcom playing that no one was really watching. Ponyboy sat slouched on the couch, flipping through a dog-eared book with little focus. Next to him, Two-Bit was slowly munching on chips, trading comments about something that had happened at Bucks a week ago with Johnny and Dally. Steve leaned against the wall, his eyes flicking between Sodapop in the kitchen and Ponyboy, his brow deeply furrowed as he watched Sodapop. 

Soda had been scrubbing the same dish for what felt like ages, his movements sharp and tense. It was obvious that something had gone down earlier, but no one wanted to poke at the open wound. Johnny sat on the floor beside the couch, his eyes darting to Ponyboy every so often. He had spotted Sodapop too but hadn’t said anything, mainly just keeping up with the conversation between himself and Dally. Dally, the only one who appeared outwardly relaxed, was lounging in the armchair, a magazine sprawled in his hands. He was half paying attention to the conversation for the sake of Johnny, but he didn’t seem to care too much other than to brag about a girl that had been there that night.

Darry was sitting on the recliner, Two-Bit had tried to get him to join the conversation and then a game of black jack earlier but it had fallen flat when Darry kept looking over at Sodapop through the night. Eventually, his oldest brother sighed a little and pushed himself off of the chair to go over. Darry walked in from the living room, his expression tight and unreadable. His gaze landed briefly on Ponyboy who was clearly listening in from the couch before shifting to Soda. 

“Hey, Soda,” he said quietly, “how about you sit down for a bit? You’ve been at that long enough.”

Soda froze, his knuckles white as he gripped the dish towel. “I’m good,” he mumbled, the tension in his voice betraying him. Ponyboy glanced up, catching the exchange as the others began to quiet a bit in favor of eavesdropping.

“Little buddy, you’ve been scrubbin’ that same plate for five minutes,” Darry kept his voice low, but it was enough for Ponyboy to hear from the living room. “…did something happen earlier?” 

“Darry, it’s fine,” Sodapop whispered back just as hushed, ignoring the way his brother gave him a long look. 

But it seemed like Ponyboy wasn’t the only one who would had been listening

Dally, not looking up from his magazine, spoke up lazily, though his tone carried an edge. “You’re gonna wear a hole through that plate, Soda.”

Both Johnny and Ponyboy winced a little as they both knew how well it went over when Dally thought he might be ‘helping’. 

Steve pushed off the wall, stepping into the kitchen. “Come on, man. Sit down. Darry’s right.”

“Why is everybody jumpin’ on me?” His voice cut through the room, louder than it should have been, and everyone tensed. “I said I’m good.” 

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to ease him down, but it only seemed to set him off more. “Soda—”

Dally’s head finally lifted, his eyes narrowing. “You’re the one actin’ like a damn lunatic over there.” 

“I’m not—” 

Two-Bit shifted uncomfortably on the couch, glancing between them. “Come on, guys. Let’s not do this right now.”

Darry stepped closer, his voice firmer this time. “Soda, enough. Just sit down, okay?”

Ponyboy felt his stomach knot as he watched his brothers, the tension coiling tighter with each passing second. This wasn’t just about the dishes, and he knew it. It was about him. The guilt gnawed at him, knowing he was the reason for all of this. Before anyone else could say anything, Ponyboy stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. 

“I’m going to bed.” His voice came out flat, and he hated the way all eyes in the room immediately turned to him.

No one argued, but the weight of their gazes was unbearable. He didn’t look back as he down the hall, Johnny quietly following behind him. The tension followed them like a shadow. As Ponyboy closed his bedroom door behind them, he heard Steve mutter something to Sodapop, and then Dally’s voice rising again. The argument was going to blow any second now, he could feel it. 

“You good?” Johnny kept his voice a whisper, but Ponyboy pressed his finger to his lips and sat down against the door. 

Ponyboy rested the back of his head against the door, his legs pulled up to his chest as Johnny sat quietly beside him. From where they were, they could only hear the muffled voices, but it was enough to know that things were quickly getting heated.

“Would you calm down?” Dally’s voice cut through, sharp and biting. Ponyboy could practically picture him pacing, his jaw clenched, hands running through his hair like he always did when he was frustrated.

“No!” Sodapop’s voice cracked through the tension, raw and angry. There was a brief shuffle, then the murmur of Steve trying to say something, but it got drowned out by whatever look Sodapop must have thrown him. “He was finally actin’ fine for once, and you had to go and mess it all up!”

Ponyboy winced, pressing his head harder against the door, the weight of the accusation heavy in the air. He glanced sideways at Johnny, who remained silent, his face drawn tight.

“Soda—” Darry’s voice, deep and controlled, tried to interject, but it was quickly cut off as Dally’s voice rose in defense.

“You call this fine? That kid barely says two words, don’t eat, don’t sleep—and you think that’s fine?”

Ponyboy’s stomach knotted, Dally’s words slicing through the thin barrier of the door. He clenched his fists in his lap, trying to ignore the sudden wave of nausea that crawled up his throat. Johnny, sensing the shift in his friend, nudged him slightly, but didn’t say a word. His quiet presence was grounding, but it didn’t stop the sinking feeling in Ponyboy’s chest.

“He seemed better today!” Sodapop’s voice was defensive, almost desperate. “If you hadn’t opened your mouth—”

“You don’t call the way he’s actin’ ‘better!’” Dally’s voice was fierce, every word dripping with barely-contained anger. “For fuck’s sake, he slit his wrists last year, and you think—"

Ponyboy choked. 

A loud crash rang through the house, causing Ponyboy and Johnny to flinch in unison. Ponyboy’s heart leapt into his throat. The sound was unmistakable—something heavy had hit the wall, maybe a chair knocked over. They both pressed their ears harder against the door, straining to hear as the tension downstairs hit a boiling point.

It was Sodapop. He must’ve shoved something—and from the way everyone was shouting, it was probably Dally.

The house felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. Johnny shifted uncomfortably beside Ponyboy, his face pale. The thud was followed by a sharp intake of breath and the unmistakable sound of feet scuffling across the floor. Before anything could escalate further, Darry’s voice boomed across the room, cutting through the noise with authority. 

“Knock it off! Sit down! Both of you—now!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Ponyboy could imagine Darry standing there, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he surveyed the scene. He always had this way of bringing a room to heel when he needed to, even when things got out of hand.

There was a pause—just long enough to make Ponyboy’s heart race—before Darry’s voice came again, calmer this time but no less firm. 

“Dally, take a walk. Cool off.” The sound of heavy boots hitting the floor followed his command, likely Dally storming out, his frustration barely contained. “Soda, go outside—smoke, I don’t care, but enough.”

Ponyboy exhaled slowly, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The weight of Darry’s command seemed to settle the room, even though they couldn’t see it. Johnny, still silent, reached out and gave Ponyboy’s arm a quick, reassuring squeeze.

He shifted uncomfortably, guilt and frustration warring inside him. He hated that he was always the cause of things being messed up, hated that it kept getting brought up. Things weren’t fine. Not really. And now, hearing them argue about him like this only made it worse.

From outside, the front door creaked open, then closed softly with a faint thud. Ponyboy figured it was Sodapop heading outside to cool off like Darry had told him. Inside, he could hear Darry’s tired sigh, the kind that said he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for far too long. Ponyboy could imagine Darry rubbing a hand down his face, trying to calm himself, trying to keep it together.

“Well, that could’ve gone worse,” Two-Bit muttered, his usual sarcasm dulled by exhaustion. His words were meant to lighten the mood, but even he sounded worn down.

Ponyboy let out a small huff of laughter, but there was no real humor in it. His head dropped to his knees as he sat on the floor next to Johnny, feeling the tension sitting heavy in his chest. Johnny didn’t say anything, but his hand found Ponyboy’s back, rubbing slow, comforting circles like he always did when things got too much.

Two-Bit stood up and stretched, glancing toward the door as if he was considering following after Dally. “Guess I’ll go check on him,” he said, his tone casual, but there was something underneath it. No one wanted Dally stomping around town looking for trouble when he was worked up. “Make sure he doesn’t go bustin’ heads.”

Darry stayed planted on the couch, too tired to move, his hands resting on his knees now, staring at the floor like he was trying to figure out how to keep everything from falling apart. “Yeah,” he muttered, barely looking up. “ Good idea.”

Johnny gave Ponyboy one last pat on the back before standing and moving into the living room to sit beside Darry. The quiet between them was heavy, but Johnny didn’t press him. Sometimes, they didn’t need words.

Ponyboy, though, couldn’t shake the pull of curiosity. He hadn’t meant to hear the argument earlier, but now that he had, he couldn’t just leave it alone. He slipped out of the room and crept toward the back door where he figured Sodapop had gone. From the hallway, he could hear the low murmur of voices. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something kept him glued to the spot.

“…You know you can talk to me, right?” That was Steve, his voice quieter than usual, no edge, no teasing.

“I know, man,” Sodapop replied, sounding tired. “It’s just… I don’t know what to do anymore, Steve. He’s my kid brother, and I just— I feel like he doesn’t even trust me enough to talk to me.”

Ponyboy’s stomach twisted at the guilt that suddenly knotted up inside him. He didn’t mean to shut out Soda—it just felt easier not to talk sometimes. Easier to keep everything to himself than to admit he didn’t even know what was wrong.

Steve’s voice came again, a little more forceful, like he was trying to reassure his best friend. “He’s always been like that, though. He keeps his head down, thinks too much, but he ain’t tryin’ to push you away, Soda. That’s just how he is.”

Soda let out a frustrated breath, his voice tight with emotion. “Yeah, but it’s different now, Steve. You’ve seen it, he saw how he was after…” He trailed off, sounding almost ashamed. “I don’t know how to help him. He just looks at me like he’s lost, and I don’t know what to say. Even when I try to help him, he don’t want me.”

Ponyboy could hear the pain in his brother’s voice, and it made his throat tighten. Sodapop was always the one who tried to make things better, tried to keep everything light, and hearing him like this—so defeated—it hit Ponyboy in a way he hadn’t expected.

“I’m scared, Steve.” Sodapop’s voice cracked, barely a whisper now. “He’s gonna go to college, and I don’t know—I’m scared hes gonna get worse and…”

And do what he did last year.

Steve was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “You’re not gonna lose him, man. He’s not goin’ anywhere. He’s just going through a rough patch right now. We’ve all been there.”

There was a pause, and Ponyboy heard the rustle of movement—Steve probably slinging his arm around Sodapop’s shoulders, like he always did when it was just them. 

“It’s not on you to fix it, Soda. All you do is worry about that kid,” Steve said, almost tightly like it broke his heart to see his friend like this. “You gotta let him come to you. He will, you know he will. That kid loves you.”

Soda sniffed, wiping his face, probably a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I know… It’s just… I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to just sit back and watch him fall apart.”

“ You’re not ,” Steve said firmly. “You’re just giving him space, and that’s all he needs right now.”

Ponyboy could barely breathe, guilt settling heavy in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much pressure Sodapop was carrying, how much he was worrying about him. He shifted against the wall, his movements a little too loud. He wasn’t trying to sneak around anymore—he didn’t want Soda to know he’d overheard. He pushed the door open, stepping out onto the porch.

Both Soda and Steve turned to look at him. Sodapop straightened quickly, wiping his face with the back of his hand, like he was trying to brush away any sign that something was wrong. Steve’s arm slipped away from Soda’s shoulders, his expression neutral, but there was something protective in the way he sat just a little closer to his best friend, almost like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

“Hey,” Ponyboy mumbled, trying to sound casual, though his heart was pounding. He knew what he’d overheard wasn’t meant for him. “Mind if I join you?”

Sodapop gave a quick smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, sure, little buddy. Grab a seat,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, still trying to sound like everything was fine.

Steve shot Ponyboy a look—not angry, but on edge, like he was bracing himself for the next thing to go wrong. His jaw tightened, and Ponyboy could tell he was thinking about everything Sodapop had just spilled. Steve was protective of him, sure, but more than that, he was protective of Sodapop, and right now, it seemed like he didn’t trust Ponyboy not to make things worse.

He didn’t blame him.

Ponyboy sat down on the steps beside them, feeling the tension hanging thick in the air. None of them said anything at first. The only sound was the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of the city in the background.

He could feel Steve’s eyes on him, even though he wasn’t looking directly at him. Ponyboy didn’t need to be a genius to know what he was thinking. Steve probably expected him to do or say something that would tip things over the edge—something that would make it harder for Sodapop to keep holding it all together. Ponyboy didn’t blame him for it, either. That’s just how it had been lately.

Soda leaned back, resting his arms on his knees, staring out at nothing in particular. “You alright, Pony?” he asked, his voice quiet. It wasn’t the usual light tone Soda used when he was trying to tease or lift the mood. It was careful, like he was already worn down from the weight of trying to take care of everything.

“Yeah,” Ponyboy said, nodding quickly, though he could feel the tightness in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was lying to Sodapop or himself at this point. “Just…needed some air.”

Sodapop didn’t say anything for a second. He just nodded a little, his face tight like he was holding back everything that had been spilling out before. Steve shifted next to him, the silence between them feeling like it might snap at any moment.

It was always like this now. Every time Ponyboy came around, it felt like he was walking on eggshells—like everyone was waiting for him to crack, waiting for him to say something that would tip everything over. He hated that feeling, hated how it weighed on him, but he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t even know where to start.

Steve leaned back against the porch railing, finally breaking the silence with a long, tired sigh. “Man, Dally’s gonna knock someone’s lights out tonight.” His tone was casual, but there was a knowing edge to it, like he could already see the trouble Dally was bound to get into.

Sodapop let out a tight, half-hearted laugh, though it was clear he was still shaky from earlier. “Probably,” he mumbled, wiping at his face one more time as if trying to shake off the remnants of his earlier tears.

Ponyboy raised an eyebrow at Steve, trying to focus on the conversation and not the knot of guilt twisting in his stomach.

“Your brother’s got one hell of a right hook, you know?” Steve shot back, smirking a little as he glanced at Ponyboy.

Pony fought back a grin, his lips twitching despite the heavy mood. Sodapop, sitting in between them, rolled his eyes with a tired smile, a little more genuine this time. It wasn’t much, but it felt like some of the tension in his shoulders had eased.

For a moment, it almost felt normal. Almost. But then the silence crept back in, thick and heavy like it always did these days.

Ponyboy stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. He could feel Steve’s and Sodapop’s presence next to him, but it was like there was this invisible wall between them—a wall he didn’t know how to break down. Steve and Soda seemed to fall back into their usual rhythm, throwing light jabs at each other, but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. Not really.

Because deep down, he still felt like this was all his fault.

If he hadn’t been so closed off lately, maybe Soda wouldn’t be so upset. Maybe things wouldn’t be so tense between them. And if he wasn’t so messed up in his own head, maybe Steve wouldn’t look at him like he was one wrong word away from shattering everything. He felt like he was the reason everything was falling apart—and he didn’t know how to fix it. It just felt like he kept making everything worse, no matter how hard he tried.

Steve said something that made Sodapop laugh again—really laugh this time—but the sound only made Ponyboy feel more out of place. Like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t reach anymore.

He just wanted to leave.

He wanted to stop ruining their lives, stop being the thing that pulled everyone down. He hated seeing the worry on Soda’s face, the frustration in Steve’s voice, the exhaustion in Darry’s eyes every time they looked at him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to be the one making things harder for everyone.

But there was no easy fix for this. Nothing he could say or do would make it all better overnight. He knew that. Things like this took time, and that was the part that scared him. Because what if by the time he figured it out—by the time he learned how to deal with everything—they were all too far gone? What if there wasn’t anything left to fix?

Ponyboy shifted a little in his seat, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to him like a shadow. He didn’t even realize he’d started fiddling with the hem of his jacket until Steve glanced his way.

“You good, kid?” Steve asked, his voice softer than usual, but not quite gentle.

Ponyboy shrugged, not trusting himself to say much. “Yeah,” he muttered, eyes still on the ground. He wasn’t good—not even close—but he didn’t want to make things worse by saying it out loud.

Steve exchanged a quick glance with Sodapop, something unspoken passing between them. Sodapop shifted next to him, the small bit of ease from earlier slipping away as his worry crept back in. But they kept talking, trying to keep their voices light. 

He didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside his head without making everything worse. And right now, all he wanted was to get up and walk away before they saw just how messed up he really was.

But instead, he stayed put.

Because deep down, he knew that leaving wouldn’t fix anything either.

He just wished it would. 

Chapter Text

July 16th, 1968

“No more of this shit, you hear me! We're fucking finishing this—you tell Tim right now!” Dally’s voice was sharp, cutting through the room as he practically barked into the phone. His tone was all fire and edge, the kind of anger that didn’t care who heard. “I don’t care who the fuck you gotta get ahold of. I don’t care what he wants. You tell that piece of shit rich douche that we’re rumbling and he don’t got a choice!”

Dally slammed the phone back into its cradle so hard that Ponyboy half expected it to shatter. The sound cracked through the quiet of the room, and Steve, who was slouched against the edge of the couch, flinched, squeezing his eyes shut as he brought a hand up to his head. He looked worse for wear, the raw scrapes and swelling on his face making the flinch more pronounced. Ponyboy could tell the noise hit him harder, probably thanks to the pounding headache he was nursing from the concussion.

Steve had gotten jumped an hour ago. At the DX. 

Ponyboy knelt beside Steve, the open first-aid kit scattered between them. He dipped a cloth in antiseptic, his hands steady despite it all. Sodapop was on Steve’s other side, his jaw set and eyes narrowed with worry as he did his best to help patch up his best friend. Sodapop hadn’t said much since he brought Steve home, but Ponyboy could still remember the look on his face—pale and tight-lipped as he dragged Steve in from the porch. It wasn’t often Soda looked that spooked.

He didn’t blame him with how bad Steve looked. 

His lip was split and swollen, and a dark bruise was blooming high on his cheek, creeping dangerously close to his eye. His shirt was ripped, dirt and smudges smeared across his arms and jaw, telling enough of the story for anyone to piece together. He’d been cornered by Randy and a few of his buddies outside the DX. They hadn’t come to kill him, but they’d sure left their mark, as if they’d been sending a message—one that left Steve battered and Soda furious.

“Think you can sit up a bit?” Sodapop asked gently, his voice low as he placed a steadying hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

He spoke in a way that was soft but firm, the way he only got when he was in caretaker mode. Steve gave a half-hearted shrug, managing a wince of a smile as if trying to brush it off. But the way his hand trembled when he reached up to wipe his face betrayed how shaken he was.

“Could’ve taken ‘em,” Steve muttered, though his voice was weaker than he probably wanted it to be. “Just… next time, I’ll be ready.”

Soda patted his shoulder, his expression easing into something that was almost a smile. “Yeah, well, next time I’ll get in on it with ya, alright?” he replied, though the edge in his tone gave away how much the sight of his friend bruised and bloodied had rattled him.

Meanwhile, Dally paced in the background, jaw clenched tight and shoulders taut. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, the lighter sparking once, twice, before the end flared to life. He took a long drag, his eyes narrowing as he looked out the window, lost in thought—angry at the world.

“I’m gonna go check on Johnny,” Dally muttered finally, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the air like a storm cloud. “Make sure he’s still at Buck’s, like I told him. I’ll call Two-Bit once I get there.”

Soda gave him a nod, still focused on Steve, who looked as if he was starting to drift off, his eyelids heavy. But at Dally’s words, Ponyboy noticed a flicker of something pass through his eyes—a glimmer of worry that was easy to miss if you didn’t know him as well as they did. As Dally moved to the door, he gave a curt nod to Soda and Ponyboy. 

“Don’t let him move around too much,” he muttered, glancing back at Steve, who had finally let himself lean into the couch cushions. Then, without another word, he stepped out, leaving the air a bit heavier in his wake.

Darry, who’d been silent this whole time, cleared his throat, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. He looked at Soda, then over at Ponyboy, his gaze lingering a bit longer on him. 

“I’ll stay up tonight, keep an eye on things,” he said, though his tone was almost resigned. He knew they’d argue—knew it before Soda even opened his mouth.

“Darry, you got work in the morning,” Soda said, his voice tired yet firm. “You need to sleep—”

“So do you—“

“I’ll stay with him,” Ponyboy cut in, his voice soft but steady as he looked between his brothers. When Soda shot him a look, he raised his chin, a little defiance creeping into his expression. 

“I was gonna be up anyway,” he muttered, looking down, ignoring the way both of them grimaced. “Go to bed.”

Darry opened his mouth to say something, his jaw tight, but Soda placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a little shake of the head. After a beat, they both went to their rooms, though Ponyboy could feel the worry hanging thick in the air, like it didn’t need words to be heard. He watched their shadows fade down the hall before he settled into the armchair next to the couch, leaning forward to switch on the lamp. He kept it dim, just enough light to see by, not enough to wake Steve.

A book lay in his lap, his finger marking a spot somewhere in the middle, but he wasn’t really reading. His eyes kept drifting up, tracking every restless movement Steve made, every quiet murmur that slipped from his mouth. Steve’s head was turned toward the back of the couch, his face tense, a line of bruises dark against his cheek. Even half-shadowed, the cuts along his jaw looked raw and painful. A few hours ago, they’d been streaming blood, the edges already swelling, turning shades of purple and green. 

He wouldn’t soon forget that sight. It never got easier seeing any of them like this. 

Steve’s arm slung over Sodapops shoulder, his own hands slick with blood. Soda had been pale, his usual grin long gone, his eyes filled with a kind of fear that Ponyboy rarely saw on him. It had made his own stomach twist up in knots, like he was seeing something he shouldn’t. The Socs weren’t just “sending a message” anymore. 

They were trying to scare them, and from the way Steve looked, they’d done a damn good job of it.

Pony shifted in his chair, glancing down at his book but barely registering the words. He didn’t know what to do for Steve, not really. He’d tried offering some water, and Darry had patched up the worst of the cuts with the med kit. But Steve was still tossing and turning, his face tensing up every so often, his hands twitching like he was still fighting them off. His breathing was uneven, too, the kind that told Ponyboy he wasn’t really asleep.

He knew what that was like. 

Lying awake, heart racing, every bruise throbbing as fresh as the memory of fists. There were nights he’d just sit in bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the aches to fade, even if they never really did. But he couldn’t think of anything to say, anything that might take the edge off for Steve. Pony shifted in his chair again, feeling the uncomfortable weight of not being able to do more, of having to just sit there while Steve tossed.

He sighed, his mind drifting back to earlier, to his conversation with Dally. He hadn’t meant to say anything, not really—it had just slipped out in a moment of frustration, his words sharper than he’d intended.

“I don’t get why they don’t just get it over with and jump me too,” he’d muttered, his voice bitter, the anger bubbling up before he could stop it.

Dally had whipped around so fast Ponyboy thought he’d hurt his neck. His face was dark, eyes narrowed in a look Pony knew meant trouble. 

“Don’t say stupid shit like that,” he’d snapped, his voice low, every word coming out like it had edges. “ They could kill you. Don’t you get that?”

Pony had barely been able to respond, thrown off by the anger in Dally’s voice. It was rare to see him that worked up, and even rarer to see that flash of fear under his anger. It left Pony feeling a little guilty, the memory of Dally’s words lingering in his mind now, mixing with the sight of Steve’s bruises.

Ponyboy didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, just keeping an eye on Steve, but he could feel the weight of the night pressing down on him. The room was dark and quiet except for Steve’s uneven breathing, his restlessness making Ponyboy feel uneasy, too. He shifted in his chair, absently rubbing his cheek where a bruise from a few days ago still throbbed a little. Things were getting more dangerous, and they both knew it. Ponyboy felt like he was just waiting for his turn to get jumped. The waiting—it drove him crazy.

He sighed and glanced over at Steve, who was muttering in his sleep now, his face twisted in some kind of bad dream. His hand had a death grip on the blanket like he was holding onto it for dear life. Watching Steve struggle like this felt wrong, too close to the kind of vulnerability that he never saw from Steve. But Ponyboy couldn’t look away. There was something young in Steve’s expression that made his own chest feel tight, it was odd seeing his brother's best friend look…scared.

After a while, Steve jerked awake, his eyes wide, taking a second to realize where he was. Ponyboy waited a beat before he spoke, keeping his voice low. “You’re at the house,” he said, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost three-thirty.” 

He wasn’t sure why he said that, but it always helped him when he woke up with a nightmare—so he said it.

Steve jolted at first, eyes wide like he couldn’t really remember where he was before he groaned a little bit.  His gaze landed on him, still groggy and a little irritated. 

“What’re you doin’ up?” he grumbled, trying to act like he wasn’t shaken.

Ponyboy shrugged, his mouth quirking up a little. “You even gotta ask?” They both knew he barely slept half the time anyway; it wasn’t like tonight was any different.

Steve just muttered something under his breath, letting it drop. He looked down, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together, and Ponyboy went back to his book, flipping pages just to keep his hands busy. After a few minutes of silence, he looked up again.

“You should try to sleep,” he mumbled, not meeting Steve’s eyes.

Steve huffed, glancing at him with a smirk. “Look in the mirror, will ya?”

Ponyboy let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t sound as amused as he meant it to. Shaking his head, he reached over and switched off the lamp, leaving the room in shadow. He settled back, folding his arms and keeping quiet as Steve finally let his eyes close again. Ponyboy was glad he looked like he could use some rest, after the last year, he knew exactly what it was like getting jumped. Sometimes rest could do wonders.

if only he would take his own advice. 

—

The house was quieter than usual. Ponyboy noticed every creak in the floor, every distant hum from the fridge, and especially the way Darry and Sodapop kept glancing at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Every step they took seemed measured, every word a little too soft. It felt like they were both afraid he’d shatter if they spoke too loud. It was especially odd from Darry, they’d gotten into so many screaming matches the last few months that the silence felt unwelcome. 

They tried to keep things normal, but their eyes told a different story. He caught Darry looking at him across the table that morning, his face taut with worry he wasn’t even trying to hide. And Sodapop… his usual lighthearted energy was gone, replaced with forced smiles that never seemed to reach his eyes. He’d catch Soda watching him too, his gaze quickly dropping whenever Pony looked back.

The heaviness hung over them, thick and suffocating. Ponyboy didn’t say anything for days, didn’t know if he could. Every time he looked at his brothers, he felt this crushing guilt—a reminder of the scared, tear-streaked faces that had hovered over him in the hospital bed, afraid to leave his side even for a second. 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Darry cry like that before. 

Not even when their parents died. 

It was about three weeks after the hospital when Steve came over. He was quieter than usual, too, though he tried to hide it behind his typical gruffness. He and Sodapop were supposed to go out that night, but Soda seemed a little reluctant with everything until Darry had forced him to go. The three of them Chad in the kitchen a little bit before Sodapop and Steve started to get ready to leave. Sodapop had paused and traded a few quiet words with Darry that Ponyboy was sure included the topic of whether leaving him alone with Darry was the best decision. 

He wasn’t sure what they were worried about. It wasn’t  like he try and kill himself again, clearly it didn’t go so well. 

Steve shifted awkwardly, giving a half-glance toward Darry and Soda, who were still in the middle of whispering back and forth to each other. 

Finally, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and cleared his throat.

“Hey, kid,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t want to say it. “You, uh… wanna come with us?”

The question hung in the air, and for a second, nobody moved. Pony blinked, his gaze dragging up to Steve in disbelief. Even Darry and Soda exchanged startled looks, surprised by the invitation. Steve wasn’t exactly the type to go out of his way to include Ponyboy; they both knew that. It was almost funny, how out of place it sounded coming from him.

Pony’s lips quirked up faintly, a hint of something darker flashing in his eyes. 

“Man,” he mumbled, his voice low and cracked from the silence he’d kept for weeks. “I must’ve really been on my deathbed for Steve Randle to be asking me to hang out.”

Darry and Soda both froze, the shock plain on their faces. It was the first time he’d spoken in what felt like forever, and they weren’t sure if they should be relieved or worried. The dark humor twisted in Pony’s tone caught them off guard, and a flicker of hurt passed over Sodapop’s face before he quickly masked it. 

Steve paused for a moment, almost looking caught off guard before he snorted, crossing his arms and looking down at him. “Don’t let it go to your head, kid. I won’t make a habit of it.”

Despite the tenison hanging over them, Ponyboy couldn’t help but feel something close to relief at Steve’s response. It was blunt, rough, exactly what he needed. Steve, at least, didn’t look at him like he was made of glass—maybe just a bit like he was mad at him. These days if people weren’t looking at him like they would cry, they looked like they went to knock his lights. 

The lady who the doctor made him go see for a week said that was normal—it didn’t feel normal to him. 

“Still,” Steve went on, nodding toward the door, “offer’s there, brat.”

Pony looked at the door, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. For a moment, he thought about getting up, thought about stepping outside, but he stayed put, sinking back into the couch. Still, that hesitation was more than he’d given anyone in weeks.

Steve just shrugged, accepting his answer without a fuss. “Whatever,” he said simply, reaching over to clap Pony lightly on the shoulder before turning to join Soda. 

It was weird. But Ponyboy didn’t question it, everything was weird lately. 

Darry and Soda shared a look—half hopeful, half wary—but they didn’t push it, knowing that maybe a small step was all he could manage for now. Sodapop walked out of the door, fighting on glance back and heading out with his best friend. Ponyboy hope it would help him relax since he wouldn’t be there. In the quiet that followed, Darry’s gaze lingered on Ponyboy, a faint hint of a smile breaking through the worry. 

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

—

July 17th, 1968

Ponyboy jolted awake at the light touch on his shoulder, blinking against the haze of sleep. He’d managed to shut his eyes for what looked to be about 20 minutes until then. Darry stood over him, his expression soft but tired.

“You get any sleep at all?” Darry asked, voice low.

Ponyboy shrugged, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t bother answering; Darry would know the truth either way. Talking wasn’t on the agenda today, not with the exhaustion pressing down on him.

Darry sighed, the kind of sigh that said he was tired of worrying but couldn’t help himself. “I’ve got work. Be back later. The gang’s coming over tonight.” 

Ponyboy nodded slightly, still trying to shake off the grogginess. He looked around the kitchen, but it was quiet. Nobody else seem to be there except for his oldest brother. Ponyboy shifted quietly, and without meaning to he opened his mouth.

“Where’s Soda?” He asked quietly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

Darry’s mouth tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “He’ll be back later. He’s with Two-Bit.”

Before Ponyboy could press, Darry shifted gears. “How’s Steve?” 

Ponyboy glanced toward the couch, where Steve lay sprawled out, one arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open. Despite himself, a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“He crashed on the couch last night. Woke up once, but he seemed fine. Still as annoying as ever.”

Darry fought back a grin, his hand reaching out to ruffle Ponyboy’s hair before he could duck away. Without really meaning to Ponyboy leaned into the touch, he felt hot and tired. Darry paused for a moment when he did so, almost taken aback by the sudden change in Ponyboy’s attitude. 

“You feeling all right, Pone?” He asked, trying to keep his voice quiet in case his brother might’ve had a migraine. “Do you take your medicine today? You feel awful hot.” 

Ponyboy just shrugged a little, shaking his head— he didn’t take his medicine yet, but he didnt have a migraine. He was just real tired and felt like he might throw up if he stood up too fast, he’d had this a few times when he stayed up too much. He just had to wake up a bit and he’d be fine. 

Darry moved his hand to Ponyboys shoulder, rubbing it just a little as he looked down at him. 

“M’ ok,” He mumbled, trying to reassure his brother as he leaned against Darrys jeans. “You should go, you’re gonna be late.” 

Darry kept looking down at him before sighing a little bit and giving him a pat on the shoulder before heading off towards the door. “Don’t overdo it today, alright?”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, he didn’t really feel very good anyway. “Yeah, yeah.”

As Darry headed for the door, Ponyboy stretched, exhaling slowly. The house was quiet, a rare calm settling over the place. He glanced around, the stillness feeling almost too heavy. Maybe he’d clean up a bit, keep himself busy. Anything to keep his mind from drifting too far into the thoughts he didn’t want to confront. His eyes lingered on Steve, making him sigh a little before getting up to get started. 

He just had to wake up a bit. 

—

Steve had headed out an hour before Curly Shepard walked through the front gate. 

The creak of the porch steps announced Curly Shepard’s arrival before Ponyboy even looked up from where he was lounging on the porch swing, a half-finished book resting on his lap. He smirked at the sight of Curly sauntering up, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, his ever-present cocky grin plastered across his face.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Curly said, flopping down on the porch railing, balancing with an easy, practiced nonchalance. “No brothers around to babysit you?”

Pony shook his head, his smirk widening. “Nah, they’re out. Lucky for you, huh? They don’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for you, Shepard.”

“Your brothers still hate me?” Curly had this wide smile on his face like the news was an early christmas present to him, a teasing edge to his voice.

Ponyboy snorted, shaking his head. “Hate’s a strong word. They just don’t trust you, that’s all.”

“Good,” Curly grinned and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, the small flame briefly illuminating his face. He took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that caught the fading light. “What would I be without my stellar reputation?” 

Ponyboy chuckled, leaning back, his eyes drifting over the quiet street. His brothers’ disapproval wasn’t exactly unwarranted. Curly had a reputation, one solidified back in their sophomore year when he got caught with drugs. It wasn’t heroin or anything like that, just some medicine he’d busted off of some rich kid that he was selling to kids in their grade for an exam. That incident had sealed the deal on Darry and Sodapop stance—Curly Shepard was trouble, plain and simple.

But that hadn’t stopped Ponyboy. 

For a while, he’d hung out with Curly behind their backs, sneaking around and occasionally indulging in things he probably shouldn’t have. The time Tim caught them smoking weed had been a wake-up call, one that ended with both their heads knocked together for good measure. He’d been lucky that Tim hadn’t snitched on him to his brothers. After that, Ponyboy had been careful, but he still appreciated the ease Curly offered.

Curly leaned back, eyes flicking lazily from the street to Ponyboy. There was something about hanging out with Curly that felt different. The other boy didn’t treat him like he was fragile or about to break. In fact, Curly seemed to enjoy pushing his limits, testing just how far Ponyboy could go before snapping. But then again, Curly Shepherd was as crazy as they came so maybe he just got him.

The cigarette burned down to its end, and Curly flicked it into the yard, watching the faint ember die out. “You heading out later?”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Nah, can’t. Told the gang I’d be here. They’re coming over later.”

Curly snorted, pulling out another cigarette. “You always got some excuse, baby Curtis. Ain’t you ever gonna have some fun before you head off to that fancy school of yours?”

Ponyboy indulged him with a knowing smirk. “Any fun of yours is one that’s gonna land me in a jail cell,” he quipped, pulling out his own cigarette and lighting it with a casual flick. He blew the smoke directly into Curly’s face.

Curly coughed dramatically, waving the smoke away. “Hey! That happened one time,” he shot back, though the grin on his face betrayed any real annoyance. Ponyboy didn’t say much, just flicked ash off his cigarette and leaned back, letting the smoke curl lazily around his head. The swing creaked slightly under his weight, the soft, rhythmic sound blending with the distant hum of traffic.

Curly leaned forward on the railing, his elbows resting on his knees, cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. “Been hearin’ some talk,” he said, breaking the quiet. “About everything going on with that Soc, heard he’s going crazy.”

Randy. 

Ponyboy’s eyes flicked up briefly before settling back on the street. “Yeah? What else is new?” His voice was calm, but there was a tension in his jaw, subtle but telling.

“Nah, this is different,” Curly pressed, his tone low but insistent. “Word is, he’s been gunnin’ for you and Johnny, that true?”  

Ponyboy’s grip tightened on the swing’s chain, but he didn’t respond right away. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the cool afternoon air. “I’ve been stayin’ out of his way.”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t stoppin’ him. Heard you got cornered last month. You didn’t say nothin’ about that.”

“I could say the same about you,” Ponyboy replied, keeping his voice casual despite the tension that lingered in his shoulders. “You feeling all right?”

“I’m fine damn bastards cornered me,” Curly gave him a sharp look, his grin fading a bit. “I ain’t joking. Pony, he’s lookin’ to kill you. Dallas has been freakin’ out on Tim about the whole thing.”

“Serious don’t look good on you, Shepherd,” He quipped, dodging Curly fist that aimed for his shoulder with ease. There was a long silence between them, the weight of Curly’s words settling heavily on the porch. 

Ponyboy finally muttered, “What’s he thinkin’, goin’ after us like that? It’s been three years.”

“ I don’t know,” Curly took a long drag from his cigarette, shrugging as he exhaled. “Word is he’s been refusin’ any rumbles. Don’t wanna fight—he wants you . And Johnny.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, the familiar knot of fear tightening in his stomach. He didn’t say anything, didn’t trust his voice not to shake.

“Eh, don’t worry too much,” Curly leaned back again, watching him closely as he realized his words must’ve been getting to Ponyboy. “Dally and Tim are taking care of it.”

Ponyboy nodded slightly, though his mind was racing. “Yeah… sure.”

Curly let the silence hang for a moment, then grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Just don’t make me have to save your sorry ass, alright? You know how much I hate doin’ favors.”

“Can't people know when you have a heart, Shepard?” Ponyboy managed a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Course not,” Curly snorted, flicking his cigarette into the yard, the faint ember vanishing in the grass. He stretched his legs out, looking completely at ease despite the heavy conversation. “By the way, try not to get shot, yeah? You’re no fun when you’re dead.”

That caught Ponyboy off guard, and a real laugh escaped him—short and rough, more a guffaw than anything else. Curly joined in, his laugh sharp and unapologetic. For a moment, the tension lifted, leaving just two friends sharing a smoke and a bit of dark humor.

They settled back into a more relaxed rhythm, talking about nothing in particular. The conversation drifted to easier topics—who was getting in trouble at school, the latest gossip around the neighborhood. Ponyboy let himself relax for the first time in what felt like days, enjoying the rare quiet between them.

It wasn’t long before a familiar figure appeared down the road, slowly making his way toward the house. Johnny Cade, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, like he was always bracing for something.

Curly noticed first, nodding in Johnny’s direction. “Your boy’s here.”

Ponyboy looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess that’s your cue.”

Curly and Johnny got along pretty fine and that was mostly due to the fact that Johnny wouldn’t snitch on Ponyboy if they were hanging out together. 

Johnny reached the porch, offering a quiet nod in greeting. “Curly.”

Curly smirked, giving Johnny a casual wave as he stood. “Cade.”

Johnny didn’t say much, just leaned against the porch railing, his gaze flicking between Ponyboy and Curly. The silence stretched for a beat before Curly finally pushed off from the porch, lighting another cigarette as he made his way down the steps. “Later, Pony. Try not to get that pretty face of yours messed up!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ponyboy called after him, shaking his head with a soft chuckle.

As Curly disappeared down the street, Johnny turned to Ponyboy, one eyebrow raised. “You two hangin’ out now?”

Ponyboy shrugged, a sly grin playing on his lips. “Curly’s not as bad as he makes out.”

Johnny didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. “If you say so.”

Ponyboy just laughed lightly, giving Johnny a friendly shove. “C’mon, let’s get inside.” 

—

Ponyboy was more tired than he thought he was.

The weight of the past week pressed down on him, making every step feel like wading through quicksand. Sleep had been elusive, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to catch it. His eyes stung, a dull ache thrumming at the back of his skull, and his muscles felt like lead.

The fight with Soda had been eating at him, looping in his head like a broken record. Even though they had fixed it just a bit it still lingered in his mind, never ending and unrelenting. Three days, and not a wink of sleep since. His mind wouldn’t shut off, thoughts racing from one regret to the next. He could still hear Soda’s voice, the frustration, the hurt. It all clung to him, refusing to let go.

Last night had been brutal. He was fine until he taken about a 30 minute nap and then he felt miserable. He kept hoping exhaustion would eventually fade off, but it never did. Everything felt off. His thoughts were sluggish, tangled up in exhaustion, and every sound seemed muffled, like he was underwater. No matter how much he tried to focus—on Curly’s banter, the book on his lap—there was always this heavy fog, a reminder of just how long it had been since he’d slept properly. 

Epically now with everyone over, the words on the page so blurry that he just put it down and pretended to tune into the topic. 

His body ached with the kind of tired that didn’t just come from missing a few hours here and there. It was the kind that settled deep in your bones, turning every movement into a chore. But even now, even with the crushing weight of fatigue pulling at him, Ponyboy knew sleep wouldn’t come easy. Not tonight. Not with his mind still running circles around everything he couldn’t fix.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the creeping haze. It didn’t help. The exhaustion was still there, clinging to him like a second skin, The low hum of conversation filled the room, blending with the soft shuffle of cards and the occasional clink of a soda bottle on the coffee table. 

Ponyboy sat on the couch, shoulders sinking into the worn cushions, the familiar scent of smoke and cheap cologne hanging in the air. Johnny was next to him, quiet as always, his gaze focused on the game unfolding in front of them.

Two-Bit was dealing, a lazy grin on his face as he cracked a joke that had Steve rolling his eyes, but even Steve couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Dally and Sodpaop, who seemed to make up after the fight, were pretending not to cheat. Darry leaned back in the armchair, arms crossed but relaxed, watching the game with a rare ease. For once, the house felt peaceful—no tension, no worries hanging over their heads. 

Ponyboy let out a long breath, feeling the weight in his chest lighten just a bit. The constant knot of stress that had been sitting there for days seemed to loosen. Here, surrounded by his friends, it didn’t feel so bad. The warmth of Johnny beside him, the quiet rhythm of the room—it was enough to lull him into a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in weeks.

The cards shuffled again, and Two-Bit dealt out a new hand, teasing Sodapop about his terrible luck. Sodapop just shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. Ponyboy let the sound of their voices wash over him, the low murmur like a lullaby.

His eyes grew heavier with each passing moment, the exhaustion from the last few sleepless nights creeping up on him. He shifted slightly, leaning just enough that his head found Johnny’s shoulder. The warmth was comforting, the steady rise and fall of Johnny’s breathing grounding him.

The room blurred around the edges, the sounds fading into a distant hum. For the first time in what felt like forever, Ponyboy let himself drift. His breathing slowed, his body finally giving in, and before he knew it, he was asleep, the weight of the past few days slipping away as he leaned into Johnny’s shoulder.

—

Ponyboy stirred slightly, still half-draped against Johnny’s shoulder. The low hum of the TV barely registered, the volume turned down to a whisper. He wasn’t fully awake, not yet, but he was aware—aware of the muted conversation drifting around him, the careful quiet of the room as if they were trying not to break the fragile peace of his slumber.

“Man, he’s out cold,” Steve muttered, his voice hushed with a tint of amusement. 

Darry’s voice followed, low and steady. “First real sleep he’s gotten in days. Kid hasn’t shut his eyes for more than ten minutes all week. Think he might be getting sick.” 

Ponyboy felt the weight of Darry’s gaze on him, heavy with concern. He kept his eyes shut, pretending he was still lost in sleep, though his mind clung to every word. There was a pause, then the creak of the floorboards as Darry shifted in his seat.

“Maybe he should see a doctor or somethin’,” Soda suggested, his voice softer than usual. “Can’t be good, him goin’ like this without sleep.”

Darry let out a humorless chuckle, the sound bitter. “Yeah, and how do you think that’s gonna go over? They’ll just toss some more pills at him. Migraine meds didn’t do a damn thing except make him more tired. Least the headaches have stopped.”

“Small favors,” Two-Bit murmured, his usual levity absent.

Ponyboy tried to sink back into the haze of sleep, but the conversation anchored him in a frustrating limbo between waking and dreaming. His body ached for rest, yet his mind refused to let go, clinging stubbornly to the words swirling around him.

He knew they meant well, all of them, even if the frustration in Darry’s voice cut a little deeper than he wanted to admit. They were worried—worried about the insomnia, the headaches, the way he had been shutting them out. And now, even with the migraine pills easing one problem, it seemed like another had taken its place.

He shifted again, trying to will himself back into the comforting darkness of sleep. But, the low murmur of conversation filled the room, blending with the faint hum of the TV. Ponyboy was half-listening, his head lolling against Johnny’s shoulder, eyes heavy but not quite shut.

“Randy’s laying low,” Dally muttered, flicking his lighter open and shut. “Still no word on that rumble. Tim’s watching him, but the guy’s slippery.”

“He’s all talk.” Two-Bit snorted, tossing a card onto the pile. “He knows he can’t win a rumble so he jumps us like a no good coward.”

Soda leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Think he’ll go after them?”

He felt Johnny shift uneasily underneath of him and winced a little before feeling his friend still. 

Dally’s jaw tightened. “Not unless he wants to get put in a ditch.” 

‘Dally wouldn’t let anyone hurt Johnny,’ Ponyboy thought mildly, part of him wished that Randy would just jump him so Johnny would be safe and this could be over. 

Steve shuffled the cards, his fingers restless. “Yeah, well, we all know who he’s after.”

A heavy silence followed, the kind that made Ponyboy’s chest tighten even in his half-asleep state.

“We’ll watch him,” Johnny said quietly, his eyes fixed on the table, voice barely above a scared whisper. “Ain’t gonna let him get close.”

Dally huffed, leaning back against the couch. “We ain't gonna let him get either of you too. Don’t you worry about nothing, Johnnycake.”

Two-Bit threw another card down with a little too much force. “Why don’t we just jump him?”

“Don’t you think I would have done that already?” Dally shot back, a humorless laugh coming from his lips. “Tim and me can’t get a hold of the guy.” 

The room was silent for a moment before they tried to turn the conversation around to something a little bit lighter. 

Ponyboy heard the words but didn’t need to open his eyes to feel the uneasiness of them. His friends were tough, sure, but he could sense the unease, the undercurrent of tension they didn’t say out loud. They could talk tough all they wanted, but deep down, he knew the score. Randy wasn’t going away, and neither was the trouble that came with him.

The room settled into a heavy quiet, the TV a faint hum in the background. Ponyboy exhaled softly, feeling Johnny’s steady presence next to him. 

He just wanted this to be over. 

Chapter Text

July 19th, 1968

‘How long can you go without sleeping?’ Ponyboy wonders, not for the first time this year. 

Ponyboy had lost count of the hours sometime yesterday, maybe even before that. The mild fever he’d noticed a couple of days ago had grown into a deep, nagging ache—one that settled into his bones, making him feel heavy and a little dizzy. If he could eat, or maybe sleep for a few hours, it might fade. But food was out of the question, and sleep wouldn’t stick around for long. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in his own head, running through memories and questions he couldn’t silence.

He forced down a dry cracker now and then, but the bitterness crawled up his throat, and just looking at food made him feel queasy. Cigarettes were the only thing that didn’t make him feel worse, so he smoked more often than he meant to, leaning into the quiet buzz they gave him. It helped calm his mind for a bit, but even that edge was wearing off. He was jittery, raw, like he’d been running full speed for miles with no end in sight.

Johnny was around more these days, always hanging close, and Ponyboy didn’t push him on it. Ever since graduation, he’d drifted further from home. His folks seemed relieved to have him gone, like they’d been waiting for it, and though Ponyboy had tried to get Johnny to settle in at their place, it never stuck. Johnny hated feeling like a burden, no matter how many times Ponyboy or Darry told him he wasn’t one. Part of him also thought Johnny wasn’t fully ready to let go of his parents yet, no matter how shitty they were. 

He wanted to talk to Johnny about it—really talk—but they never had a moment alone.

This morning, Ponyboy was slumped over the kitchen table, dreading the smell of eggs and toast that Darry was cooking up. His stomach tightened just thinking about it, and he had to look away when Darry set the plate down in front of him. He felt his brother’s gaze on him, studying him a little too closely, but Darry just turned back to the stove and poured his coffee without a word.

“Morning,” Darry shoved a plate of eggs and toast at him as he ran around trying to get all of his things together for work. 

Ponyboy cringed a little at the sight, pretending to take the plate and staring down at it while Darry was running around. 

“I thought you were off today?” He asked, shoving around the food while looking up at him. 

Darry grabbed his shirt shoving it on and seemingly looking around for something before Ponyboy got up from the table. He walked over to the basket on the counter, he didn’t even have to look as he reached in and pulled out Darry’s wallet. 

“Where’s—“ Ponyboy tossed him the wallet before sitting back down as his brother's face broke out into a relieved grin. “Thanks, Pone.” 

Ponyboy forced a smile as Darry pocketed the wallet and grabbed his keys.

“Picked up some extra shifts, needed a little bit more money,” Darry said, almost like he owed him an explanation.

Part of that had to be from Ponyboy's medical bills, all those meds he needed for his migraines. 

Ponyboy frowned, pushing his eggs around on the plate. “I could get a job too, y’know.”

Darry’s “No” was quick, clipped, like he’d been expecting the question. His gaze softened, but there was still a hint of warning there. “We’ve talked about this.”

Ponyboy clenched his jaw, biting back his retort. He wanted to argue, to tell Darry he noticed the way he winced whenever he bent down or how he rubbed his back after long shifts. But he knew where that would lead.

“Fine,” he muttered, irritation that he knew was mostly from not sleeping coming in. 

Darry walked over, his expression softening as he crouched down so he could meet Ponyboy’s eyes. His hand landed firmly on Ponyboy’s shoulder, grounding him, even if he felt like a little kid whenever Darry did it.

“Look, I know you want to help, but I’ve got this,” Darry said quietly. “You just worry about getting ready for college, okay?”

Ponyboy nodded, eyes fixed on the countertop. Darry gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing up, casting one last look at the untouched plate.

“Do me a favor and eat that, alright? You don’t need to be losing any more weight.”

“Sure.” He said it just to end the conversation, but the food stayed where it was, untouched.

Darry grabbed his coffee and moved toward the door, pausing to shoot him a smile. “Oh, and clean up you and Soda’s room, too. It’s getting bad in there—think we’ll get rats if it stays like that.”

Ponyboy snorted a little, managing a nod. “Yeah, okay.”

The door clicked shut behind Darry, and Ponyboy sat there in the silence, staring down at his plate. The eggs looked greasy, the toast a little too brown around the edges. His stomach twisted just thinking about trying to force it down. He pushed the plate away, resting his head in his hand.

Maybe he’d try to sleep for a bit, just to pass the time. Anything was better than feeling that ache creeping back in, filling the quiet house with everything he was trying so hard not to think about.

—

Ponyboy walked down the dimly lit street, shoulders hunched against the chill that clung to the early morning air. He reached the edge of Buck’s place and spotted Johnny leaning against the old wooden fence, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the street with quiet patience.

As soon as Johnny noticed him, he straightened up, a slight grin flickering across his face. Ponyboy waved, picking up his pace.

“You’re up early,” Johnny murmured when Ponyboy got close, his voice low but warm. He had that familiar, steady presence, and it made Ponyboy feel just a bit lighter.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Ponyboy said, shrugging, hands slipping into his own pockets as they fell into step side by side. “Figured I’d walk over. You been here long?”

“Nah,” Johnny replied, casting a quick look toward Buck’s, as if he was half-expecting Dally to stumble out. “Dally let me crash for a bit. Told him I was just waitin’ for you.”

Ponyboy nodded, feeling the comfortable silence settle in between them, like it always did. They didn’t need to say much. With Johnny, things never felt forced or awkward; just two people walking the streets of Tulsa like they’d done a hundred times before.

They kept their pace slow, the sounds of distant traffic and faint music from Buck’s fading behind them. Every so often, Johnny’s shoulder would bump against his, neither one moving away, as if it was natural to stay close. Ponyboy liked it—how it made the world seem smaller, safer.

They stopped by an old bench under a streetlamp, and Johnny nudged Ponyboy to sit, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “You look like you’re about to fall over, Pone.”

Ponyboy rolled his eyes, but he sat down anyway, feeling Johnny settle beside him. “Guess I look as bad as I feel, huh?”

Johnny just shrugged, pulling out a crumpled cigarette pack and offering one to Ponyboy, who took it with a quiet “thanks.” They lit up, the smoke twisting into the cool morning air, the only warmth between them.

“Think I got a few bruises on my arm from Soda, though. He doesn’t know his own strength sometimes,” Ponyboy muttered, absentmindedly rubbing his arm where a small bruise had formed. His brother moved around way too much when he slept at night, leaving him almost shoved off the bed most nights but he didn’t complain. 

Johnny’s gaze dropped to it, a small smirk on his face and he lifted his hand like he was about to touch it, then seemed to think better of it, letting his fingers rest against his own leg instead.

They kept talking, the conversation drifting from Dally’s antics to Steve’s latest bad haircut. Little things, ordinary things. Johnny’s laughter was quiet, a low chuckle that Ponyboy had to lean in to hear, and more than once, he caught Johnny’s knee pressed lightly against his own, neither of them moving away. Ponyboy found himself thinking that when he was with Johnny, it didn't really matter who was mad at him or how bad he had messed up recently. 

He could be fine with the whole world hating him so long as Johnny cared about him still. 

They didn’t stay long at the bench before Johnny gestured toward the direction of the lot, his expression easy but intent, like he knew it was their next stop without needing to say it. Ponyboy gave a quick nod, flicking his cigarette away, and they walked in silence toward the lot, steps matching in quiet rhythm.

When they finally reached it, they settled down in their usual spot, the grass still damp with dew. Ponyboy stretched out on his back, staring up at the clouds drifting lazily overhead, feeling Johnny’s shoulder pressed against his. Johnny stayed close, close enough that Ponyboy could feel the warmth of him, steady and familiar.

They lay there, comfortable in the silence, the kind of silence that held more than words. Ponyboy felt himself relax, the ache in his chest fading a little with each quiet minute.

Johnny tilted his head to glance at him, a small, almost shy smile on his face. “Feels better out here, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ponyboy murmured, eyes closing as he let the quiet settle over them. “Feels a lot better.”

The silence between them was warm and steady, the kind that didn’t need filling. Ponyboy could feel the rough texture of grass beneath his hands and the soft, easy presence of Johnny beside him. He tilted his head to glance at his friend, watching as Johnny stared up at the sky, looking somewhere far beyond it.

After a long pause, Johnny finally spoke, his voice low. “So… I think I might start working for Buck,” he said, not quite looking at Ponyboy. “Figured I’d move in there for a while, too. Just make things easier.”

Ponyboy didn’t say anything right away. He knew this was a big step for Johnny, a step he’d never taken before. Moving out of his parents' house for good was like crossing a line he couldn’t go back from. And knowing Johnny, he’d thought long and hard about it before ever saying it out loud.

“You’ll be stayin’ with Dally, then?” Ponyboy asked, a hard cough breaking through the words.

“You ok?” Johnny asked, but Ponyboy waved him off so Johnny just nodded, shrugging one shoulder, but there was a tension in his posture. 

“Yeah. Just until I get enough saved up, I guess. It… it makes sense, you know?”

Ponyboy could tell that Johnny was trying to play it off, like it wasn’t a big deal. But he could see the faint crease in Johnny’s forehead, the way he was pressing his thumb into the side of his hand, like he was trying to ground himself. For Johnny, leaving his parents’ place meant finally accepting that things with them weren’t going to change. It was an ache he carried quietly, tucked away where no one could see it.

Ponyboy turned his gaze back to the sky, giving Johnny that space to say more, if he wanted to.

“They don’t even notice when I’m gone most times,” Johnny said finally, his voice soft, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Guess it’s just… better this way.”

Ponyboy swallowed, understanding without needing more words. “I’m sorry Johnny,” he replied gently. “It’s good you’ll be with Dally. He’ll look out for you.”

He coughed hard into his hand, turning away a little ignoring the look Johnny gave him as he did so. 

Johnny gave a tiny nod, his expression pensive. He looked down, toying with a blade of grass between his fingers, his jaw set as he seemed to work through something unspoken. 

“Yeah… Dal’s always there,” he murmured. There was a sad, almost resigned acceptance in his voice, like he was letting go of some last small hope he’d held onto.

Ponyboy reached out and squeezed Johnny’s hand, a quiet gesture that said more than any words could. He knew how hard it was for Johnny, knew that leaving meant closing a door he’d wanted to keep open, even if it hurt him. “I think you’re doin’ the right thing, Johnnycake. Really.”

They lay there, shoulder to shoulder, the sky stretching endless above them. Ponyboy was quiet, feeling the cool weight of the night and the familiar warmth of Johnny’s arm pressed against his own, like it’d always been there.

After a while, Johnny broke the silence, his voice soft, hesitant. “Y’know, I was thinkin’... someday maybe we could, I dunno, get a place together. Somewhere small. Just you and me.”

Ponyboy blinked, surprised by how plainly Johnny said it, like he’d had this thought tucked away for a while now. He stayed quiet, his throat tightening as Johnny went on, his words slow and careful.

“Don’t gotta be fancy or nothin’,” Johnny continued, a little quieter now, like he was feeling his way through the words. “Just… a spot for your books. Maybe a desk or somethin’, so you got space to write. I think it’d like one of those fancy big windows, so I can see everything going on.” 

The words hit Ponyboy like a wave, catching him off guard. Johnny wanted a future with him, something solid and safe, even after all the mess they’d been through. After everything he did, Johnny still wanted him here. He didn’t know why, wasn’t like he was worth the effort. The thought made his heart ache, and he felt a sting in his eyes he didn’t expect.

Johnny kept talking, his gaze steady on the night sky. “I figure… once you’re back from college, that is.”

Ponyboy’s heart twisted. 

College had always been his way out, his plan to escape, to stop messing things up for everyone. He always felt like he was ruining everyone’s lives. But here was Johnny, looking at him with something close to hope, like he’d already made room for him in his life, no matter what.

Why would he do that? Why would he want that? He shouldn’t want that. 

All Ponyboy would do is ruin his life even more than he already had. 

He swallowed hard, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could stop it. He brushed it away quickly, hoping Johnny hadn’t noticed. But Johnny’s hand tightened slightly on his hand, a small, steady pressure that told him he’d seen it.

They lay there in silence, neither of them saying a word. Johnny’s arm draped around him, solid and warm, a quiet support. And even though they didn’t speak, Ponyboy felt like everything they’d been holding back was right there, wrapped up in the silence.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to shift the weight of the moment. “I… I started that book yesterday, y’know? The one you gave me,” he said, his voice light, hoping to bring them back to steadier ground.

Johnny glanced over, a faint smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? It good?”

Ponyboy nodded, grateful for the easy turn in the conversation, the way Johnny didn’t push or pry. 

“I’ll read some of it to you later.” 

They settled back into the quiet, their unspoken promises filling the space between them. And even though Ponyboy didn’t have the words to say it, he hoped Johnny understood.

Somewhere deep down, he wished he’d have the guts to stay.

— 

As they walked back from the lot, Ponyboy felt exhaustion pressing down on him, each step a bit harder than he’d like to admit. His chest felt tight, his breathing coming a little shallower than usual. Johnny was right beside him, hands buried in his pockets, his gaze flicking over occasionally, though he didn’t say much. They’d fallen into this quiet, easy rhythm, a silence that felt comfortable, like they didn’t need words to fill the space between them.

Ponyboy stifled another cough, pressing a fist to his mouth, hoping Johnny wouldn’t notice. He could feel the exhaustion gnawing at him; the last few days had taken more out of him than he’d realized. He hadn’t been able to sleep, couldn’t keep anything down, and his stomach was twisting in protest even now. He tried to brush it off, keep himself steady, but halfway down the block, his vision blurred, the sidewalk seeming to tilt beneath him.

He stopped, breathing carefully, leaning forward to catch his balance. His hand found his knee, his knuckles going white as he waited for the dizziness to pass.

Johnny caught on right away, stepping closer, his voice edged with worry. “Pony? You alright?” His hand reached out but hovered, like he wasn’t sure if he should actually touch him.

Ponyboy forced himself to nod, even though his voice came out more strained than he’d hoped. “Yeah… just dizzy for a sec. Probably didn’t drink enough water or somethin’.” He tried for casual, but he could tell Johnny wasn’t buying it.

Johnny’s gaze didn’t waver, his worry clear as he looked him over. “You ain’t really been eatin’, either,” he murmured, his voice quiet but tense. “Or sleepin’, right?”

Ponyboy shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound like some lame excuse, so he just kept his mouth shut, hoping Johnny would drop it.

Johnny shifted his weight, glancing away for a second before looking back at him, uncertainty flickering in his expression. “I dunno, man,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “You don’t look so good… you’re gonna end up face-first in the dirt if you keep this up.”

Before he could brush it off, his stomach twisted violently, and he lurched to the side, doubling over as nausea swept over him in a rough, unsteady wave. He barely made it to the edge of the sidewalk before he threw up, his body trembling as he tried to catch his breath afterward. He stayed like that, bent over, clutching his knees as he tried to steady himself, feeling the embarrassment creeping in along with the exhaustion.

Johnny’s hand found his shoulder, a gentle, steadying presence. He didn’t say anything right away, just stood there with him, his fingers gripping lightly as if to say he was there without needing to put it into words.

After a beat, Johnny’s voice came low, careful. “You really don’t look so hot, Pone. What’s the matter?” There was a hesitation in his tone, a quiet worry that was more about keeping Ponyboy talking than anything else.

Ponyboy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, straightening slowly. He felt Johnny’s gaze on him, watching closely, but he forced himself to look away, his shoulders tense. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Just not feeling too hot, s’all.”

Johnny didn’t push, but he looked like he wanted to. He shifted his weight, his eyes darting to Ponyboy’s face, then back to the ground. “Yeah, sure. Just… y’know, if somethin’ was wrong, you’d tell me, right?” The question was soft, almost hesitant, as if he was asking for reassurance without wanting to come off too strong.

Ponyboy felt the question hang in the air, but he just shrugged, glancing away. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong, Johnny. Just didn’t eat nothing for breakfast.” He tried to make his voice sound steady, but he knew it didn’t quite come out that way.

It didn’t help that it was practically almost dinner time. 

And that he hadn’t eaten in almost 2 days. 

Johnny watched him a moment longer, his brow furrowing as he bit his lip, but he just nodded, a quiet acceptance there in his expression, like he knew pressing wouldn’t do any good. He stayed close, though, his hand still lingering by his side, ready to reach out again if Ponyboy stumbled.

They fell back into silence, the walk stretching out as the night air cooled around them. Every now and then, Johnny would glance over, his gaze lingering like he was keeping watch. Ponyboy kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes fixed on the ground, trying to ignore the heaviness pulling him down with each step. But Johnny didn’t leave his side, his quiet presence a steady reminder that he was there, even if he didn’t understand everything that was going on.

As they neared the house, Johnny looked at him one last time, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“You feeling any better?” It was soft, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Ponyboy gave a slight nod, a small, tired gesture that he hoped would ease Johnny’s worry. He didn’t say anything more, just started toward the door, and Johnny lingered behind, watching him go, his quiet concern hanging in the air like a promise to stay close, whether Ponyboy wanted him to or not.

“I think I—“ 

He threw up right in the front yard. 

—

Ponyboy sat at the kitchen table, staring down at the sandwich in front of him as if it might vanish if he waited long enough. Across from him, Darry sat with his arms crossed, the same look on his face he’d worn so many times before, especially over the past year. It was a routine they’d fallen into—a kind of silent standoff that Ponyboy knew all too well.

Darry looked worn out, the lines of exhaustion etched into his face from another long shift. He’d barely gotten through the door when he’d noticed the scene in the yard, and the way Johnny had glanced over, hesitant, was all the confirmation he needed. 

Johnny had mumbled something about Ponyboy not eating, and then Darry had found the untouched breakfast in the trash, evidence that hadn’t even been hidden. It hadn’t taken a genius to know he hadn’t eaten in a day or two, especially not after Darry interrogated him. Now, the others had taken themselves outside, aside from Dally who was elsewhere tonight, giving them space—though it felt more like an uneasy retreat.

Darry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at Ponyboy. He sounded as tired as he looked. 

“Pony,” he began, his voice carrying that edge of frustration that told Ponyboy this wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that they’d be having this conversation. “You gotta eat something. You’re makin’ yourself sick.”

Ponyboy didn’t look up, only gave a small shrug. 

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, feeling his stomach turn at the sight of the food. “Don’t feel good.” 

He didn’t have the energy to explain the nausea that sat heavy in his gut or the way every bite seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Darry leaned forward, his voice a bit sharper. 

“You feel that way because you haven’t eaten. And you’re gonna keep feelin’ worse if you don’t put something in your stomach.” He paused, watching him carefully. “Soda says you haven’t been sleeping, either.”

Ponyboy didn’t respond, just focused on a scuff on the table. He didn’t want to admit to how the nights felt longer and emptier, how he’d lie awake until the morning light crept through his window, too restless to sleep, but too tired to do anything else. He felt an irrational irritation with Sodapop for snitching on him. 

Darry’s voice grew firmer, and there was a faint tremor of anger beneath it, though Ponyboy knew it wasn’t meant to hurt. “You think I’m doin’ this for fun? You think I like sittin’ here after work, tellin’ you the same thing over and over?”

Ponyboy flinched, a pang of guilt stirring, but he clenched his jaw, pushing down the instinct to respond. Darry’s frustration hung thick in the air, every word carrying the weight of long days and sleepless nights of his own.

Darry sat back, the tension easing only slightly as he let out a long sigh. He wasn’t giving up, but Ponyboy could tell he was at the end of what he could say. Johnny’s quiet voice filtered in from the living room, the sound of the TV turned up just a little too high, as if he was trying to give them space but couldn’t help but listen.

Finally, Darry’s voice softened, carrying a thread of helplessness he rarely let show. “Just… try to get somethin’ down. I know it ain’t easy, but you can’t keep goin’ like this.”

Ponyboy pushed the plate back a bit, barely meeting Darry’s eyes. “Maybe later,” he whispered, his voice almost lost in the silence of the room.

Darry’s shoulders slumped, the tiredness in his expression shifting as he took in Ponyboy’s words. He paused, running a hand over his face, but when he looked back at Ponyboy, his expression hardened. There was a look there—a look that told Ponyboy Darry wasn’t going to let him slip away from this.

“You keep sayin’ that, and I’m not buyin’ it anymore.” Darry shot back, his voice carrying a sharp edge. “You’re gonna sit here and eat, Ponyboy. Now.”

Ponyboy’s jaw tightened, and he felt the flicker of defiance rise up, hot and sudden. He didn’t look up, just kept his eyes fixed on the untouched sandwich between them. “I said I’m not hungry.”

Darry leaned forward, voice low but unyielding. “I don’t care. You’re sittin’ here until you eat somethin’. And don’t think I won’t make sure you do.”

Ponyboy’s eyes snapped up, glaring at Darry with a frustration that was starting to feel all too familiar. 

“I don’t need you lookin’ after me like I’m five,” He shot back, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I can take care of myself.”

Darry’s eyes flashed, and for a second, he looked like he might snap right back. Instead, he clenched his jaw, the tension radiating off him as he tried to keep his voice steady. 

“If you were takin’ care of yourself, we wouldn’t be havin’ this talk every other day, would we?” He paused, frustration bleeding through his voice. “Just eat the goddamn sandwich already.”

The words hung heavy between them, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Ponyboy’s glare softened, but he couldn’t shake the weight of Darry’s gaze, the way it held onto him with that relentless worry.

Finally, Darry’s voice dropped, a hint of something more vulnerable beneath the frustration. “For the love of God—just… eat. Ponyboy, please.”

Ponyboy looked down, swallowing back the sharp response he’d been holding onto. The sandwich was still there, untouched, and for a brief second, he almost picked it up, if only to take the edge off Darry’s concern. But the nausea twisted in his gut again, and he couldn’t bring himself to move.

When he didn’t respond, Darry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before he pushed himself up from the table. He looked down at Ponyboy, the mixture of anger and helplessness clear in his expression. 

“Fine. You sit there all night if you have to,” he muttered. “I’m done talkin’.”

He left the room without another word, leaving Ponyboy sitting alone in the silence, the sandwich still sitting there. 

—

Ponyboy wouldn’t forget the first time he saw his brother cry. 

He blinked into the darkness of his bedroom, sleep long gone. His eyes blinked like they might finally stay closed, but sleep wouldn’t come to him no matter how much he begged it. When he glanced at the clock, the red numbers glowed back at him: 2:03 a.m.

Quietly, he pushed himself up and slipped out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. He didn’t expect anyone else to be awake, but as he drew closer, he heard the soft scrape of a chair against the floor.

He stopped, hesitating just outside the doorway. Darry was sitting at the kitchen table, his head bowed, hands covering his face. His shoulders looked tense, slouched in a way Ponyboy had never seen. And then he caught the glint of wetness against Darry's fingers—tears, but Darry was so still, like he didn’t even have the energy to wipe them away.

Ponyboy shuffled his feet a little louder, his presence announced by the faint creak of the floorboards. Darry’s head shot up, and for a second, he looked startled, his eyes red and raw, mouth open as if he was searching for words that wouldn’t come.

“Pony,” he managed, clearing his throat and quickly wiping his face, though the redness around his eyes lingered. 

“You…you all right?” His voice was low, almost hushed, as if anything louder might break the fragile quiet of the room.

Ponyboy nodded, not saying anything. He made his way to the counter and grabbed an orange, the cool skin smooth in his hands. Darry’s gaze followed him, and when Ponyboy sat down at the table, Darry reached over and took the orange from him, peeling it carefully, slowly.

Ponyboy watched, noticing how Darry’s hands shook just slightly, the way he swallowed hard, as though trying to steady himself. In the dim light, Darry’s face looked older, his jaw tight, his eyes carrying something unspoken that Ponyboy couldn’t quite put into words.

Darry handed him a section of the orange, his fingers lingering just a second too long before he pulled back. They sat in silence, the only sounds the soft peelings of the orange and the clock ticking on the wall.

After a moment, Darry cleared his throat again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I…I didn’t know. I mean, I should have—I…” He trailed off, the words slipping away. Ponyboy could see him struggle, see the way he was searching for the right thing to say and feeling like everything would come out wrong.

Ponyboy popped a slice of orange into his mouth, feeling the juice burst on his tongue. He didn’t press Darry to say anything more, sensing that whatever Darry was holding back was too fragile.

Darry took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, the usual firmness in his expression softening to something almost vulnerable. He looked down at his hands again, flexing his fingers like he was working up the courage to speak, but in the end, he stayed silent.

They sat there, quiet and steady, the unsaid words filling the space between them. Ponyboy felt the shift, the way Darry’s gaze held him just a second longer than usual, the worry etched into every line of his face. For once, Darry wasn’t pushing, wasn’t telling him what he needed to do or who he needed to be. He was just…there, with him, in the silence.

Ponyboy took another slice of orange, handing it over to Darry this time. Darry’s hand closed around it, his eyes meeting Ponyboy’s, and for a moment, neither of them looked away. 

There was a softness to Darry now, something careful and uncertain, like he was terrified of breaking whatever fragile peace they’d found. And Ponyboy knew, without a word, that this was Darry’s way of saying he was sorry, his way of trying to hold them both together in the only way he knew how.

Darry’s lips pressed tightly together as he took the orange, his jaw clenched. Ponyboy looked away, giving him a moment, but in the quiet, he caught the soft, muffled sound of Darry pressing a fist to his mouth, trying to hold back something too heavy to contain. His older brother buried his head in his hands, his shoulders tensing as he drew in a shaky breath, a choked sniffle escaping before he could stop it.

Ponyboy didn’t move, didn’t say anything, letting the silence do what words couldn’t. He only glanced up when he heard Darry wipe quickly at his eyes, forcing himself to shove the orange slice into his mouth, as if it might keep the sobs from slipping free.

They didn’t need to say it. It was enough that Darry was here, that they were both here, quiet and steady, together.

—

“What’s this?” Ponyboy asked, his voice slightly defensive as he lifted his head from where it had been resting against the table. He hadn’t moved since Darry walked out of the room, and he still felt like he was being scolded for refusing to eat something his mom had cooked up just for him.

Darry hadn’t come back to talk to him, and Sodapop had come in briefly, tried to coax him to eat, then left with this sad look on his face that made Ponyboy’s chest ache. He wished he could eat—he was tired of seeing his brothers look at him that way. So he was a little surprised to look up and see Two-Bit standing in front of him, a bag of food plunked on the table.

“I know you like those burgers from Casey’s,” Two-Bit said with a soft smile. His face had this gentleness Ponyboy wasn’t used to seeing on him, except maybe with Johnny. He looked tired, too, like he’d been up longer than he should’ve been, and for some reason, that made Ponyboy feel worse.

He glanced down at the bag, and suddenly his stomach didn’t twist like it had with the sandwich. Just seeing it reminded him of all the times he’d gotten a burger with the gang, laughing and roughhousing as they shared fries and stories, and it was like his body remembered that, too. He was actually hungry.

“I—” he started, feeling a tightness in his chest he couldn’t quite explain. He looked down at the bag, fumbling for words. “I can pay you back, you know.”

Two-Bit gave him a look, one of those unreadable ones, before a small grin cracked his face. “I’ll tell you what, kid. You eat everything I got you there, and you don’t owe me a dime. Deal?”

Ponyboy nodded quietly, opening the bag and pulling out the burger. His hands shook just a bit, and his eyes felt heavy, but his stomach grumbled and he took a bite. The food went down easy, didn’t stick in his throat or make him feel sick. He sighed, sinking back into his seat as he chewed, and for the first time in the last few days, he didn’t feel like he was forcing it.

Two-Bit slid into the seat across from him, pulling out a piece of chocolate cake he’d stashed in his jacket and cracking open a cold beer. As he started rambling about something that had happened earlier in the week, Ponyboy found himself barely listening, just watching the way Two-Bit’s face lit up with every exaggerated detail of his story. It was hard not to smile a little himself, seeing Two-Bit get so animated. He even broke off a piece of the cake and handed it over, and Ponyboy took it, surprised; they usually had to fight over the last slice of cake before Darry would bake another one.

As he ate, he felt a dull pounding in his head—probably from eating too fast or from the lack of sleep he’d had lately, and maybe even the fever creeping up on him. He winced, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Two-Bit noticed and nodded toward him. “Take your meds?”

Ponyboy cringed, his mouth full of chocolate cake. “Swallow before you talk, Two,” he managed, still working on some fries.

Two-Bit rolled his eyes, giving him a half-grin. “What are you, my mother?” He swallowed dramatically, giving Ponyboy a knowing look. “Well?”

Ponyboy’s face fell slightly. “I think I threw ‘em all up,” he admitted, voice low. “I’ll take some tomorrow.”

Two-Bit’s smile faded just a bit, and there was a flicker of worry in his eyes, though he tried to keep his tone light. “How ‘bout some aspirin at least? I’m not sayin’ you gotta, but... it might help.”

Ponyboy nodded, feeling too worn down to argue. Two-Bit got up, grabbed some aspirin and a glass of water from the kitchen, and slid them over without a word, watching as Ponyboy took them.

“Oh, and by the way…” Two-Bit suddenly pulled a cold bottle of Pepsi from behind his back and pushed it toward him. Ponyboy hadn’t even noticed he’d grabbed one from the fridge. “Here. Don’t tell your brother, will ya?”

Ponyboy blinked in surprise, then let out a soft smile. Darry had been on him about not drinking enough water the last few days, insisting he was getting those migraines because all he drank was Pepsi. They’d had a whole argument about it, and Darry hadn’t bought any more since, hoping it’d force him to drink more water. But seeing that familiar bottle made something in Ponyboy relax, like a small piece of normal slipping back into place.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a real pal, you know that?”

Two-Bit grinned, shoveling another forkful of cake into his mouth. “Aw, kid, what else am I good for, huh?”

Ponyboy looked down at the Pepsi, feeling a warmth spread through him. He wished Two-Bit knew just how good of a guy he was, how he’d never say it out loud but that little things like this meant more than he’d ever let on. Instead, he just nodded, cracking open the bottle and taking a sip, the familiar taste easing something deep in his chest.

They didn’t say much after that, and Ponyboy found himself relaxing for the first time in a while.

—

“I want you seeing a doctor again,” Darry said firmly later that night. 

Ponyboy could tell they’d waited until the gang had left, sparing him the embarrassment of the conversation in front of everyone else. Now, it was just him, Darry, and Sodapop in the dim light of the living room, and from the way his brothers were sitting—Darry upright and tense, Sodapop leaning forward with his hands clasped—Ponyboy knew this wasn’t up for discussion. It was more like an order.

But he wasn’t going to let it happen that easily. 

The thought of seeing another doctor made his stomach twist. He hated those appointments—the clinical offices, the uncomfortable silences, and especially the time he’d been forced to see a shrink after the hospital stay. Those two months of required sessions had been some of the worst in his life. Sure, he couldn’t deny it had helped a little, letting out everything that had been building up, but there had always been this detached look in the therapist’s eyes, cold and calculating, jotting down his words like he was just another case study. 

It left him feeling raw— weak .

He wasn’t going through that again. He didn’t need someone else’s pity, or worse—a stranger dissecting him like he was some puzzle to solve. He’d been through enough without someone else telling him he was broken like he didn’t already know that. 

“I don’t need some shrink,” Ponyboy muttered, his arms crossed tightly and his jaw set. The words came out sharper than he’d meant, but he was too worn down to care.

Darry’s eyes narrowed, a flash of frustration sparking in them. He drew in a slow, deep breath, like he was trying to keep himself from saying something he might regret. Then he let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“Right. Because you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” Darry’s voice was tight, almost a growl, as he stared Ponyboy down. The frustration coming off him felt like a wall, solid and unmoving. “You’re barely eating, you’re running yourself ragged—do you even hear yourself?”

Ponyboy’s fists clenched, his face hot with a mixture of anger and shame. “I don’t need someone I don’t know telling me how I feel! I’m handling it, Darry. Just back off and let me do this my way.”

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Darry’s voice was low, almost biting. “Every single day, I’ve tried to let you handle it. And every single day, I watch you get worse and worse.” 

Sodapop shifted next to Darry, his gaze moving between them, worry carved into his face. “Pony,” he said, softer than Darry, a hand reaching out, “we’re just trying to help you, kid. We’re on your side.”

Ponyboy pulled back from Sodapop’s hand, the distance between them all feeling like a widening chasm he couldn’t cross.

Darry’s face twisted with something bitter, and he shook his head. “You think we don’t know you’re struggling? That we’re just supposed to sit here and pretend you’re fine?” He took a step closer, his voice rough. “You act like this is all just about you. Well, news flash, Ponyboy—it’s not. It’s not just your life you’re tearing apart.”

Ponyboy kept his gaze averted, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, trying to keep Darry’s words from getting under his skin.

“ Fine.” Darry’s voice was low, clipped, and for a moment, he glanced away, jaw tight like he was holding back from saying more. “Keep shutting us out.”

The silence was thick, heavy, and Darry finally let out a frustrated breath, glancing away for a moment before looking back at Ponyboy, his voice sharp and cracking. 

“I don’t understand you. You walk around here like some kind of ghost, and you think I can just ignore it?” He shook his head, the anger fading just slightly, leaving something more raw in its place. “Im trying to fix this but I can’t do that if you don’t even care enough to try.”

Ponyboy felt the weight of Darry’s words settle in his chest, but he pushed it down, muttering, “It’s my life, Darry.”

His brother was silent for a long time and for a minute, he thought the conversation was over and then with a tight face he quietly spoke. 

“ You almost died, Pony," Darry whispered, like he was speaking a truth he’d kept buried. 

Sodapop made this horrible sound next to him.

"Every day I see you like this, it’s like I’m seeing you on the floor all over again.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I can’t keep doing that, Ponyboy. I can’t.”

Ponyboy’s face went pale, his mouth opening as if to speak, but he couldn’t find the words.

Darry’s fists clenched, his shoulders tense as he took a shaky breath. “You act like this only hurts you,” he said, his voice raw and edged with desperation. “But I can’t see you do this anymore. I really can’t.” 

The room fell silent, the weight of Darry’s words thick and suffocating. But he wasn’t finished.

He swallowed, his voice softer now, almost pleading. 

“I don’t know what else to do. I’m trying—God, I’m trying everything I know, but none of it matters if you won’t even try to get better. If you won’t meet us halfway.” 

Ponyboy’s heart sank, watching Darry’s anger give way to something deeper, something broken. 

Darry’s face twisted as he struggled to hold back, his eyes shining. “You’re my kid brother. Im always gonna be here kid, but how am I supposed to do anything when you’re dead set on tearing yourself apart?”

Darry’s face contorted in pain, and he looked away, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s like you’re killing yourself in slow motion, and I’m starting to feel like maybe—maybe I should just let you.”

From the corner of the room, a muffled, choked sound broke the silence. Sodapop, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he tried to muffle his sobs. Seeing Sodapop so broken, so weighed down, felt like a knife to Ponyboy’s chest, guilt spreading through him.

Darry took a deep, shaky breath, his hands clenched at his sides. He began to pace, his movements restless, his eyes flashing with a raw, desperate energy. 

“Do you get what I’m saying?” His voice cracked, and he glanced toward Soda, who was still struggling to hold back. “Watching you, day after day, knowing we’re losing you a little more each time and not knowing how to stop it—I just can’t do it anymore, I can’t—”

Ponyboy swallowed, his throat tight, his defenses crumbling as he looked from Darry to Sodapop. Darry’s expression held no anger now, just a deep, relentless hurt, the kind that didn’t go away.

A soft, choked sound slipped from Sodapop’s lips, and Ponyboy turned to see his brother, usually so upbeat, wiping furiously at his eyes, as if desperate to stop the tears. 

“We can’t lose you, Pony,” he managed, his voice breaking. “We’ve already lost so much.”

Darry’s eyes locked onto Ponyboy’s, unyielding and filled with a vulnerability he rarely showed. 

“Soda and I—you’re all we’ve got, Pony,” he said, his voice rough, wavering. “And if you keep tearing yourself apart like this, there’s… there’s gonna be nothing left for us to hold onto. I’m not gonna lose you—not like this. I can’t do that again.”

Ponyboy dropped his gaze, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to keep his own emotions in check. But the weight of Darry’s words pressed down on him, each one slipping through the cracks of the walls he’d tried to build around himself.

“I’d rather have you hate me, yell at me, anything—" Darry’s voice cracked, barely audible. "Anything but bury you next to Mom and Dad.”

The room went silent, the unspoken fears hanging thick in the air. Every unshed tear, every sleepless night, every moment of doubt was there between them, raw and exposed. Darry took a step back, a hand coming to his face, rubbing at his eyes like he was holding himself together with sheer will.

“I need you to try, really try this time. Because if you don’t I’m done, I can’t keep doing this with you. So for the love of God, please.”

Ponyboy’s chest felt tight, his pulse hammering in his ears. For the first time, he saw the full weight of what he’d put them through—the pain and fear mirrored in their faces, in the way Darry held himself, almost crumbling, and in the way Soda struggled to stay quiet, choking back sobs.

He swallowed, the words barely slipping out. “Fine.” 

There was a beat of silence. 

A thousand responses fought in his mind—an urge to argue, to insist that he was fine, that he didn’t need them breathing down his neck. But the feeling of their words, the raw pain in Darry’s voice and Sodapop’s broken silence, made every excuse feel hollow. The truth was, he didn’t know how to meet them halfway, but the way they looked at him right now made him feel like he was slipping, like they could see every crack.

“I’ll go,” he whispered, almost to himself, his eyes flicking from Soda’s tear-streaked face to Darry’s crumbling resolve.

Soda, still wiping furiously at his eyes, looked up, hope flickering in the midst of his grief, as Darry’s expression softened. The three of them sat there, words spent, emotions raw and exposed in the dim light. Only the sound of Soda’s quiet breathing filled the room as the weight of their words settled, lingering in the silence.

Chapter Text

July 21st, 1968

Ponyboy’s breaths tore at him like jagged waves, pulling him under with each shuddering gasp. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and sweat, sharp and unnatural against his skin. He stared at his reflection, eyes wide and unfocused, pupils dilating with panic. The exam paper crumpled beside him seemed to pulse like a heartbeat, the bright red score searing into him like a brand. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—just an endless, crushing feeling of failure squeezing him tighter, suffocating him. 

He hated this, he hated having these. 

The panic exploded inside him like a flash of heat and sound, sharp and blinding. Ponyboy staggered backward, his body rebelling against the overwhelming sensation of pressure, pulling him down, pinning him to the cold, unforgiving tile of the bathroom floor. The air escaped him in a ragged, choking rush, and his vision spun like a whirlpool, red and blurry. The exam paper fell with a soft, wet sound, crumpling like leaves in a storm. 

The tears stung his eyes, blurring everything even more, but he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t stop anything. 

When they had gotten back to the house, Ponyboy had practically sprinted inside the house to hide from Two-Bit who had driven him home. Desperate, Ponyboy scrambled up to his feet and slammed the bathroom door shut, his fingers trembling as he twisted the lock into place. His knees buckled, and he sank to the cold floor, curling in on himself like a leaf trapped in a storm. The pain of the panic pressed down on him like icy hands, squeezing tighter with every breath. He gasped, eyes flickering between the door and his own reflection, trying to find something real in the blur of sensations. 

But there was nothing—only darkness, only echoes of Two-Bit’s distant voice, muffled but insistent through the door. 'Pony? Hey, you alright in there?' his voice cut through the haze, sharp and worried.

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead hard against the cool surface of the door, trying to block out everything. He heard Two-Bit’s voice, but it was far away, distorted by the walls and the blood roaring in his ears

There was a beat of silence, then a sharp jolt as Two-Bit rattled the doorknob, swearing under his breath. A moment later, he must have forced it open somehow, because suddenly he was there, kneeling in front of Ponyboy, his face tight with worry as he took in the sight of him, crumpled and shaking on the floor.

God, he was so embarrassed. 

“Pony—” Two-Bit’s voice was rough, and he hesitated, clearly out of his depth, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he sat down beside him, back against the wall, knees pulled up like Ponyboy’s, letting the silence stretch out between them.

Ponyboy squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip so hard he could taste the blood, his breaths coming in jagged bursts, each one harder to catch than the last.

“Darry’s gonna kill me,” Ponyboy choked out, the words slipping through his trembling lips before he could stop them, raw and jagged. He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. “I already messed up last week… I can’t… I can’t again—”

 His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with a sob. “I can’t get anything right. I’m always messing everything up.”

He felt his face go a hot red behind the panic at the embarrassment of his friend seeing him bawl like this, but Two-Bit didn’t dig on him for it just watching him. 

Two-Bit didn’t say anything at first. He just edged closer, his hand hovering over the floor, so close he could feel the tension between them, but not daring to touch. He could hear Ponyboy’s breaths, jagged and shallow, and see his hands shaking, clenched so tight his knuckles had gone pale. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from Ponyboy’s shoulder, fingers twitching, unsure whether to touch him or not. The silence stretched out, thick and painful, and Two-Bit’s heart sank, not knowing what to do. 

“You think Darry’s got it all figured out?” Two-Bit’s voice was rough, but he forced himself to keep it steady. His stomach knotted as he watched Ponyboy tremble. “He might act like he knows everything, but he’s just wingin’ it, like the rest of us.”

Ponyboy shook his head, his voice barely a whisper, cracked and bitter.

“You don’t get it, Two. I’m never gonna get it right. I’m never gonna make it outta here. Never gonna go to college, never gonna do anything.” He gasped for air, his words spilling out in a rush, desperate and frantic. “I’ll just keep screwin’ up until there’s nothin’ left to screw up. Darry knows it. I know it.” 

Two-Bit’s chest tightened. He’d heard Ponyboy get in his head before, but never like this. There was a hollowness to his voice now, a weight that made Two-Bit’s throat burn.

“Come on, man. It’s just one bad test, don’t mean you’re done. Darry just pushes you ‘cause he knows how much you’ve got in you.” 

“It’s not just one test,” Ponyboy’s voice cracked, and he clamped his hand over his mouth like he could stop the flood of words. “It’s everything. No matter what I do, I screw it up. I keep failing, and I’m never gonna get it right—”

Two-Bit reached out, hand hovering over Ponyboy’s shoulder but not quite daring to touch him. 

Two-Bit hesitated, his hand hovering over Ponyboy’s shoulder but not quite touching him.

“Hey,” His voice was unsure as he tried to find something to say, anything to make this better. “I know you're upset but, it’s just one test, man. You’re the smartest kid, I know.” 

Ponyboy turned away, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, his voice small, barely above a whisper. “Then why does it feel like it’s all over? Like if I just disappeared, things might be better without me.”

A chill crawled up Two-Bit’s spine, a sick weight settling in his gut. This wasn’t just a bad day. This was something deeper, something darker, something he didn’t have a clue how to fix.

“Hey,” he said, his voice shaky, a soft urgency in his tone. “Don’t talk like that, alright? I mean it, kid.” 

Ponyboy shook his head, the fight leaving his body. His face crumpled, the weight of everything pressing down on him. “Promise me you won’t tell Darry or Soda, okay? Please don’t tell them, I don’t want them seeing me like this.”

His face flushed at the idea of Darry seeing him bawling on the ground.

Two-Bit hesitated for a long moment, his heart aching for the kid, before giving him a tight, almost imperceptible nod. He couldn’t promise things would be okay, but he could promise to keep this between them, just for now.

“Alright,” he murmured. “I won’t say a word. Just… just promise me you’ll come to me if it gets worse, yeah?”

Ponyboy didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to his knees as if he was trying to make himself disappear. Two-Bit stayed beside him, feeling helpless, as if no words could fill the silence that stretched between them.

A week later, Ponyboy Curtis sat in the bathroom and did not call Two-Bit. 

And later, long after Ponyboy had been pulled out of that bloody puddle, Two-Bit would remember this moment, would replay it over and over. 

And he would regret keeping his mouth shut till the day he died.

—

Ponyboy sat curled up on the kitchen chair, knees drawn to his chest, a worn book resting on his lap. It’s 2 a.m., and he’s been staring at the same sentence for who knows how long when he hears footsteps behind him.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Steve’s voice cuts through the silence, low and rough with sleep, but there’s an edge to it.

Ponyboy glances up. Steve’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a tired look on his face. His shirt’s wrinkled, and there’s a fresh bruise under his chin, likely courtesy of his old man. It doesn’t take much for Ponyboy to guess that another fight went down at the Randall house.

He shrugs and rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to shake off the fog. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, voice hoarse and groggy. It’s the truth, but not the whole of it. After the nightmare he had, he didn’t want to risk going back to sleep. Not when he knew it could drag him right back into the terror, trapping him in that helpless feeling all over again.

Steve’s gaze sharpens. He’s not buying it. 

“Can’t or won’t?” he asks, his tone flat, like he already knows the answer. He doesn’t sit down, just stands there, looking Ponyboy over in that way he has, like he’s trying to figure out what exactly went wrong.

Ponyboy’s grip tightens on the book. He knows he should probably say something, explain himself, but he’s too worn down, and Steve’s not the person he feels like opening up to right now. “…What’s it to you?” The words come out sharper than he means, laced with frustration.

Steve lets out a scoff, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t,” he snaps back, “but it sure as hell matters to your brothers.”

The mention of Darry and Sodapop makes something twist painfully in Ponyboy’s chest. He swallows, looking away as Steve’s words hit hard. Steve isn’t being gentle about this, and that’s exactly what makes it hurt more.

Steve moves closer, arms still crossed, his expression fierce and unyielding. 

“Don’t do this again, Pony,” he says, his voice low but steady. There’s an edge there, but it’s not all anger. “You swore to them. Don’t break that, Sodapop can’t take it again.”

Ponyboy feels his throat tighten, the weight of everything Steve’s saying settling heavily on his shoulders. He doesn’t want to let them down—not after everything they’ve been through—but the thought of trying to push through all this, just to keep his promise, feels impossible right now.

His hands are shaking, and he quickly looks down, blinking hard as he tries to push back the tears welling up. He can feel his chest tighten, like he’s going to shatter under the pressure of it all, but all he can do is nod, a small, silent promise that he hopes he can keep.

Steve watches him for a long moment, his expression softening just a bit before he finally turns and leaves the room without another word.

As soon as he’s gone, Ponyboy lets out a shaky breath and makes his way to the guest room, curling up on the bed. He closes his eyes, hoping for once that sleep will come peacefully, that the nightmares will stay away.

But they don’t.

—

Ponyboy hadn’t left his room in two days.

The talk with Darry and Sodapop still echoed in his head, loud and inescapable, yet the world outside his door felt impossibly distant. It was like some invisible wall had been built between him and everyone else. He lay there on his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as though they held the answers he couldn’t find within himself. Every look, every pause, every strained word his brothers had forced out during that conversation played on an endless loop in his mind, like a broken record he couldn’t shut off. And with every replay, the conclusion hit harder: the fractures in their family, the weight they all carried—somehow, it all came back to him.

Soda had been keeping his distance. Not in a cold way—Soda wasn’t capable of that—but there was hesitation in it, a quiet uncertainty that stung more than outright anger would have. He hadn’t slept in their shared room since that night. Instead, he took the guest bed or crashed on the couch after late nights with Steve, as though the space between them might lessen the tension thickening in the house. Ponyboy had tried telling himself it didn’t mean anything, but each time he lay awake, waiting for Soda’s quiet return, it gnawed at him. Soda was avoiding him, and Ponyboy couldn’t even blame him.

Johnny had tried, knocking softly at the door a few times.

“Hey, Pone...you feel like heading to the lot? Thought maybe we could hang out, just us.”

Each time, Ponyboy wanted to answer. He wanted to get up, to let Johnny pull him out of the dark spiral he was sinking into. But every time, his body betrayed him, limbs heavy and unmovable, weighed down by exhaustion that went deeper than his bones. He stayed silent, and eventually, Johnny stopped trying.

Even Dally had shown up, his version of coaxing more forceful. His boots had clunked against the hardwood, loud and unapologetic, and his knock had rattled the doorframe.

“C’mon, kid. I know you’ve been wanting to see that new flick. Get outta that bed before I drag you out myself.”

For a second, Ponyboy had thought Dally might follow through, that the door might give under the weight of his determination. But then the heavy silence returned, broken only by the sound of Dally’s retreating footsteps and his muttered, “Suit yourself.”

Darry tried coaxing him with food, but it felt like sawdust on his tongue. Two-Bit had sat outside the door for a while, telling bad jokes and making a point to laugh too loudly at his own punchlines. Even Steve had shoved a pack of cigarettes under the door so hard it cracked against the bedframe. None of it worked.

Finally, it was Soda.

Late one night, Soda leaned against the doorframe and started talking, his voice low but steady. “I’m glad you’re gonna see someone, Pone. I know you don’t think you need it, but it’ll help. It’s gotta help.” He rambled for a bit, something about the shop, about Steve, before his tone softened even more.

“I know you’re upset, little buddy. But I’m not gonna let you go. You’ve got one more day to come out on your own, or I’m breaking down this door.”

Ponyboy had stared at the ceiling, guilt washing over him in waves as Soda walked away. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Now, the house was empty, still as a graveyard. His brothers were at work, and the gang had stopped coming by, busy with their own lives. The silence pressed down on him, alive in its weight, like it was daring him to try and escape it. He curled tighter under the blanket, the chill in the air seeping into his bones.

He thought of Darry’s face, of the tightness in his jaw during their last conversation, of the hurt he hadn’t been able to hide. Ponyboy could still see it, feel it—a look that wasn’t blame but cut just as deep. He thought of Soda’s quiet determination, of Johnny’s soft persistence, of Dally’s frustrated retreat. Every memory stacked on top of the last, each one a fresh reminder that he was the problem, that if he could just stay out of the way, maybe they’d finally breathe easier.

But the guilt clung to him, thick and unrelenting, dragging him deeper. No matter how far he tried to pull away, it wasn’t far enough. The hours stretched endlessly, marked only by the creaks of the house, each one a warning that he couldn’t avoid this forever.

—

Ponyboy leaned heavily against the doorframe, the sharp edge pressing into his shoulder. The gang’s laughter crashed over him like waves, each burst louder than the last, drowning out his thoughts. His head throbbed with the noise—once comforting, now unbearable. He clenched the wood tighter, his fingers curling as if he could anchor himself there, but the sound wouldn’t stop. 

The whole gang was over—Soda’s voice mingling with Steve’s rough laugh, Johnny’s quiet chuckles, even Two-Bit’s booming voice rising above the rest. Normally, the noise and easy banter would feel like home, grounding him. But tonight, it just felt loud. Overwhelming. He could barely stand to hear it.

He crossed his room, glancing out the window where the sun was sinking lower, casting a warm orange glow over the rooftops. It was around six, that in-between time where the evening had just started, and it seemed like the whole world was settling in for the night. But Ponyboy couldn’t settle. Every nerve in him was wound tight, too restless to sit still. They’d all been checking on him constantly since that talk with Darry and Sodapop, like they thought he’d shatter if they left him alone for more than a minute. He felt like he was suffocating under all of it—the concern, the looks, the endless conversations he couldn’t seem to escape.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

The thought came suddenly, hard and insistent. He needed to get out, just for a little while. A run—something simple, something to get his mind straight. He hadn’t done it in ages, and he knew the gang would probably be pissed if they found out he’d snuck out without telling anyone, but right now, he didn’t care.

His fingers brushed against the worn sweatshirt hanging on the chair, hesitating for just a moment before yanking it free. He crossed to the window, pushing it up slowly, feeling the cool evening air seep in around him. He glanced back at his room, the quiet space he’d spent the last two days avoiding everyone. Maybe they’d wonder where he was later, but it’d be too late by then. He’d be gone, at least for a little while.

He paused, the distant hum of voices filtering through, then swung a leg over the sill. The night air hit him like a splash of water, sharp and biting, but he barely noticed as his feet hit the ground. Straightening up, he pulled his sweatshirt tighter around himself, pausing for just a second to glance back up at the window. He could still hear them, faintly, talking and laughing like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t let them all down.

Turning away, he started down the side of the house, skirting the edge of the lawn so he wouldn’t pass by any of the windows. The street stretched out in front of him, empty and quiet in the fading light. Ponyboy took a deep breath, feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt settle in his chest. It was wrong, probably, to sneak out like this, to leave them all behind, even if it was just for an hour or two. But he needed this—needed the silence, the space, the freedom to just be for a while, without anyone watching or worrying over him.

Just a few hours. That’s all he wanted. 

The pavement under his sneakers felt solid, unyielding with every step, the steady rhythm of his run grounding him as the city slipped by in blurred shapes. Ponyboy didn't know where he was going—he was just running, trying to outrun the thoughts that clawed at the back of his mind. The rush of the wind in his ears, the tight burn in his chest—everything felt real, in a way that nothing had in the last few days. The sensation of his feet hitting the ground, the beat of his heart, the thump of his pulse—all of it reminded him that he was still here, still alive.

But no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't outrun the emptiness in his chest.

Every street corner he passed, every turn he took, seemed to remind him of how far he'd pulled away, not just from his brothers, but from the world. He hadn't even realized how much he’d been shutting down, how much he'd been pushing people away. His brothers. His friends. Everyone.

How long had it been since he actually felt like he was living? He'd been going through the motions—pretending like he was fine, putting on that smile, pushing the things that hurt deep down. But tonight, for the first time, it felt like all of that had cracked wide open. The pressure in his chest, the suffocating guilt... it was all too much to bear.

He had tried so hard to be okay. To convince everyone that he was okay. But he wasn’t. And maybe, just maybe, it was okay to admit that.

Ponyboy slowed to a jog, the pace slowing down until his feet were dragging along the street, the air thick in his lungs. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gone, but it felt like a lifetime. His legs ached, but it wasn’t the ache that hurt the most. It was the heavy realization settling in his chest, a weight he couldn’t escape.

Ponyboy stumbled to a halt, his legs trembling as he reached for the fence. The rough wood scraped against his palms, grounding him as his chest heaved with labored breaths. He sagged against it, his forehead brushing the cool surface, and squeezed his eyes shut. The guilt coiled tighter, every thought sharp and unforgiving: Why couldn’t I just let them in? Why do I always make it worse?

It’s all my fault.

That thought hit him again like a punch in the gut. He had pushed them all away—Sodapop, Darry, the gang—and now, here he was, standing in the middle of the street, realizing that he had nothing left.

Ponyboy swallowed hard, the tightness in his throat making it hard to breathe. He had tried so hard to hold it all together, to be strong, to be the person everyone expected him to be. But the truth was, he wasn’t strong. He was scared. And he was tired.

He finally stood upright, taking a shaky step forward. He couldn’t stay out here forever. As much as he wanted to keep running, he knew he couldn’t. It was time to face it, time to face them.

I need to go home.

Ponyboy’s steps faltered as he turned toward home, the weight of his decision settling heavy on his shoulders. Each step felt like wading through mud, his resolve wavering with every inch closer. But he kept moving, his fingers brushing the edge of his jacket like it was a lifeline. He didn’t know how to fix things, but he had to try. Had to face them. He owed them that much.

He took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest pull at his lungs, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t as suffocating.

Ponyboy turned, facing the stretch of road ahead of him. I owe them an apology.

The thought hit him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. He wasn’t sure how he was going to say it, how he was going to tell Darry how sorry he was, how much he had been carrying inside. He wasn’t sure if he even had the words for it. But he owed it to him. He owed it to all of them.

Ponyboy straightened his shoulders, feeling the last of the tension leave his body. He took a slow, steady step before turning hard on his heel and moving to run back toward the house, he needed to say he was—

A flash of movement came into his vision as an arm side swiped him hard, the impact sending him sprawling into the pavement. 

Just as Ponyboy steadied himself, ready to start the walk back, a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. He barely had time to turn his head before a fist swung out from nowhere, catching him square in the jaw and sending him sprawling backward. His body hit the concrete hard, the impact rattling his bones and scraping his hands as he instinctively threw them out to break his fall.

The world tilted violently, and the dull roar of blood rushing in his ears drowned out everything else. His head throbbed, each pulse a hammer driving into his skull, while the coppery taste of blood pooled in his mouth.

 His head throbbed, a sharp, pulsating pain radiating from the side of his face where the punch had landed. Ponyboy forced himself to lift his gaze, blinking away the dizziness, and his heart sank when he saw who was stepping forward from the shadows.

Randy, Paul, and some guys who had graduated from the football team stared down at him with amusement. 

Randy’s gaze was feral, his eyes burning with a rage so raw it seemed to eat away at him. It wasn’t just anger—it was grief twisted into something unrecognizable, something violent. The chill in Randy's tone made his skin crawl, but he forced himself to hold his ground. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them see him falter. But the truth sat heavy in his chest, undeniable. He was alone out here, no one around to back him up, and these guys… they wanted blood.

Paul stood off to the side, his expression flickering between confidence and hesitation, as if he wasn’t entirely sure about all this. But he squared his shoulders, fists clenched, clearly set on backing Randy up, no matter how uneasy he looked. Ponyboy could see the conflict in Paul’s eyes—maybe he didn’t want things to go too far. But that was the problem. Paul might not, but Randy looked dead-set on it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Curtis,” Randy said, the edge in his voice cold and sharp.

Ponyboy gasped, the movement sending a sharp lance of pain through his ribs. He pushed himself up with shaking arms, bile rising in his throat as the edges of his vision darkened. He glanced around at the small group of Socs surrounding him, the tight circle they had formed making his pulse spike. He could see Randy’s face clearly now—an odd mixture of resentment and something else, something that almost looked like pity.

“Thought you might’ve learned by now to keep to your side of town,” Randy continued, almost conversationally, though there was nothing friendly in his tone.

He had even realized he had just barely crossed the edge of town, wasn’t even that far from his house, just far enough for Randy to use the excuse. 

Ponyboy clenched his jaw, feeling his heartbeat settle into a heavy, steady rhythm. He wanted to run, wanted to keep moving and escape this, but his pride kept him rooted there. He wasn’t about to let Randy or any of these other Socs see him back down, not after everything he’d been through. The realization of just how isolated he was right now only made his skin crawl more, but he tried to steady himself.

“What do you want?” He hissed out, looking around for an exit but finding himself cornered. 

“Told you before, I ain’t letting you walk away after what you did.” Randy muttered, almost like he was reminding himself, the words barely more than a hiss. “Three years I've had to watch Bob's parents grieve him and go without any justice. You aren’t innocent, you're just a killer and I’m tired of letting it go.”

The accusation hit Ponyboy harder than he expected, the memory of that night crashing over him. His fists clenched by his sides, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Anything he said would only make this worse.

Randy didn’t wait for a response. With a sudden, brutal movement, he shoved Ponyboy backward, and Ponyboy stumbled, the ground scraping his hands as he tried to catch himself. Randy was on him before he had a chance to regain his balance, a fierce look of hatred twisting his face.

Ponyboy struggled to pull back, but Randy’s grip on him was solid, unforgiving. Panic clawed up his throat as he realized how serious this was. Randy wasn’t holding back, and the look in his eyes was wild—uncontrolled. He could feel the desperation in Randy’s punches, each one laced with bitterness, grief, and anger. He wasn’t thinking; he was lashing out, and that made him even more dangerous.

Ponyboy tried to twist out of Randy’s grip, but it was no use; a punch slammed into his ribs, and a sharp crack echoed through his chest. Ponyboy crumpled, his vision flashing white as pain exploded in every nerve. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing or choking; every gasp was fire. He could hear the laughter from one of the other Socs, mocking and cruel, and it made his skin prickle with fear. His pride kept him trying to fight back, but his body was already beginning to betray him, the pain radiating through him in waves.

Paul hovered on the edge, his fists trembling at his sides. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, his face twisting into something almost like guilt. 

“Randy, maybe that’s enough,” he said, his voice uncertain.

But Randy didn’t stop. He was too far gone, lost in whatever revenge he thought this was. Another fist landed across Ponyboy’s face, and he tasted blood, the metallic tang filling his mouth as he stumbled, trying to steady himself. His vision blurred, but he blinked hard, determined to stay conscious, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him weak.

He kicked out in desperation, his foot connecting with Randy’s shin, but it only seemed to make Randy angrier. Randy yanked him up by his shirt collar, and Ponyboy was dimly aware of the other Socs moving closer, their mocking jeers blending with Randy’s furious words.

He cried out as the Soc slammed him into the stone wall behind him, feeling his head impact hard against it. His vision went blurry for a moment, and a ringing hit his ears. 

“Think you’re tough, huh?” Randy sneered, tightening his grip on Ponyboy’s shirt. “Think you’re some kind of big shot for killing someone?”

Ponyboy forced himself to lift his head, glaring back at Randy through the haze of pain, his defiance simmering beneath the fear. “I don’t think I’m anything,” he managed, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “But you sure as hell aren’t either.”

That only seemed to push Randy over the edge. With a furious snarl, he threw Ponyboy down, his shoulder slamming into the concrete with a sickening crack. Pain flared through his body, intense and all-consuming, and he couldn’t hold back a gasp, the sound raw and involuntary.

Paul stepped forward again, his brow furrowed, but he didn’t move to stop Randy. Ponyboy could see the doubt in Paul’s eyes, but it was too little, too late. He was too far gone, too trapped under Randy’s wrath to be saved by a second thought.

Another punch landed, and then another, and Ponyboy’s attempts to shield himself grew weaker, his body no longer able to keep up with the onslaught. He could hear Randy breathing hard, could feel the fury in every hit, every shove. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him down.

In the dim light, he caught a glimpse of Paul, his expression shifting, that uncertainty turning into something almost like regret. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered now.

Every nerve in his body screamed, his muscles sore and bruised from the relentless blows that had left him swaying on his feet. He tried to focus on his breathing, to steady himself, but it felt like his chest was in a vice. He was surrounded, no escape, just the twisted expressions of the Socs, each one feeding off the hurt they were dealing out.

Randy took a step closer, his eyes cold. “You thought you could walk around here like nothing ever happened, didn’t you?” His voice was low and steady, a contrast to the chaos of his fists, and that made it even worse. The quiet rage, the intent to cause pain—it all made Ponyboy’s stomach turn.

Another punch landed squarely in his ribs, and Ponyboy doubled over, gasping. He tried to straighten, to keep that defiance in his eyes, but his body was betraying him, exhaustion taking over. His legs wobbled, but he forced himself to stay up. He couldn’t let them think they’d won. Even as his vision blurred, even as he felt his strength drain away, he refused to give them that satisfaction.

“Hold him,” Randy’s voice cut through the fog, calm but cruel.

Paul hesitated, glancing at the others, but with a nod from Randy, he grabbed Ponyboy, yanking him up by his shoulders. Ponyboy winced as Paul’s grip pressed into the bruises that had formed from earlier punches, but he kept his mouth shut, breathing through the pain. There was a strange look on Paul’s face, something almost like reluctance, but it faded as he tightened his hold.

Randy stepped back, letting his gaze rake over Ponyboy, as if assessing how much fight he had left. “Guess we’ll just have to teach you a little respect,” he murmured, and there was something terrifying in the way he said it, almost casual.

Ponyboy’s head lolled slightly, his body screaming for him to surrender, to collapse, but he fought against it, clinging to that last shred of defiance. The others crowded closer, laughing quietly, some of them egging Randy on, and that laughter, that sick amusement, burned in his ears.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flicker of flame as one of the Socs lit a cigarette. The sight barely registered before the Soc smirked, nodding toward Randy, who took the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers, as if considering it.

Ponyboy’s blood turned to ice.

“Just a little reminder,” Randy said, smirking, his tone almost a whisper now. He moved closer, his fingers holding the burning cigarette with an ease that made Ponyboy’s stomach twist. Ponyboy jerked, trying to pull away, but Paul’s grip kept him in place, his hands like iron on his shoulders.

The cigarette hovered, its ember pulsing and sending a spark of fear through his gut. Ponyboy jerked against Paul’s iron grip, panic clawing up his throat as the heat neared his skin. The sizzle came first, then the searing, unbearable burn. His scream tore through the night, raw and jagged, but the mocking laughter swallowed it whole. He kicked his feet against the ground, trying to push himself away before Randy finally dropped it and let him hang in Paul’s arms. 

He remembered Paul and him used to get along when Darry and him were close. He wondered if Paul thought the same thing when he was screaming. 

Around him, the Socs' laughter echoed, blending into the dull roar in his ears. Randy finally pulled the cigarette away, letting it fall to the ground, his voice mocking as he spoke. “That’s what you get, greaser. Thought you’d know your place by now. Guess not.”

Ponyboy coughed, the pain from his gut flaring as the guy behind him yanked his arm tighter, forcing him upright. But even through the pain, a chill washed over him as he met Randy’s gaze and saw the look there—hard, unrelenting.

They could kill you. Dally’s voice echoed in his mind, a warning he’d brushed off too many times.

Ponyboy's pulse thundered in his ears, each beat screaming at him to move, to run, but his body wouldn’t obey. Randy’s hand moved with slow deliberation, pulling the blade from his pocket like a predator savoring its kill.

 The sharp snick of the blade snapping open sent a chill straight to Ponyboy’s bones and he thought of Darry and Sodapops faces. 

“I’ll just have to show you.”

Chapter Text

There’s a split second where everything seems frozen.

Randy’s knife catches the light, and the cold glint sears itself into Ponyboy’s mind, his heart hammering so hard it feels like it might bruise his ribs. Randy’s expression is dead serious, a glint of something unforgiving in his eyes, and Ponyboy feels his body tighten, muscles locking with a surge of pure, instinctive terror. The grip from the guys holding him loosens just slightly, as if they’re as hesitant as he is at the sight of the knife. 

He catches Paul opening his mouth to say something, but then loosening his hold on him. 

Without another thought, Ponyboy elbows him in the gut and bolts.

His legs take off before his mind even catches up. Adrenaline surges through him, and all at once, he’s hurtling down the street, sneakers pounding against the pavement, footsteps echoing behind him. Their voices rise, angry and determined, but his pulse is thundering too loudly in his ears to make out the words. He can’t think, barely dares to breathe, just has to get away, get to home.

The familiar streets blur around him, lights flashing past, houses dark and indifferent, like they’re watching him run for his life and turning away. His heart races, and he pushes himself harder, lungs burning, each gulp of air scratching painfully in his throat. His mind jumps from one panicked thought to another, images of Randy’s face and the glinting knife searing into his memory, making his feet move even faster.

They could kill you, they could kill you, they could kill you. 

He chances a glance back, and his heart stutters at the sight—Randy’s close, too close, and another guy is right on his heels, their footsteps pounding. Ponyboy’s mind races faster than his feet, and he fights to ignore the aching throb in his side, the pain from the cigarette burn still raw and searing. His head hurts something awful too, there’s something wet running from his neck and he wonders if he landed in a puddle earlier. 

He doesn’t want to think about what could happen if they catch him. He’s been in fights before, hell he’d been jumped before but this felt different. He’s not just running for his pride; he’s running to stay alive, something he hasn’t done in a long time.

The lights from the houses seem to flicker and fade, leaving the street dark and endless. He’s pushing against the ache in his chest, against the fire in his calves, barely holding onto his footing as he flies around a corner, using the edge of a fence to propel himself forward. 

Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

He doesn’t want to die here, not this way. 

Every step, though, brings a fresh wave of pain—his ankle twists as he scrambles over a broken curb, a flash of white-hot agony shooting up his leg. His mind is telling him to keep running, but his body is starting to falter, every muscle screaming for him to stop. And then, just when he thinks he can’t push any harder, he spots the gate.

Home.

It’s like seeing the finish line, a burst of strength he didn’t know he had flooding him, but it’s laced with desperation. Just a little further, he tells himself, teeth gritted against the pain. He nearly loses his balance, ankle buckling, but he catches himself, forcing his legs to keep moving, forcing himself to keep running.

And then, as he draws closer, the thought finally breaks through the haze of panic: he wants to be here. To live. To get through this. His voice tears from his throat, rough and broken, but loud enough to cut through the night. 

“Darry! Soda!” He’s calling for them before he even realizes it, the names coming out in a cracked plea, filling the silent street with his desperation. He doesn’t dare look back, but he can feel Randy and the other guy closing in, feeling them gaining on him.

Finally, he reaches the gate, staggering as he fumbles to open it, practically crashing into the cold metal. He stumbles through, practically falling onto the path leading up to the front door.

“ Darry! Soda!” His voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper now, but he can’t stop. The fear, the pain, it’s all spilling out, raw and unfiltered, as he staggers up the path, each step feeling spikes through his body. “Dally!” 

He sees the door slam open and Darry runs out, stopping at the porch when he sees him, it registers to Ponyboy they thought he was in his room. 

“Ponyboy?” Darry’s voice, deep and shocked, cuts through the haze, grounding him.

Ponyboy pushes forward, nearly tripping as his legs finally give way. He can’t make it another step—Darry’s already there, his arms reaching out just as Ponyboy runs into him. It’s the first time Ponyboy’s felt safe since he saw Randy’s face in the alley.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of Randy’s face—shocked, paling with the realization of just where they are.

Randy freezes, then bolts, sprinting back down the street, his footsteps receding.

“Get the fuck back here!” Ponyboy leans hard against Darry as the door slams hard against the wooden panels of the house. 

Dally sprints out of the house, Two-Bit tight on his heels, the two of them chasing Randy and the other soc down the street. Ponyboy watches them go, he almost wants to stop them—it’s not worth it. He’s not worth the effort. But they are already down the street and his head hurt something awful, 

Ponyboy barely registers anything beyond the overwhelming ache flooding his body, but Darry’s arms are holding him so tight he can’t ignore the strong grip keeping him grounded. Darry’s face is close, the mix of fury and terror etched into his features almost startling enough to pull Ponyboy out of the fog he’s in. His hands press hard on Ponyboys shoulders, steady but rough, sending sharp jolts of pain that make him wince, a choked, shaky whine escaping before he can stop it.

The sound shifts something in Darry; his hold loosens, eyes softening as he pulls Ponyboy close, pressing him to his chest in a way that feels like he’s trying to hold him together. Without a word, Darry lifts him off his feet, his grip gentle but sure, as though he's afraid Ponyboy might shatter.

The world spins, colors and shapes blurring around him, and all Ponyboy can focus on is Darry’s steady heartbeat thumping against his ear, anchoring him even as everything else slips away. The pain feels sharper now, lancing through his limbs, his head pounding like a hammer against his skull. 

He can’t keep the words from tumbling out in broken gasps.

“I’m sorry, Darry—I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, barely able to form the words. “Didn’t mean to argue, didn’t mean to make it harder on you—I’m sorry, I tried…” 

His voice wavers, words blurring together, and he clings to Darry’s shirt, feeling tears slipping down his cheeks, hot and stinging. “I'm sorry—”

He’s having a hard time breathing between his rubs and the sobs stuck in his throat. 

Darry’s breath catches, and he shushes him softly, his voice thick with barely contained emotion. “Easy, baby. Just breathe. You’re gonna be alright, you hear me?” There’s a tremor in his voice, one that only makes Ponyboy feel worse.

Suddenly, the door flies open, and Sodapop rushes in, Steve following close behind, eyes wide with alarm. They must have been out back, unaware of the chaos that hit the front yard. Soda’s eyes dart between Darry and Ponyboy, his expression twisting in worry as he takes in the bruises, the way Ponyboy’s head lolls slightly, too heavy on Darry’s shoulder.

“What the hell—“ 

“Randy,” Darry mutters, his jaw clenched, holding back something dark and furious. He looks at Ponyboy, who’s still staring up at him with glazed, unfocused eyes. “He’s out of it, Steve grab me a pillow from my room will you?”

Darry eases him down onto the couch, his movements careful, and Johnny’s right there, hovering close, his face paling as he watches Ponyboy, his worry showing in every small frown and tight grip on the edge of the couch.

Soda kneels beside Ponyboy, his hand resting on Pony’s arm, his voice gentle but with an edge of panic he can’t hide. “Pony, c’mon, stay awake will ya? Can you tell us what happened?” 

But Ponyboy only shakes his head, still half-lost in his own thoughts, muttering apologies like he can’t stop them.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it hard on you, either of you—I want to try, I swear…” His voice cracks, each word shaky, raw. He looks up at Darry, seeing only worry and regret in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to argue so much… didn’t mean to cause so much trouble…”

Darry’s face twists, pain slipping through his calm mask as he squeezes Ponyboy’s shoulder. 

“Pony, you don’t gotta apologize. You’re not in trouble, all right. Just sit still ok?” There’s a roughness in Darry’s voice that betrays the depth of his worry.

Soda leans in closer, his voice barely a whisper. 

“Hey, little buddy, it’s okay. Just focus on breathing, all right?” His thumb brushes soothing circles against Ponyboy’s arm, a steady, comforting presence amid the chaos.

Johnny leans in, he’s sitting nearby while Steve runs back in from the bedroom and throws Darry the pillow, the two of them gently moving him up so he’s sat up a bit. 

Steve’s face is hard, tight with anger and Ponyboy doesn’t know what he did wrong. 

“M’sorry,” Ponyboy mumbles, barely getting the words out, his mind a haze. He catches Steve’s face through the blur, confused why Steve looks so upset.

Steve just stares, caught off guard by Ponyboy’s words, his anger fading to a tight, uncomfortable expression.

“Kid, what are you apologizing for?” He responds with an almost sharp tone, shaking his head as he kneels to help Ponyboy sit up.

Darry’s hand presses firm and steady on Ponyboy’s shoulder, anchoring him. Ponyboy shifts around uncomfortably even as the pillow softens where his head lies. When Darry places the pillow his brow furrows and he touches the back of Ponyboy’s head, making him whine a little at the pain. 

When his brother pulls his hand back, it’s red with blood and his face goes white. 

“He’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” Darry immediately tells the others, forcing his hands still as he stands up. “Stay with him. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Soda keeps his hand on Ponyboy’s arm as Darry hurries off, and his thumb rubs slow, soothing circles into Ponyboy’s skin. 

“Easy, Pone” he murmurs, his voice gentle but strained. “I’ve got you.”

The door swings open, and Dally and Two-Bit stride in, their voices loud as they assess the scene. Two-Bit is panting hard, the both of them are honestly, like they’d run the whole street. They probably had. Dally’s eyes narrow at the sight of Ponyboy slumped on the couch, his expression darkening with a mixture of anger and tightness. 

Dally mutters a low curse under his breath, eyes lingering on Ponyboy’s form for far too long. 

“Someone picked that asshole up” he snaps, his fists clenching as his gaze sweeps over Ponyboy’s injuries, his jaw ticking. “Cowards, all of them.” 

Two-Bit, though still trying to act like his usual self, can’t hide the edge of worry creeping into his voice. He whistles, the sound hollow in the tense room. 

“Geez, kid, you even know who I am?” His grin’s forced, but he holds up his hand in front of Ponyboy’s face, hoping to get some kind of reaction.

Ponyboy stares at it, his eyes unfocused. He tries to wave it away, but his hand flops uselessly to the side, missing by a mile. He can’t help it—he lets out a breathless laugh, more from confusion than anything else. He’s not even sure why he’s laughing.

Dally’s frustration builds as he watches Ponyboy struggle to keep his head up. He glances at Darry, his temper boiling over. “I told you we should’ve handled this guy the first time. We should’ve gone after Randy, dealt with it. Damnit! ”

Darry pushes by him, eyes flash with something that could be anger or regret, but he quickly schools his expression. 

“Not now, Dallas.” Darry’s voice is low and hard as he kneels beside Ponyboy, grabbing the first aid kit. His movements are fast, but controlled—he’s trying to keep his cool, but his voice still shakes slightly. “Pony, you need to calm down, all right? Just breathe.” 

Ponyboy wipes at his eyes, feeling hot embarrassment creep underneath the guilt. He didn’t even realize he’d been half hyperventilating until Darry had hushed him. 

“You’re good, Pony.” Johnny’s voice is quiet, steady in a way that almost sounds protective

“ I’m sick of waiting— ” Dally shots back, gesturing at Ponyboy as he paces the room. “This is what happens when we wait! I’m done, I’m not letting that son of a bitch get away with this again. ” 

He kept looking back at Ponyboy, each time growing more agitated and antsy as he paced the room. 

“This is bullshit, who hell does this guy think he is!” Steve shouts, tossing Darry a towel to place on Ponyboy’s head which is bleeding sluggishly. 

Johnny catches it, moving to put it underneath of his head where the pillow lays. His buddy catches sight of something when he does so that makes him freeze and look up at Darry, who’s lips pierced together hard. Johnny quickly presses the towel and hands Darry some of the bandages for the cuts on his face.  

Ponyboy’s eyelids flutter as Darry carefully presses the antiseptic against his cuts, the sting making him wince. A low whimper slips past his lips, and his body tenses in pain. 

“Everyone needs to calm down for a minute and let me think,” Darry snaps out, voice thinly still as he tires go focus around the arguments. 

Ponyboy tries to tug away from the feeling of the cleaning on his skin. 

“I’m… sorry, Darry. Shouldn’t’ve gone over there.” His voice is quiet, words slurred as he fights through the pain.“It’s my fault, it really is…I shouldn’t have left—“  

“Ponyboy, stop apologizing. You hear?” Darry’s voice is firm, but his hand softens against his brother’s shoulder.

Darry didn’t understand, Ponyboy sighed exasperatedly at the pain overwhelming him.  

Ponyboy’s face twists in pain as he shakes his head, still apologizing under his breath. His words are frantic, barely making sense. “I—I shouldn’t have done it, Dar. It’s my fault, I’m so—"

Darry’s head shots up again, his face looks like he’s almost pained hearing Ponyboy talk. 

“I said stop it, Ponyboy. This isn’t on you, and I’m not gonna hear it. Johnny can you take over for a minute?” His voice softens as he holds up a bandage, glancing over at Johnny who nods, quietly taking over managing Pony’s injuries. 

“Pony?” He whispers, Ponyboy shifts uncomfortably trying to meet Johnny's eyes. “Just hold still real quick, ok?” 

“Mhm,” He mumbles, almost drowned out by the shouting around him and tried to hold still. 

Johnny takes a look at his ribs and sucks in a breath of air at the black and blue bruising, drawing the attention of the others who are still shouting at each other. Ponyboy wanted to curl up into a ball and die from the embarrassment of everyone seeing how weak he was. His face flushed as he turned away from their hard gazes. 

“This ain’t helping, Dal.” Sodapop’s voice cuts through the shouting, quieter but steady.

His brother gently pushes back his hair, and Ponyboy can’t help but lean into the touch with tears in his eyes. 

God, why did everything feel so weird? 

Steve, standing by the door with his arms crossed, glares at Dally. 

“What the hell are we supposed to do when we don’t even know where to start? Look at the kid, for God’s sake!” His tone is sharp, his hand gesturing towards Ponyboy who shot him a delirious glare.

Two-Bit leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his face shadowed with worry. He looks at Ponyboy, then back at the group. 

“This is low, even for them. Ain’t right what they did.” Two-Bits voice was sharper than it had been all night.

Johnny's wrapping the bandages around his ribs when he paused suddenly, pulling up the sleeve of Ponyboy’s sweatshirt to look at his arm. His friend turns his arm over, and Ponyboy gasps sharply as the cigarette burn twists on his arm. Johnny's eyes go real wide for a moment before they narrow and his jaw clenches. 

“We should’ve gone after him sooner. I knew this was gonna happen.” Dally voice is low, almost to himself now. He’s too angry to speak clearly, but the frustration boils over. “That piece of shit—” 

“Dally,” Darry snaps, his voice suddenly sharp. “Enough.” 

Dally stares sharply, but his eyes are drift over. He looks over at Johnny, his gaze softening just slightly behind the fire in his gaze. 

“How’s he doing?” he asks, his voice quieter now, controlled but filled with something Ponyboy can’t recognize.

“He’s probably got a concussion.” Johnny’s gaze is intense, his voice steady but then his face goes hard and tight. “…someone put out a cigarette on his arm.” 

Ponyboy barely remembers that, everything’s a blur, flashes of heat and anger swirling around in his mind. The room goes deadly quiet. The air feels like it’s pressing down on him, and he can see the muscle in Dally’s jaw twitch as his teeth grind together. Darry’s hands go to his face, fingers white from how hard he’s pressing them into his temples.

He really wishes they’d all just let it go.

Darry drops his hands and turns to look at Dally, his gaze fierce. “Where did—” 

“It’s fine, Darry,” Ponyboy mutters, his words slurring slightly. He shifts uncomfortably, his head feeling heavy and hazy. “I shouldn’t’ve gone so close to their side of town… it’s my f—”

“Shut up.” Dally’s voice is sharp as a blade, cutting him off. His eyes flash dangerously as he steps forward, fists tight. “Don’t you start that shit, Ponyboy. Don’t you even think it.”

Johnny’s gaze is steady, but there’s an edge to it, a steel Ponyboy’s not used to seeing. “Dally’s right,” Johnny murmurs, voice soft but unbreakable. “Just try to calm down, man.”

Ponyboy tries to argue, barely gets a word out before Darry jumps in, his voice rough and biting. 

“You think we’re just gonna let it slide?” Darry’s glare is fierce, eyes narrowed all the softness leaving him at the sight of the burn. “I don’t care whose side of town you were on, ain’t no one allowed to do this to you. Do you hear me?” 

Dally pushed in front of Darry, kneeling down in front of Ponyboy before he could answer. 

“Hey,” Dally snapped his fingers a little in front of him, ignoring the warning look he got from Darry for doing it. “Who did this, Ponyboy? Tell me. Randy had any friends with him?” 

Ponyboy hesitates for just a moment, trying to remember but everything is so blurry. 

“I, uh—“ He wipes at his eyes wincing at the pain, everyone is still arguing behind them. “Paul? I think—some guys on the football team…Bob's friends.” 

Darry’s face goes real white for a moment, before a cold look crosses it and he turns away. 

He winces, the pain in his head pounding more aggressively than it had before. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to go for a run. He had a blade…I don’t have my switch, Dal.”

Ponyboy hoped that Dally wouldn’t be mad about that doc taking his switch a few weeks ago. 

“It’s fine kid,” Dally cuts him off, voice hard and angry. “Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, I’m gonna take care of this. You hear me?” 

Ponyboy nods sluggishly, and Dally quickly—almost as if he’s scared he’ll burn him—squeezes his shoulder and turns back around. 

Ponyboy’s head hurts so much —make it stop. 

As Dally turns back, the others’ voices fade into a blurry hum, and Pony’s vision darkens at the edges. The last thing he sees without a blurred vision is Darry’s hand gripping his, solid and steady, like an anchor against the pain. Behind the other pounding in his brain, he can hear Dallys sharp tone. 

“I’m calling Tim, he’s got someone who can find this asshole.” His anger is palpable, tight in every movement, every step he takes. It vibrates in the air, sharp and bitter, bouncing off the walls like it has nowhere else to go.

But the others are just as wound up. Sodapop is walking back and forth, his hands rubbing over his face in agitation. 

“How long?” His voice cracks with frustration, the weight of it settling in his shoulders, his brother could never sit still for long. 

“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll know,” He already had the phone in his hands, dialing the number fast. 

Darry’s silence is heavy. 

He watches his brothers, his friends, his face a mask of tension, the pressure of command sitting on his shoulders. Then, with an exhale that barely breaks the stillness, he speaks, voice steady, though his jaw is clenched tight. “We’re not doing anything stupid. I’m not letting anyone go running off half-cocked.”

Dally shoots something back, sharp and angry but to Ponyboy it starts to sound all muffled.  

The argument continues, louder now, the sharpness of each voice escalating. The chaos is too much. Too loud. Too fast.

Ponyboy, lying on the couch, feels each word like a hammer to his skull. His head throbs with a relentless pain, each shout, each harsh word making the ache worse. It feels like the room is spinning, like the walls are closing in, and no matter how hard he tries to focus, it’s all too blurry. He pushes the pillow over his face, trying to block it out, trying to make the world stop for just a second.

But it doesn’t stop. 

The noise keeps crashing against him, getting louder, faster. His pulse races, his chest tightens, and his breath is shallow, like he can’t catch it fast enough. His fingers curl into the fabric of the pillow, clutching at it like it’s the only thing holding him together. His body shakes with the effort to hold it all in, but it’s too much.

Through the noise, he hears a quieter voice, softer than the rest. Johnny’s voice. He’s there— he’s always there even when he didn’t have to be. His presence is steady, calm. He’s kneeled beside the couch, his movements slow and deliberate, almost as if he’s trying to give Ponyboy space to breathe.

Johnny pulls the pillow up and away from his mouth, gently moving it so it’s just over his eyes to keep the migraine from hitting. 

Oh, he probably had a migraine that’s all. It’s fine. 

But why was his head still wet?

“Hey, it’s okay, Pony,” Johnny whispers, his voice a soft murmur in the chaos. “It’s just me, ok. Just breathe.”

Ponyboy’s breath hitches at the sound of his name, but he can’t seem to find the air to speak. His chest aches with every inhale, each breath jagged, sharp. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping the darkness behind his eyelids will drown out the pain in his head.

“Ponyboy…” Johnny’s voice comes again, soft but insistent. “You’re gonna be alright, I swear. But you gotta breathe, man.” 

Ponyboy tries, but it feels like there’s something stuck in his chest, a weight pressing down on him. He gasps for air, his head spinning, his throat closing up. 

“I—Johnny, I my head—” He stops, the words failing him as he feels the sobs building, the weight of everything pressing down on him all at once. “Something wrong , It hurts .” 

Their voices are so quiet in the comparison of the rest of the room, but all he can hear is Johnny. 

Johnny moves then, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off him, a steady presence. Slowly, carefully, he shifts so he’s sitting beside Ponyboy on the couch, his arm slipping around him with a gentle pull. The movement is hesitant at first, like Johnny’s not sure whether he should, like this is a moment of vulnerability neither of them is used to showing to anyone but each other. But then, slowly, Johnny pulls him into his chest, his arms tight around Ponyboy’s shoulders, his hand gently resting in his hair.

Ponyboy lets himself go, his face burying into Johnny’s shirt. The fabric is cool against his skin, but the warmth of Johnny’s body is all he can focus on. Johnny’s fingers weave through his hair, slow and soothing, each stroke grounding him, calming him. The steady rhythm of Johnny’s hand seems to crack something inside him, a dam he didn’t realize was there, holding back everything he’s been feeling. 

Quiet sobs start to escape, hitching in his chest, then spilling out, raw and unrestrained.

Why does everything hurt so much? 

Johnny’s arms tighten around him, pulling him even closer. He doesn’t say anything—just holds him, letting the tears come, letting Ponyboy break against him. His hand continues moving gently through Ponyboy’s hair, careful to avoid the open wound on the back.

For a moment, it’s like nothing else exists but this—a pause in the chaos.

It was a closeness most people didn’t expect from guys like them, but it had always been this way. Ponyboy was usually the one who’d reach out first. It had taken Johnny a long time to get used to touch, or at least touch that felt safe, but he never pulled away. On nights when sleep was impossible, they’d sit side by side in the lot, or Ponyboy would lie across Johnny’s lap. They didn’t do it often, especially not in front of the others. Guys like them weren’t supposed to show things like this.

But tonight, Johnny doesn’t hesitate as he pulled him close. 

His arm wrapped around him tight, and his hand finds its way into Ponyboy’s hair, each gentle movement soothing the ache in Ponyboy’s head. The warmth of Johnny’s chest is steady beneath him, grounding him, and he buries his face into Johnny’s shoulder, wanting to hide the tears that won’t stop. His head hurts so badly, and the gentleness of Johnny’s touch makes him want to let it all go, to sob until there’s nothing left. 

And Johnny doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. He just holds him, running his hand through Ponyboy’s hair in a rhythm that’s calm and reassuring. 

Gradually, Ponyboy’s tears begin to slow, his body melting into the steady rhythm of Johnny’s touch. The weight of the world still presses on him, but for the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t feel unbearable. For just a moment, it’s only Johnny and the soft, steady sound of his breathing.

The room is silent, the air thick with a tension that feels almost sacred. Dally’s fists are still clenched, but now his anger seems restrained, his expression tight as he watches the both of them. Sodapop, Steve, and Two-Bit exchange quick glances, varying degrees of intensity. Their expressions are softened, quiet with concern, but no one dares speak above a murmur, as if a single raised voice might shatter the fragile quiet.

No one says anything, watching and Ponyboy is glad—not for the first time—that Johnny didn’t leave him alone. 

—

Ponyboy and Johnny never argued. Not once, in all the years they’d known each other. The gang joked that one of them could punch the other, and the both would end up apologizing. They got each other in a way no one else did. They could sit together in silence, saying nothing, and still walk away feeling like they’d had the best conversation of their lives.

But now, something was different. Off. Since Ponyboy had come back from the hospital two weeks ago, Johnny hadn’t really been talking to him. It wasn’t outright avoidance—Johnny still hovered around, never far—but it was in the way he looked at Ponyboy, the way his gaze would flicker and then dart away like he couldn’t bring himself to hold eye contact.

The first day Ponyboy was released, they’d sat together in the back of Sodapop’s car while Darry drove quietly up front, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual. 

Johnny had been right beside him, so close their shoulders pressed together, neither of them saying a word. Ponyboy remembered that brief comfort, glad that Darry had thought to grab Dad’s old sweater for him to wear so he wouldn’t have to see the bandages on his arms. Since they’d left the hospital, Johnny hadn’t stopped touching him, a hand always resting against Ponyboy’s arm or shoulder, like he was afraid Ponyboy might disappear if he let go.

When they’d pulled up to the house, Darry must’ve told the others to clear out for a while; the place had been empty, quiet. Ponyboy had noticed the faint smell of cleaner and chlorine coming from the bathroom. Darry hadn’t let him shut any doors—every lock had been removed except the one on the front door. Ponyboy had felt his face heat up with embarrassment, an uneasy flush rising at the realization that someone had gone through the house and made these changes just for him.

Then, someone had accidentally let it slip that Two-Bit had scrubbed the bathroom floor clean. Ponyboy wondered how many of them had seen it—the mess he’d left behind, the blood on the floor that someone had to clean up. 

A dark thought flickered in his mind, cold and sharp: he should’ve just taken some pills. At least then he wouldn’t have put everyone through all of this. But he forced the thought down, pushing it away, even as it lingered in the back of his mind.

Later, he and Johnny had sat together on the couch, shoulders pressed together just like in the car. Ponyboy had a book open on his lap, but his eyes weren’t focused on the words; he was only staring at the page, trying to let the silence settle over him, wishing it would smooth out the rough edges inside. Johnny hadn’t brought it up. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t said a word about it, but there was something in the way he sat beside Ponyboy, stiff and tense, fingers gripping his knees until his knuckles went white.

Johnny glanced toward the kitchen where Darry was moving around, making dinner. His gaze flicked between Ponyboy and the doorway, lips pressed together, his jaw tight. The old easy comfort was gone, replaced by something sharper, heavier. Every so often, Johnny would take a quick, sidelong look at Ponyboy, and Pony could almost feel the weight of it—like Johnny was trying to figure him out, to see something he wasn’t saying.

Ponyboy shifted, uncomfortable under Johnny’s stare. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears.

Johnny’s head snapped up, surprised, and for a moment his expression softened, like he wasn’t expecting the question. But then, something steeled in his gaze, and he looked away, his mouth set in a line. He jerkily nodded, but it was clear he was lying.

Pony opened his mouth to call him on it, but Johnny’s gaze was back on him, sharp and almost—hurt? Johnny wasn’t one to get mad, but there was something simmering beneath his expression, something like anger and worry all tangled together.

They sat there in tense silence, the book lying forgotten on Ponyboy’s lap. Johnny’s hands fidgeted, his fingers twitching every few moments. He’d go to scratch his neck or run his hand through his hair, but then stop, clenching his fists tightly instead. Ponyboy noticed that Johnny kept his arms close to his body, almost protective, like he was holding himself together.

Darry came into the room, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and the tension lifted for a moment as he glanced at them both, a flicker of worry crossing his face. Johnny straightened up, his face tightening, but he didn’t look at Darry; his gaze stayed fixed on the floor, his shoulders tense.

Ponyboy swallowed, feeling the guilt simmering low in his chest, tightening around his throat. He could feel the unsaid things hanging between them—Johnny’s worry, his frustration, the quiet hurt that lingered in every look he gave Ponyboy. They’d never fought, but right now it felt like there was a wall between them, something thick and impenetrable, and neither of them knew how to break through it.

A few weeks later, he had asked again. 

The porch creaked beneath them, the only sound between them, filling up the tense silence. Inside, the gang’s laughter drifted out, muffled by the walls, a low, comforting rumble that felt a world away. For the first time in weeks, things felt normal in there—loud, easy, like nothing had changed. Out here, though, it was different. Quiet. Heavy.

Johnny shifted beside him, looking down at his hands, his knuckles tight and white. After a long moment, he finally looked up, just enough to study Ponyboy’s face with that familiar, worried frown. 

“Pony…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure where to start.

Ponyboy took a breath, forcing himself to ask, his voice coming out hoarse. “You okay?”

Johnny’s head jerked up, and he blinked, like he couldn’t believe Ponyboy was asking him that. “Me?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that?”

Ponyboy shrugged, managing a weak smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, the words slipping out automatically. 

As soon as he said them, he could see Johnny’s mouth tighten, his gaze dropping again. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, but Johnny just kept his eyes down, his hands fiddling with the frayed edge of his jeans.

After a long moment, Johnny spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“I dunno, man,” he murmured, sounding almost lost. “You just… you scared me, you know?” 

His voice wavered, a rare crack in Johnny’s calm, and he looked up, his eyes dark and steady, filled with a worry so deep it made Ponyboy’s chest ache. “You don’t get to do that, you know? Not you. Not… like that.”

Ponyboy looked down, the shame twisting inside him, heavy and raw. He didn’t have any words for Johnny—none that would make it better, anyway. All he could do was sit there, feeling the weight of his friend’s eyes on him, knowing how much he’d hurt him, even if he hadn’t meant to.

Johnny let out a sharp breath, his gaze narrowing. 

“I don’t know why you did that,” he started, voice tight, “After what happened with Bob I thought—“ 

Johnny swallowed hard, and Ponyboy couldn’t bring himself to look over. 

“We promised to have each other‘s backs, remember?” He whispered, and Ponyboy’s head shot up like a light whipping towards him. 

“I do,” He replied quickly, he can’t stand the thought that Johnny thought he couldn’t come to him because of this. “I wouldn’t ever leave you alone—“ 

“But you did.” His voice shook slightly, but he pushed on, words spilling out before he could stop them. “You say that stuff like I don’t care about what you did. Like it didn’t matter to me. Do you know how stupid that is? I can’t lose you. I think I’d die—”

Johnny closed his mouth, jaw, clenching, and Pponyboy felt caught off guard. He didn’t often hear his friend talk that much.

Ponyboy opened his mouth, but Johnny’s words hit him like a slap, and he closed it, caught off guard by the rare edge in his friend’s tone. Johnny’s eyes were dark and unyielding, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“I can’t lose you, I really can’t. ” Johnny’s voice was quiet, but it had a bite that Ponyboy wasn’t used to. “When Sodapop told me what happened, I thought you were—” He swallowed hard, the fire in his gaze flickering, but it was still there. 

“I don’t wanna feel like that again.” 

Ponyboy felt his throat tighten, guilt clawing up his chest. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know how to fix this, how to make Johnny believe him. But he couldn’t.

They sat in silence, the weight of things they weren’t saying thick between them. It felt like he owed Johnny something—an explanation, an apology—but he didn’t know how to start. The guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and cold, and he wanted to say he was sorry, to promise he wouldn’t do it again. But he knew it would just sound empty, and he couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Johnny more than he already had.

Just as he was about to try, to force something out, the porch door creaked open, and Darry stepped out, his eyes scanning the two of them. Inside, the noise had faded, and Ponyboy realized the gang must’ve been listening, waiting.

“Everything okay out here?” Darry’s voice was calm, steady, but his gaze was sharp, a quiet concern beneath the surface.

Johnny glanced up, giving a quick nod, his face shuttered, guarded again. Ponyboy scrubbed a hand over his eyes, forcing back the tears that were threatening to spill over.

Darry’s gaze lingered on both of them, reading the tension, the hurt. He nodded slightly, his expression softening, and let the door close behind him, the sounds of the gang picking up again inside, but quieter, more muted.

Johnny didn’t say anything, but he turned slightly, his eyes on the darkened street beyond them, his hands clenched tight. Ponyboy wanted to say something, to reach across the gap that felt wider than ever, but he couldn’t find the words. 

He wouldn’t tell Johnny, he couldn’t tell him, if he did, Johnny would know how horrible he had messed up. He won’t even blame Johnny if he never talked to him again when he realized how horrible of a person Ponyboy was. But, he was selfish and he couldn’t lose him so he shut his mouth. He wouldn’t say anything. 

Not ever. 

—

It's quiet for a long time, any hissing words are so soft that they can only be pushed out through clenched teeth. 

When Darry finally moves, he kneels down beside Ponyboy, his gaze steady and filled with something deep—something more than words could carry. He reaches out, resting a gentle hand on Ponyboy’s shoulder. 

"We’ll be back," he says, his voice barely a whisper, careful and measured, a tone that won’t make Ponyboy flinch. “Johnny?” 

“I’ll stay, I got him,” Johnny's voice sounds hard too, almost like he’s angry and Ponyboy hopes he’s not mad at him. 

Ponyboy opens his mouth, wanting to ask where they’re going, but Darry just gives a slight shake of his head. There’s a quiet promise in his eyes, something that tells Ponyboy he doesn’t need to worry. Darry’s hand lingers a moment longer before he stands, a shadow of worry still tracing his face as he heads toward the door, the others trailing after him without a word.

As the door closes softly behind them, Johnny releases a long, steady breath. He shifts slightly, his fingers leaving Ponyboy’s hair, but his expression has changed—hardened somehow, a quiet intensity simmering beneath the surface. He picks up the cloth and medicine they’d left behind and finishes cleaning up the last of Ponyboy’s scrapes, his movements deliberate, almost tense.

Ponyboy catches the flicker of anger in Johnny’s eyes and feels a pang of guilt rise up, his voice coming out rough and tentative. 

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” His words are almost swallowed by the quiet of the room. 

Johnny pauses, his gaze cutting to Ponyboy, a glint of surprise softening his expression just slightly. He lets out a sigh, shaking his head before placing a gentle hand on Ponyboy’s shoulder. 

“I wish you’d stop apologizing, man” he mutters, his voice gruff but steady, as though he’s holding something back. He doesn’t wait for a response, just gives him a gentle push to settle him into the couch. “Lay down, Pone.” 

Then, Johnny sinks down beside him, lying opposite on the worn cushions, one hand resting under his head as he stares up at the ceiling, his brow furrowed. The two of them lie there in silence, the quiet settling over them like a blanket, grounding them both in a moment that feels as heavy as it does safe.

Ponyboy lay on the couch, his body stretched out opposite Johnny’s. Their heads rested near each other, close enough that they could talk without raising their voices, but their bodies were sprawled in opposite directions. Johnny had stayed back with him while the rest of the gang was gone. Pony didn’t have the energy to move, let alone talk much, but there was something about Johnny’s quiet presence that made it easier to just… be.

The silence lingered between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled softly, like a blanket draped over the room. Ponyboy traced the cracks in the ceiling, his thoughts wandering from the rumble to the gang, to everything that had been weighing on him.

“You ever look up at the stars, Johnnycake?” Ponyboy’s voice was soft, like he was speaking to himself more than Johnny.

Johnny glanced at him, frowning slightly. “The stars?” He shifted, unsure if he’d heard right.

“Yeah. Like… don’t you ever think about how small we are? Next to all that?” Ponyboy’s eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, his voice almost distant, like the words didn’t quite belong to him.

Johnny shrugged, his gaze following Ponyboy’s to the ceiling. “I guess. Never thought about it much.”

Ponyboy let out a faint laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I do. All the time. It’s kinda dumb, right?”

Johnny shook his head slowly. “Nah, that ain’t dumb, Pone. Nothin’ you do ever is.” 

Ponyboy smiled just a little at the compliment as the silence settled again. Ponyboy’s fingers tapped against the edge of the couch as he tried to sort through the jumbled thoughts in his head.

“Sometimes I think if I could just… get up there. Somewhere far from here, you know?” His voice dropped, almost like he didn’t mean for Johnny to hear the next part. “Maybe then I wouldn’t have to feel like this all the time. Like I’m not doing anything that matters, like… none of it really counts.”

Johnny shifted closer, his expression concerned. “Yeah?”

“ It’s like… I’m not really here. Like I’m watching everything happen from far away, but I’m not part of it. Just shadows and shapes, moving around me, just outta reach.”

Johnny’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Pone… what are you talking about?” His voice was soft, careful, like he was scared to push too hard but couldn’t ignore the crack in Ponyboy’s words.

Ponyboy chuckled, but it was hollow. “It’s okay. I don’t really get it either.”

“Maybe try to explain it?” Johnny’s voice was soft, his hand hovering like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he should. “For me?”

For the first time, Ponyboy felt a pull to finally put it into words. 

“After they died… Mom and Dad, I mean… it’s like everything fell apart. Like there wasn’t anything holding me together anymore.” His voice trembled, almost like he was afraid to keep going. “And then after everything with Bob… it just got worse. It never got better, Johnny. Not like everyone said it would.”

He glanced away, guilt shadowing his features. 

“I tried, you know. I tried to do everything right—to not let Darry or Soda down. But I always felt like I was just… messing things up worse.” He let out a shaky breath. “Every time I failed, it was everything got further away. I didn’t want them to know… didn’t want them to see that I was messin’ up, so I kept it to myself. Kept trying to fix it on my own, but it just got worse.”

“Soda dropped out to help us, and Darry… he had to give up everything he ever wanted. For me.” His voice cracked, heavy with guilt that seemed to seep into every word. “They grew up, got better, moved on. But me? I just… I fell apart. I made everything worse for them. For everyone.”

Johnny shook his head quickly, his voice steady despite the tightness in his throat. “Pone, that ain’t true. None of it.”

“Nothing I could do made it better. I tried to get good grades, listen to Darry, not get into any trouble but it’s not enough. Nothing I can do can fix it—I ruined everyone’s lives, I really did.” 

“Ponyboy—“ Johnny sounded almost hurt, his eyes wide but Ponyboy shook his head, blinking rapidly. 

“I thought maybe if I tried harder, it’d go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.” He whispered, cutting off Johnny before he could say anything. “I couldn’t do anything right ever, especially after we…after Bob and everything. Eventually, I didn’t want to do anything, every time I tried to do homework or even just go out it felt like I couldn’t move my body.” 

“And then I started having nightmares again.” His voice turned almost inaudible. “Sometimes I’d forget if I was awake or still stuck in ‘em. I’d think I was, but it didn’t feel real. Everything just became this… blur, like I was in a dream I couldn’t wake up from.”

“I thought…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I tried to just stop, I guess? Like I thought if I could stop trying, the pain of it all would go away at least. I tried to just go through the motions, but then nothing felt real. You ever felt that? Like nothing around you is real?” 

Johnny’s breath hitched, but he stayed quiet, listening intently, his gaze never leaving Ponyboy.

“It makes you feel like you’re going crazy, I was doing the same things I’ve always done but it was like I was looking through a window. I wasn’t ever really there and I started wondering if I was still dreaming—maybe I never woke up.” 

He took in a shaky breath. “It scared the shit outta me.” 

“I don’t know, Johnny.” Ponyboy’s voice cracked, his hands clenching into fists. “Everything I saw was like… shapes. Shadows. Like I was there, but not. Everything felt wrong, like I was dreaming and just couldn’t wake up.” 

He swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like glass. “I thought maybe if I could just… stop it all—like really stop it—then maybe I’d wake up. Maybe it’d feel real again.”

Johnny’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around Ponyboy’s hand like he was trying to anchor him. 

“ Ponyboy ,” he whispered, his voice raw with pain he couldn’t hide. “I didn’t—“ 

He broke off, his hand clenching tightly on the couch cushion. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he could continue.

He went quiet, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. If he stopped talking now, would he ever talk again? He wasn’t sure he could ever push out these words again, even though it felt like glass, scraping along his trachea, tearing holes and ripping so blood pushed out instead of real words. 

He thought he might stain Johnny if he kept going, but then swallowed hard and pushed it out again. 

“I just wanted to make it stop.” Ponyboy’s voice was barely more than a whisper now. “And for a second, when everything started to fade… it did. It felt like I was awake, that pain—it felt real, you dig? And sometimes—it scares me because sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel that again. Like, what if this is it?” 

Johnny’s breath came out shaky, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough and full of hurt. “Pony… why didn’t you tell me?”

Ponyboy gave a small, hollow laugh. “How could I? You’ve got your own stuff goin’ on. I didn’t wanna make it worse. And you—you never let it show like I do. You’re tough, Johnny. You always have been.” He paused, feeling the tears start to burn behind his eyes. “I didn’t wanna be weak.”

Johnny shook his head, his voice barely holding together. “You ain’t weak, man. Not ever.”

Ponyboy shook his head, his voice filled with a quiet desperation. “I don’t know if I’m here, Johnny. I feel like… I’m somewhere else, all the time. Like I’m watchin’ everything happen, but I’m not really a part of it. Like I’m floatin’ above it all, and no one can reach me.”

“It’s all just….” He whispers, head still softly pounding behind the pain. “Shapes.” 

Johnny’s heart ached at the sound of his friend’s words, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to make it better. All he knew was that Ponyboy wasn’t alone, even if it felt like he was.

“You don’t gotta deal with this by yourself,” Johnny told him quietly, voice so sincere and choked. “I mean it man. You got all of us—the whole gang, we’re here.” 

Ponyboy swallowed, his voice trembling. “I used to think, maybe it’d be better if I were with mom and dad. Everything was fine, before they died. And I just—I missed…I—“

Johnny felt tears building in his eyes and blinked them back hard. 

“When they died,” Ponyboy said softly, his voice trembling, “it was like everything I had for them—love, feelings—just left me. And all that was left behind was this huge, empty hole inside me. I’ve tried, Johnny, but I can’t fill it. No matter what I do, it’s still there. It’s always there.”

He stopped, feeling Johnny go very still beside him. The silence hung between them, heavy and thick.

“I can’t fill it,” Ponyboy whispered, as if admitting it for the first time.

Johnny’s grip tightened around his hand, his voice quiet but fierce. “Let me,” he whispered, so soft it almost wasn’t there. “Let me fill it.”

Ponyboy’s breath caught in his throat. That horrible, aching sob threatened to break free from his chest, but he swallowed it down. Ponyboy didn’t move at first, but when Johnny’s hand tightened around his, he finally let himself give in, pressing his forehead to Johnny’s. Their hands gripped together like a lifeline, and for a moment, the pain in his chest eased just a little.

Ponyboy exhaled shakily, the weight of his confession easing, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “ I…I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Johnny’s voice cracked, but he held steady. “You hear me? Don't ever be with me.”

They stayed like that, the hum of the TV a distant sound in the background, their hands still gripping each other’s. A faint buzzing came from the flickering TV, its static barely registering anymore. The images on the screen shifted without purpose, but neither of them cared to change the channel or turn it off. It was just background noise now, a distraction that couldn’t compete with the intensity of the moment between them.

Johnny’s breath was slow and steady beside him, but his grip on Ponyboy’s hand remained firm, grounding him in the here and now. The silence that hung between them wasn’t empty, though—it was filled with unspoken fears, quiet reassurances.

The room felt small, but it didn’t scare him anymore and he didn’t make him feel like he was choking. They had each other, even when everything else seemed to be slipping away. And for now, that was enough.

After a while, Johnny shifted. He let out a soft laugh and whispered, “Hey, Pone?”

Ponyboy turned his head, just enough to meet Johnny’s eyes.

“Happy birthday.”

12:15 AM, July 22, 1968. 

Ponyboy Curtis had made it to 18.  

Chapter Text

July 25th, 1967

For the rest of his life, Darrel Curtis Jr. would never forget the sight of his baby brother on that bathroom floor.

The memory burned into him, searing itself into the core of who he was: Ponyboy's face, ashen and nearly lifeless, almost blending with the pale tile beneath him. Blood—too much blood—spread in uneven pools across the floor and streaked the porcelain sink in stark, accusing lines. His chest barely moved, his breaths so faint they might as well not have been there at all. His lips were a sickly, unnatural blue, and his hand, limp and streaked with crimson, looked smaller than it ever had.

A chill crept through Darry’s veins, freezing him in place for a moment too long. 

He knew he should move—had to move—but his legs felt locked, his body refusing to obey as the horror sank in. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real. Yet the sharp metallic scent of blood cut through his shock, along with the gut-wrenching sound of Sodapop’s scream—a sound so raw it wasn’t even a scream anymore. It was broken, cracked, the kind of noise someone made when their heart was shattering in front of them.

Soda was on the floor, crouched beside Ponyboy, his hands trembling as he tried to touch him but couldn’t figure out where to start—what to do. 

“No,” he choked, his voice strangled and high-pitched. “Oh God, please!” 

Tears streamed down his face as he reached out, gripping Pony’s arm trying to stop the blood from pouring out.

That sound—Soda’s wail—it pierced through Darry’s frozen state, breaking whatever was holding him back. He dropped to his knees beside them, his hands hovering for a second before settling under Ponyboy’s body, lifting his little brother off the cold tile. He was too light. He felt wrong in Darry’s arms, limp like a rag doll. A thousand thoughts raced through his head—too fast to hold on to any of them. He was running on instinct, his chest heaving with shallow breaths as panic clawed its way through him.

“Get the truck ready,” Darry barely managed, his voice shaking as he tried to keep control. “Soda, please!”

But Soda didn’t. He couldn’t. He was staring at Ponyboy purely frozen—of all things, this never crossed Darry’s mind. 

He’d had nightmares about his brothers, about horrible things happening that he couldn’t stop. Car crashes, gun shots, fires, anything but this—if he had, maybe he could have stopped it. 

Darry’s hands tightened around Pony’s fragile frame as he forced himself to keep going, keep moving, because if he didn’t—if he stopped for even a second—he wouldn’t be able to hold it together.

His hands shook as he pulled Ponyboy from the floor, his weight frighteningly light, and cradled him close despite the blood soaking his shirt. Every step out to the truck felt like it took hours. 

Sodapop followed on trembling legs, his face twisted with panic, his tear-streaked cheeks flushed as he kept murmuring, “Don’t do this. Please, please don’t.” 

Darry had to all but wrestle Sodapop into the passenger seat, one arm still clinging to Ponyboy. 

“Take him!” Darry shouted, his voice thick and strained, barely recognizable even to himself. 

Sodapop obeyed without question, his trembling hands clutching Ponyboy as if his touch alone could hold him together. Darry threw a towel into the backseat, and Sodapop tried to stop crying while he held it to Ponyboy’s wrists which were still sluggishly bleeding. 

Darry hated himself for being so relieved when Ponyboy made a small sound of pain at the touch. 

Because at least if he was in pain, he was still alive. 

The drive to the hospital was a blur of chaos. Darry’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his vision clouded with tears that he blinked away furiously, over and over again. He could barely see the road. He sobbed, choking on it, muttering prayers he hadn’t said since he was a kid. 

“Please, God, please,” he begged hoarsely, his voice breaking. “Don’t take him. Don’t you dare take him.”

Sodapop’s choked sobs filled the truck, raw and unending, cutting through Darry’s frantic thoughts like a knife. It wasn’t just crying—it was the sound of someone breaking, their heart being ripped from them in real-time. Every now and then, a desperate word or plea would punctuate the noise, but mostly it was just that guttural, helpless scream that he heard when their parents died.

Darry glanced over at them as they approached the hospital, the sight only making it worse. Sodapop had buried his face against Ponyboy’s blood-matted hair, tears soaking into the mess of it. 

“I’ve got you,” Soda kept whispering, over and over, like a chant. His voice cracked as he continued, “It’s ok, it’s gonna be ok.”

He forced his face back to the road, shaking as he did so. 

The tires screeched as Darry pulled into the emergency bay, slamming on the brakes so hard the truck lurched forward. Nurses rushed to the door as Darry practically tore it open, yelling for help. His arms moved on instinct, lifting Ponyboy again, though his own strength felt like it was failing. 

“He’s not breathing!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “He’s not—please, do something!”

The rest was a haze—shouting, rapid-fire questions he couldn’t answer, and the awful sensation of people pulling Ponyboy from his arms. Darry didn’t know what he said, if he said anything at all, but the sterile smell of the hospital hit him like a wall, turning his stomach. Voices blurred together, orders being barked in the chaos, but none of it mattered. None of it broke through the image burned into his mind: Ponyboy on that bathroom floor, pale and motionless, Sodapop’s screams filling the house.

Now, he sat in a waiting room that was too quiet, though his head was anything but. 

His knee bounced uncontrollably, the tension in his chest rising with every second that ticked by. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap coffee, and the fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, adding to the oppressive stillness. Chairs lined the walls, too stiff to be comfortable, and a few crumpled magazines sat abandoned on a side table. The clock on the wall seemed to mock him with its steady, deliberate pace.

Sodapop was next to him, curled in on himself. 

He was trembling, his face buried in his hands as quiet sobs wracked his body. His blond hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, and his shirt was streaked with blood—Ponyboy’s blood. Darry looked down at his own hands and saw the same thing, dried crimson smudges across his palms and under his nails. He’d rubbed them on his shirt earlier, but it hadn’t come off completely. 

He wasn’t sure it ever would.

Soda’s breath hitched, another broken sound that cut through Darry’s spinning thoughts. He reached out and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, grounding himself in the motion. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice rough and tired. “You’ve gotta take it easy, Soda. He’s gonna be okay.”

But he didn’t know that. None of them did.

Before Soda could respond, a nurse approached them, her face calm but her eyes tinged with sympathy. 

“Can I get you boys a change of clothes?” she asked gently, her gaze flicking to the bloodstains on their shirts.

Sodapop stiffened at her words, his head snapping up as anger filled his eyes. 

“I don’t care about clothes,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just—I just want to see him. I need to know he’s okay.”

The nurse crouched slightly to meet his eyes, her voice kind but firm. 

“They’re doing everything they can for him right now. I promise someone will come let you know as soon as there’s any news. But you’ve been through a lot tonight, and a clean shirt might help you feel a little better. Let me help, okay?”

Soda shook his head violently, his hands clutching the hem of his shirt as if letting go of it meant letting go of Ponyboy. “No, I can’t—I can’t leave,” he stammered.

Darry stepped in, his voice low and steady despite the tremor underneath. “Soda,” he said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “Go with her. Just for a minute. I’ll wait here. I won’t go anywhere, okay?”

Soda’s head whipped toward him, his tear-streaked face filled with panic. “No! What if something happens, Darry? What if they come out and I’m not here?”

“They’ll tell me,” Darry reassured him, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. “I’ll call you back right away. You need to breathe, Soda. Please. Just trust me.”

It took a moment, but Soda finally nodded, his movements shaky and reluctant. The nurse extended her hand, and after a brief hesitation, Soda took it, letting her lead him down the hall. He glanced back at Darry over his shoulder, his eyes wide and full of fear, and it broke something in Darry’s chest to see him like that.

When they were gone, the silence in the waiting room felt deafening. Darry leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His whole body ached, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of guilt, fear, and helplessness crushing him. He tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just sat there, gripping the edge of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white, and stared at the door, willing it to open with news. 

He tried to take in a deep breath and found that it caught almost immediately. 

He collapsed back into the chair, his face crumpling as the sobs he’d been holding in tore through him. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it was no use. The feeling of everything crashed over him: the sight of blood on the floor, Soda’s screams, and the awful, gnawing uncertainty of whether his baby brother was even still alive.

He shook as the sobs came harder, burying his face in his hands as if he could hide from the crushing pain. He hadn’t cried like this since their parents died, and even then, he hadn’t let himself break down until after the funeral. He had to be strong for his brothers, for the gang, for everyone. But here, in the sterile emptiness of the hospital waiting room, there was no one left to hold it together for—no one except himself.

Except, that wasn’t true.

The thought struck him like a lightning bolt, his tears freezing mid-breath. The gang. None of them knew what had happened. None of them knew Ponyboy was here, barely clinging to life, and if...if the worst happened, they’d never get the chance to see him again. Johnny especially would be crushed, he couldn’t let that happen. 

Darry wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, his chest heaving as he forced himself to breathe. He couldn’t sit here and fall apart, not now. If something happened to Ponyboy, he’d never forgive himself for not letting the gang know.

His legs felt like lead as he pushed himself to his feet, unsteady and shaking. His eyes flicked to the hallway where Soda had disappeared, a pang of guilt twisting in his gut, but he couldn’t wait. Not for this. He stumbled toward the payphone on the wall, digging in his pocket for change with trembling hands.

The first call had to be to Two-Bit. 

He’d know how to get ahold of the others faster than anyone else. Darry fumbled the coins into the slot and punched in the number, each movement feeling slower than it should have been. The phone rang once, twice, before the familiar voice on the other end broke through the silence.

“Yeah?” Two-Bit’s voice was groggy, like he’d been asleep, probably gone out drinking earlier. 

Darry waited as Two-Bit whispered something behind the phone, probably telling his mom who it was as she got back from a night shift. 

Darry swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he forced the words out. “Two-Bit...it’s Pony. Something happened. We’re at the hospital.”

The shift in Two-Bit’s tone was immediate, all traces of sleepiness gone. “What? Darry, what happened? He okay?”

“I don’t know,” Darry admitted, his voice breaking as fresh tears stung his eyes. “I don’t know if he’s gonna—But you—you gotta get the others. They need to come. Now.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then the sound of Two-Bit moving hurriedly. “I’m on it. Don’t you worry, Darry. We’ll be there.”

Darry hung up the phone, his hand lingering on the receiver as he leaned against the wall for support. He closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together. The gang would be here soon, and Soda would be back any minute. Sodapop came back about fifteen minutes later, looking utterly drained. His face was streaked with dried tears, and his movements were sluggish, like he didn’t have anything left in him. He sank into the chair next to Darry, his shoulders hunched and his eyes fixed on the floor. Darry could feel the weight of the silence between them, the heaviness of everything unsaid, as they sat there waiting.

Soda shifted after a moment, glancing at Darry like he was about to say something. But before he could get the words out, the sound of the doors opening down the hall caught both their attention. Darry’s head snapped up, and Sodapop bolted to his feet, his breath hitching as he saw Two-Bit and Steve rushing toward them.

Steve reached Sodapop first, his face tight with worry. 

The second Sodapop threw his arms around him, Steve caught him in a firm grip, holding him close as Soda buried his face in Steve’s shoulder. Darry could hear Steve murmuring something—low, soft reassurances—but it was too quiet to make out the words. Steve’s hand rested on the back of Soda’s head, holding him steady as Soda’s chest hitched with silent sobs.

Two-Bit, who’d been trailing slightly behind Steve, stepped forward and stopped in front of Darry, talking to him in that low, steady voice he used when he was trying to keep things calm. But Darry barely registered the words.

He was watching Steve when he finally looked up, his face went pale as a sheet. His eyes locked on Darry, and Darry froze under the weight of his expression—a mix of fear, shock, and something close to disbelief.

His ears buzzed, his thoughts scattered, and it wasn’t until Two-Bit’s voice sharpened slightly—"Darry? You hear me?"—that he blinked and turned his head.

“Huh?” he muttered, his voice distant and raw.

Two-Bit’s eyes widened, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Man, you’re still—"

Darry followed Two-Bit’s gaze and looked down, his stomach twisting as he saw what Two-Bit had seen. His shirt was still stained with blood—Ponyboy’s blood—smeared across the front and down his arms. It was dried in some places, still tacky in others, and the sight of it sent a sharp, nauseating jolt through him.

He choked down the bile rising in his throat, his fingers brushing over the crimson streaks like he could somehow rub them away. But they were as stubborn as the memory, clinging to him like a second skin.

“Darry…” Steve’s voice broke through, low and uncertain, as he stared at the blood with wide eyes. “What the hell happened?”

Sodapop didn’t answer. He just clung tighter to Steve, burying his face deeper into his shoulder as his shoulders shook.

Darry cleared his throat, his voice coming out hoarse and uneven. “I... I’ll explain when Dally and Johnny get here,” he said, the words stiff and mechanical. It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it was all he could manage without falling apart again.

He wasn’t sure he could even force the words out. 

Two-Bit hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but he must’ve seen the raw edge of desperation in Darry’s eyes, because he nodded instead. “Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ll wait.”

Darry swallowed hard, sitting back down and gripping the edge of his chair again. He couldn’t look at any of them—not at Two-Bit, not at Steve, and definitely not at the blood on his shirt. He felt the weight of their stares, the silent question hanging in the air, but he didn’t have an answer. Not one he could give them.

“Go clean up, Darry,” Two-Bit said softly after a long pause, holding out his shirt. Darry blinked at it, his mind slow to process the gesture. The shirt was too small—Two-Bit’s shirts always were—but it was clean, and that was all that mattered.

Darry nodded numbly and took it, his legs feeling shaky as he forced himself to stand. The hallway seemed longer than it should have been, every step echoing in his ears. When he reached the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent lights made him wince, and he avoided the mirror, not wanting to see himself like this.

He peeled off his bloodstained shirt, his hands trembling as he wadded it into the sink. The blood felt like it had soaked into his skin, no matter how hard he scrubbed his arms and chest. The water ran red for what felt like forever, swirling down the drain and leaving him cold and hollow.

When he finally pulled on Two-Bit’s shirt, it was snug and uncomfortable, but it was better than wearing that. Better than being reminded of what he couldn’t wash away.

Telling everyone what happened was even worse in a way. 

An hour later the waiting room felt too still, like it was holding its breath.

The doctor had come by a few minutes ago, telling him that his brother might make it through the night so long as no infection sets in. They’d given him Ponyboy’s chain that he always wore—the one with their dads dog tags and Mothers engagement ring. Sodapop had grasped into it and held it as he sat down into the chair once more. 

Darry sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his arm draped protectively over Sodapop’s shoulders. Soda had finally drifted off, his face pressed into Darry’s side, though his body occasionally twitched like he couldn’t quite escape the weight of the night. His breathing was uneven, catching every so often, as if even in sleep, his body refused to fully relax. Darry tightened his hold on him, the warmth of his brother’s weight grounding him, even as his own mind felt like it was fraying at the edges.

Steve and Two-Bit had left not long ago. 

Darry had asked them to head back to the house for some clothes and supplies, trying to keep them busy. Steve had looked pale, almost sickly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he’d supported a trembling Sodapop. Two-Bit had muttered something about needing air, but Darry hadn’t missed the way his face turned an alarming shade of green before he bolted toward the door.

The thought of them driving back made Darry uneasy—they’d both been shaken to their cores. Steve had barely said a word, his focus distant and his usual sharpness dulled to nothing. Two-Bit, the one who always found something to laugh about, hadn’t even cracked a joke as he left. Darry hoped for their sake they didn’t see too much of the scene that was left at the house.

Johnny was curled up in the corner, knees tucked tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them like he was trying to hold himself together. His head was down, his chin resting against his knees, and his hair cast a dark shadow over his face. Darry could see the faint tremble in his shoulders, the slight, stuttering rhythm of his breathing. He’d been so quiet, barely moving, as though making a sound might shatter the fragile calm of the room.

He’d been like that since Darry had told them all. When he said the words—those horrible, real words—Johnny had flinched like he’d been slapped and just stared ahead for a long while. 

Dally was planted in his usual corner by the door, but even he didn’t look like himself. He was sitting stiffly, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles were bone white. His eyes flicked from the floor to Johnny and then back to the door, his jaw working like he was chewing on words that wouldn’t come. He’d shifted position a dozen times since they’d gotten there, crossing and uncrossing his legs, slouching for a second before snapping back upright.

In contrast to Johnny, Dally had been the first to outright tell Darry he had it wrong and that Ponyboy hadn’t done that. But, eventually he’d just sat on the chair tugging at his hair while the rest of them spoke. 

Every so often, he would glance at Darry, his mouth pulling into a grimace like he was about to say something. But he never did.

A quiet sound broke the silence—a choked whimper, soft and barely audible. Darry’s eyes flicked toward Johnny, whose breath hitched as he let out another small, choked noise.

The reaction was immediate. 

Dally was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room in three quick strides and crouching in front of Johnny. His voice was low, but Darry could hear the strain in it. 

“Johnnycake, hey, look at me,” he said so low Darry could barely hear him, one of his hands was on Johnny's shoulder.

Johnny didn’t move. His head stayed down, and his arms tightened around his knees. His breaths came quicker, sharper, almost hiccuping.

“C’mon, kid,” Dally tried again, his tone softening slightly. “It’s alright, just breathe, yeah? You hear me?”

Darry watched as Dally’s hands finally settled on Johnny’s shoulders, his grip light but steady. He was trying—Darry could see that—but the fear etched into Johnny’s face didn’t waver. Instead, his whole body seemed to curl in on itself, like he was trying to disappear.

“Johnny,” Dally said again, sharper this time, his frustration creeping through despite himself. “You gotta snap out of it.”

But Johnny didn’t. His shaking grew worse, his breath catching in small, painful gasps.

“Johnny,” Darry called quietly, and Johnny wiped at his face hurriedly as if he should be embarrassed to cry in front of Darry before looking up. “Come ‘ere.” 

Dally reached for Johnny again, pulling him up gently but firmly. Johnny didn’t resist, though he stumbled slightly as Dally guided him over to Darry’s side.

Darry shifted, carefully sliding his arm from around Soda to make room. As soon as Johnny sat down, Darry pulled him close, his arm wrapping securely around his smaller frame. Johnny’s body tucked against Darry’s side, his trembling intensifying for a moment before it slowly began to ease.

“You’re alright,” Darry murmured, his hand resting gently on Johnny’s back. “I’ve got you.”

Johnny let out a shaky breath, wiping hard at his eyes that refused to stop dripping tears. 

Dally stood there for a moment, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, watching them with an unreadable expression. Then he turned sharply, retreating back to his chair by the wall. He sank down heavily, his head tipping back as he stared at the ceiling, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Why—“ Johnny choked out, trying to keep his voice soft behind the tears. “Why would he—“ 

“I don’t know,” Darry muttered, but another part of him whispered: My fault, my fault, my fault. “I don’t know.” 

Darry held the both of them, watching as Dally sank into the chair across from them with his head in his hands. 

It was all his fault.

—

July 25th, 1968

“I really do think this will help, Ponyboy,” The therapist— his new therapist—said, her voice calm and measured.

He appreciated that she used his name. The last one had insisted on calling him Mr. Curtis , which had made the whole process feel stiff and unnatural.

The woman sitting across from him had a kind face, her catlike eyes framed by square glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her curly hair was tucked neatly into a tight bun, but there was something gentle about the way she carried herself, something that didn’t make him want to immediately shut down. Normally, those sharp, watchful eyes would have put him on edge, but instead, they seemed soft. Approachable, even.

Still, he hadn’t told her much. Not as much as he probably should’ve or even wanted to. He kept the heavier stuff—the things he might have told Johnny—locked up tight. The words felt wrong coming out to anyone else.

So instead, he just nodded to her statement, his hands twisting the hem of his shirt in his lap. He wasn’t sure he believed any of this would actually help, but he was here. He was trying.

For them.

The therapist shifted slightly, her pen tapping softly against her notepad. “You mentioned earlier that you’ve been worried about your brothers and your friends,” she began, her tone even. “That you sometimes feel like you need to take care of them or make sure they’re okay.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his grip on his shirt tightened.

“That’s not unusual,” she continued, her voice warm but firm. “You care about them. It’s clear how much they mean to you. You said your brother drove you here?” 

“Mhm,” Ponyboy responded, he’d mainly talked about how this was his brother's idea and how the rest of the gang was doing. Almost like he couldn’t really think of anything to say about himself. 

“It sounds like he worries about you too,” She paused, giving him a moment before leaning forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. “You know, sometimes, when we carry that kind of worry, it can get to be a lot—especially when we don’t let others carry some of it with us.”

Ponyboy glanced down at the floor, his shoulders hunching slightly.

“I’d like you to try something before our next session,” she said gently. “It doesn’t have to be anything big, and it doesn’t have to happen all at once. But I want you to think about sharing a little more with them. Not everything, not if you’re not ready—but maybe just start talking to them about how you’re feeling.”

He frowned, his fingers still fidgeting. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I don’t want them worrying about me. They’ve got enough going on already.”

“That’s understandable,” she said, nodding. “But sometimes, when we let the people who care about us in, it helps them, too. Letting them know what’s on your mind might make them feel less alone. And when they feel better, maybe it’ll make things a little lighter for you, too.”

Ponyboy didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between them. But she didn’t push, didn’t fill the space with unnecessary words.

Finally, he nodded, though it was small and uncertain.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she added, her voice soft. “Just a little step. That’s all.”

The timer on her desk buzzed quietly, signaling the end of their session. She didn’t rush him, though, watching as he slowly got to his feet.

“Think about it,” she said as he made his way to the door. “And remember, it’s okay to take your time.”

Ponyboy nodded again, his hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment before he finally turned it.

“I’ll try,” he said quietly, almost to himself, as he stepped out into the hall.

—

“How was it?” Darry asked as he climbed into the truck, his voice even but clipped, like he wasn’t sure how to ask without pushing too hard.

Ponyboy kept his gaze out the window, fingers picking at a thread on his jeans. He could still hear the therapist’s voice: It’s okay to take small steps. You don’t have to say everything at once, just let them in a little at a time.

“It was...fine,” he said after a beat. He shifted in his seat, then added, “Better than last time.” The words felt heavy, like they didn’t belong to him, but at least they were honest.

Darry nodded, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “That’s good,” he said, his tone as casual as he could make it. “She seem alright?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good,” Darry repeated, glancing at Ponyboy quickly before turning back to the road.

They drove in silence for a while, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Ponyboy could feel Darry’s occasional glances, but he didn’t look over. He wasn’t ready for more questions—not yet.

For a while, the silence stretched, filled only by the soft hum of the engine. Ponyboy watched the buildings pass by, his head leaning against the cool window. Every so often, he felt Darry’s eyes flick toward him, quick and careful, like he was checking without wanting to make it obvious.

“When’s the next one?” Darry asked finally, his tone casual but a little too deliberate.

“Next week. Same time.”

“Alright.” Darry nodded again, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel before settling them back in place. “You want me to take you again?”

Ponyboy shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He paused, then added, “If you’re not busy.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Darry said firmly. “We’ll make it work.”

They fell quiet again, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time.

“Maybe we can grab something after,” Darry said after a few moments, his voice lighter. “Casey’s sound good?”

Ponyboy blinked at him, caught off guard by the suggestion. He hadn’t expected Darry to offer, but the way he said it was easy, almost offhanded, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Yeah,” Ponyboy said softly. He hesitated, then managed a small, almost hesitant smile. “That sounds good.”

Darry glanced over and caught the smile, his own lips twitching into something like relief. “Good,” he said simply.

They drove a little longer before Darry spoke again, his tone shifting into something more relaxed. “What’s the deal with you hogging all the hot water this morning?”

Ponyboy let out a quiet snort, shaking his head. “I wasn’t hogging it. I was just—”

“You were in there for twenty minutes,” Darry cut in, his voice teasing now.

“It wasn’t twenty,” Ponyboy protested, turning to face him for the first time since they’d gotten in the truck.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Darry smirked a little, and the sight of it caught Ponyboy off guard.

They slipped into an easier rhythm after that, trading quiet jabs back and forth. It wasn’t anything big—just little comments, nothing heavy—but it felt normal in a way Ponyboy hadn’t expected.

When they pulled into the driveway, Darry shut off the truck and sat back, his grip on the wheel easing as he looked at Ponyboy. His expression softened, unreadable but kind.

“I’m glad you went,” he said quietly, like he didn’t want to push but felt the need to say it anyway.

Ponyboy swallowed, his chest tightening at the words. He couldn’t figure out what to say, so he just nodded, slipping out of the truck before he let himself think too hard about it.

Darry followed, locking up behind them as they stepped inside. The house smelled faintly of soap and something sweet, but Ponyboy didn’t think much of it. He kicked off his shoes and wandered into the kitchen, intending to grab a Coke or something, but stopped short when he saw it.

Sitting in the center of the table was a birthday cake. It wasn’t fancy—just a plain chocolate one with white frosting, the kind you’d grab last minute from the store—but it still made him pause.

“What—” He turned, confusion written across his face, only to be met by Two-Bit’s arms wrapping around him and lifting him clean off the ground.

“Happy late birthday!” Two-Bit crowed, spinning him once before setting him down with a thud.

“What’re you—” Ponyboy started to ask, but the sound of the back door opening cut him off. The rest of the gang filed in one by one, grinning like they’d been waiting for this moment all day.

Sodapop was the first to reach him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Told you we didn’t forget,” he said, ruffling Ponyboy’s hair with a smile that was all warmth.

Dally leaned against the counter, smirking. “Don’t expect candles or nothin’. Be happy we didn’t stick sparklers in it.”

Johnny trailed in quietly, his hands shoved in his pockets, but he smiled at Ponyboy, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in that small, almost shy way of his.

Ponyboy blinked at them, his mind spinning. For days, he’d thought they wouldn’t celebrate at all—not after everything that happened last week.

He could still remember the way the gang had looked when they’d come back that night. Darry’s knuckles had been split and bruised, his shirt torn at the collar. Sodapop had blood smeared across his cheek that wasn’t his, and Two-Bit’s lip was swollen. They’d come in quietly, like they didn’t want to disturb him where he lay on the couch, with Johnny sitting close by, keeping watch. Darry had crouched beside him, brushing his hair back gently as Sodapop leaned over, his voice soft.

"Happy birthday, honey,” Sodapop had whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion.

They’d whispered it like it was a secret, something small but still important, even as they moved to clean up and patch each other up in silence. A day or two later, he’d heard Randy had skipped town, and rumors floated about a few socs being found in a ditch, courtesy of Tim Shepard’s gang. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want to know.

But now, standing here with a cake in front of him and all of them smiling, it was hard to process.

“You...didn’t have to do this,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost unsure.

His brothers looked a little guilty at first, like they had wanted to celebrate earlier but he wasn’t upset. 

“’Course we did,” Two-Bit said, already digging into the fridge for something to drink. “Think you’re too old for a birthday party, huh?”

Ponyboy scoffed a little, still smiling at the cake as he looked at them. 

“Don’t start getting mushy about it,” Dally warned, pointing a finger at him, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “Just eat the damn cake.”

Sodapop nudged him toward the table, where Darry was already cutting into the cake. “Darry made the one you like.”

“Superman wouldn’t let Sodapop even touch it,” Steve cut in, smirking as he dodged a shove from Sodapop. “Said he’d add too much sugar.” 

Ponyboy sat down slowly, glancing around at all of them. Johnny slid into the seat beside him, quiet but close, his knee brushing Ponyboy’s under the table.

For the first time in days, the tightness in Ponyboy’s chest loosened. He picked up a fork, letting Sodapop plop a plate in front of him.

“Thanks guys,” he said, his voice still soft, but this time it carried something lighter—gratitude, maybe even relief.

They didn’t make a big deal out of it. There weren’t balloons or decorations, just cake and soda and easy conversation that felt like it could’ve been any other night. But as Ponyboy glanced around the table, listening to Two-Bit argue with Dally about the size of his slice and Sodapop trying to keep the peace, he realized it was exactly what he needed.

Later, when everyone had moved into the living room, sprawled out across couches and chairs with the easy air of people who didn’t need to pretend for each other, Darry caught Ponyboy’s eye.

“You want your presents now?” he asked, a hint of something sly in his voice that made Ponyboy pause.

Sodapop and Steve exchanged a glance, grinning like they were in on a joke Ponyboy hadn’t caught yet.

Ponyboy frowned, shooting Darry a look. “I told you last month you didn’t have to—”

“Shut it,” Darry cut him off, though his tone was more teasing than harsh. “You knew I wasn’t gonna listen to that.”

Ponyboy huffed a laugh, shaking his head as Two-Bit reached under the couch and pulled out a lumpy package wrapped in newspaper. “Alright, me first,” he declared, shoving it into Ponyboy’s hands.

The gang watched as Ponyboy carefully tore at the paper, revealing a new copy of True Grit by Charles Portis. He stared at it for a moment, his chest tightening—that book had just come out and wasn’t exactly cheap. 

“You’ve been lookin’ at it every time we pass that bookstore,” Two-Bit said with a shrug, but his grin was soft. “Figured it was time you owned it.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, tracing his fingers over the cover. “Thanks, Two,” he muttered, his voice low but earnest.

Dally was next, tossing a small package wrapped in brown paper onto Ponyboy’s lap. “Go on, open it,” he urged, leaning back with a smug grin.

Inside was a sleek switchblade, the handle polished to a shine. Ponyboy’s eyes widened as he picked it up, flipping it open to feel the weight of it.

“Your old one got swiped, right?” Dally said casually, though there was something firm in his voice. “Figured you’d need another. Just…keep it on you this time.”

Ponyboy nodded, gripping it tightly. He flipped it around a bit, deciding not to ask whether it was swiped or not his friend.

Johnny hesitated before sliding a small, hand-made sketchbook across the table toward Ponyboy. It was simple but carefully made, it wasn’t nothing you could find in a store.

“It’s not much,” Johnny said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought maybe you’d like it.”

Ponyboy stared at it for a moment before looking up at Johnny. “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

Johnny gave him a soft smile back, as Ponyboy flipped through the pages of it. 

Darry leaned forward next, holding out a box that was far neater than the others. Ponyboy opened it carefully, and his breath hitched when he saw the brand-new track shoes inside.

His chest tightened as he ran his fingers over the smooth fabric, his vision blurring. “Darry, these must’ve cost—”

“Don’t,” Darry said firmly, his voice low but full of warmth. “You’re goin’ to college. You’re runnin’ track. You needed somethin’ that can keep up with you.”

Ponyboy blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes as tears filled them. He nodded, his voice caught in his throat as he whispered, “Thank you.”

The gang immediately jumped on him, Two-Bit loudly announcing, “Aw, look at you, cryin’ like you’re in some romance movie!”

“Shut up,” Ponyboy muttered, shoving Two-Bit in the shoulder. He couldn’t keep the small smile off his face, though. The teasing wasn’t mean—it felt like home.

Darry cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “Hey, Pony, I forgot to grab the mail earlier. Go run out and get it real quick, would ya?”

Ponyboy frowned. “You’re the one sittin’ closest to the door.”

“Don’t argue,” Darry said, though his tone was lighter than usual. “Just go.”

With a sigh, Ponyboy got up and headed for the door, muttering something about being treated like a delivery boy. He stepped outside, expecting the usual stack of bills and junk mail, but stopped short.

Parked at the curb was an old car. The paint was faded in spots, and there were a few dents along the side, but the chrome shone like it had been freshly polished.

Standing beside it were Sodapop and Steve, both leaning casually against the hood, their arms crossed. They looked like they’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“What—” Ponyboy started, his voice trailing off as his brain caught up with what he was seeing. “Is this…?”

Sodapop grinned, his face lighting up in that easy way of his. “It’s yours, little buddy.”

Steve smirked, thumbing at the car like it wasn’t a big deal. “We’ve been workin’ on it for months now. Engine’s solid, runs like a dream. She’s all yours.”

Ponyboy’s heart felt like it stopped for a second. His eyes darted between the car and his brother, disbelief written all over his face. “You’re jokin’. Right? You’re messin’ with me.”

“No joke,” Sodapop said, stepping forward and ruffling his hair like he always did when Ponyboy got flustered. “It’s all yours, kiddo. You deserve it.”

For a moment, Ponyboy couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He just stared at them, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name. And then, without thinking, he lunged forward, throwing his arms around Sodapop in a hug that knocked them both back a step.

Sodapop laughed, holding onto him. “Careful, don’t go dentin’ it already.”

Ponyboy pulled back just enough to look at him, his face flushed. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”

“You could start with thanks,” Steve said, but his grin was softer than usual, the kind that didn’t carry any sharp edges.

Ponyboy turned to him and, to Steve’s surprise, pulled him into a hug too. Steve stiffened for a second, then sighed and patted Ponyboy’s back awkwardly. “Alright, alright, don’t get all mushy on me.”

When Ponyboy let go, his eyes were wet, but the smile on his face was brighter than it had been in weeks. He turned back to the car, running a hand over the hood as if he was afraid it might disappear.

From the porch, the rest of the gang watched, grinning like they were in on the surprise.

“Bet he crashes it within a week,” Two-Bit called out, earning a smack from Johnny.

Ponyboy ignored them, his focus still on the car. Finally, he glanced back at Sodapop and Steve, his voice quiet but full of emotion. “Thank you. Both of you. I… I mean it.”

Sodapop threw an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the driver’s seat. “Alright, enough of that. Get in. Let’s see how she drives.”

—

Y’know,” Johnny muttered, his voice quiet but teasing as he leaned against Ponyboy’s shoulder, cigarette in hand, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone almost take out a mailbox.”

Ponyboy sat beside him on the porch steps, leaning back on his hands as he watched the gang in the yard. Two-Bit had the football now and was insisting he could toss it farther than Steve, though no one seemed to be paying much attention.

“Aw, shove it,” Ponyboy replied, shooting Johnny a sidelong glance as he pushed him off. 

Johnny smirked, his thin face lighting up with a rare bit of mischief. “No, really. I mean, I’ve seen bad driving before—”

“Johnny Cade,” Ponyboy interrupted, already starting to grin despite himself. “You better shut it before I—”

“But not that bad! Not even when on Two-Bit’s 21st birthday—” Johnny pressed on, ignoring him completely.

That did it. Ponyboy snorted, shaking his head as a laugh bubbled out of him. “You’re full of it, you know that!” he said, reaching over to give Johnny a shove.

Johnny stumbled back a step but didn’t lose his footing, grinning like a cat who’d caught a mouse. “I’m just sayin’, Pone. If you’re gonna drive—”

“Alright, alright!” Ponyboy shot back, laughing harder now as he shoved him again. “You’re about as funny as Two-Bit when he’s tryin’ to tell a joke!”

Johnny snickered, stumbling onto the porch railing for support. “Yeah, well, at least I ain’t almost takin’ out innocent mailboxes.”

They were laughing so hard now that Johnny nearly dropped his cigarette. Ponyboy couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this light.

“Yeah, yeah!” Ponyboy wheezed between laughs, shaking his head. “I get it—you’re hilarious.”

Johnny, doubled over now, managed to catch his breath just enough to say, “I’m just sayin’, i ain’t ever getting in a car with you again, man.” 

“Aw, shut up!” Ponyboy shot back, shoving him again, but his grin gave him away.

They went back and forth, playful jabs turning into laughter until Johnny finally flopped onto the porch, lying flat on his back. His quiet, raspy chuckles turned into full-blown laughter that filled the cool night air. Ponyboy sat down beside him, the tension in his chest easing as he let himself laugh too, really laugh, for the first time in what felt like forever.

In the yard, the gang kept tossing the football around, their movements slower now as they stole glances toward the porch. No one said a word about it, but every once in a while, the ball would hang in someone’s hands a beat too long, their eyes drawn back to the porch like a magnet.

Johnny and Ponyboy, oblivious to the attention, laid back against the worn wood, their laughter trailing into silence. They stared up at the sky, the kind of quiet settling over them that only they could share. Their shoulders pressed lightly together, heads laying down side by side like they’d been a few days ago. 

They never thought they’d see those two laugh like that again. Never thought they’d see them act like the kids they really were. 

As Ponyboy stared up at the sky, hand brushing against Johnny's shoulder, he thought of the words his therapist had said earlier: And remember, it’s okay to take your time.

At least nobody seemed to mind waiting for him. 

Chapter Text

August 5th, 1968

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” Darry said, stopping dead in the doorway. His eyes swept over the disaster that had once been Ponyboy’s room, his expression caught between shock and exasperation.

The floor was barely visible under the chaos. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, half-filled with books, clothes, and random knickknacks Ponyboy hadn’t touched in years. His bed was buried under a mess of loose papers, records, and more clothes. Even the desk was cluttered with pens, notebooks, and a lamp that looked like it had seen better days.

Near the closet, Sodapop poked his head up from behind a pile of boxes, grinning ear to ear like a kid caught in the middle of a prank. 

“Hey, Darry,” he said cheerfully. “Didn’t think you’d find this til Christmas!” He tossed a wrinkled sock over his shoulder for dramatic effect.

Darry pinched the bridge of his nose. “This ain’t funny, Soda. Looks like a tornado ripped through here.”

“Lay off,” Ponyboy shot back, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his loose flannel. It was already too hot to be doing this, but the clock was ticking. “I’m just tryin’ to make sure I’ve got everything.”

“Kiddo,” Darry said, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe, “you might have the whole house packed.”

Sodapop, still crouched by a box, snorted. “Bet he’s got half the garage in here too. What’d you do, pack the spare tire? Just in case you need it in New York?”

Ponyboy glared at him. “Ha, ha. Real funny.” He shoved a few stray books into a box and groaned as he tried to force the flaps shut. “I’m not coming back most weekends, you know. Gotta be ready.”

Soda raised his eyebrows, his grin softening just a little. “Yeah, we know, kid. But maybe don’t pack like you’re headin’ off to war.”

Darry stepped into the room, brushing past the mess to lift the lid on one of the boxes. He picked up a worn, dog-eared copy of Gone with The Wind and turned it over in his hands. “You takin’ this?”

“Yeah,” Ponyboy said, glancing over his shoulder. “Figured I might want somethin’ from home, y’know?”

It reminded him of Johnny, not that his friend wasn’t always a call away but it was still nice to have. 

Darry nodded and set the book back down. “Makes sense.”

Sodapop straightened up and clapped Ponyboy on the shoulder. “Well, if we’re packin’ up the whole house, I guess I’d better grab the fridge,” he teased.

“Would you quit it, Soda?” Ponyboy shoved him lightly, but there was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Darry shook his head, his stern expression melting into a fond smile. “You two are impossible.” He paused, glancing around the room again. “Let’s get this mess under control, though. You don’t want to head off to college missin’ half your stuff ‘cause it got lost in here somewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ponyboy muttered, turning back to the pile. But as Soda handed him another box, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. As chaotic as it was, it felt good.

He was excited—nervous, sure, but mostly excited. New York felt like a fresh start. A place where no one knew him as the kid who got jumped or the kid from the rumble. He couldn’t wait to start track, to push himself further than he thought he could go. He’d get to try new things beyond track too, have new friends— hopefully, maybe just get a chance to breathe for a second. 

But beneath the excitement, there was something else. A tug in his chest he didn’t want to think too much about. He glanced over at Darry, who was trying to sort through one of the boxes, muttering about how Ponyboy didn’t need to bring four jackets in the middle of summer. And then at Soda, who was still making jokes as he stacked a couple of books into another box.

The room felt smaller all of a sudden, the walls pressing in just a little.

His therapist’s words came back to him. They always did at moments like this. A week ago, when he’d mentioned to her how much better things would be for Darry and Soda once he was gone, she’d paused. Ponyboy could still see the way she’d leaned forward, folding her hands on her lap as she studied him carefully.

“And why do you think that, Ponyboy?” she’d asked, her voice even but firm.

He’d shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ve been takin’ care of me for so long, it’s just… it’d be easier, y’know? They could focus on their own lives. Darry could—could finally breathe a little, not have to worry about me. And Soda…” His voice had trailed off. “He could just be Soda.”

Her eyes softened, but there was an edge to her tone when she replied. “You think you’re a burden to them?”

Ponyboy had shifted uncomfortably in his seat, picking at the edge of his sleeve. “Not like that. I just mean…”

“You mean it’d be easier for them if you weren’t here,” she said bluntly, cutting through his fumbling. He’d winced at how harsh it sounded, but she didn’t let up. “Let me ask you something, Ponyboy. Everything you’ve told me about your brothers—how Darry works two jobs to keep you all together, how Soda’s always looking out for you—does that sound like they want you out of their lives?”

He’d tried to answer, but she held up a hand. “Let me put it this way. Have they ever said they wanted you gone?”

“No,” he’d admitted, his voice small.

“Then why do you think you know what’s best for them better than they do?”

He hadn’t had an answer for that, and he still didn’t.

Now, standing in the middle of the mess that was his room, he glanced back at his brothers. Soda had pulled a baseball glove out of one of the boxes and was tossing a ball up and down, grinning like he’d just struck gold. Darry rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him, too busy folding a sweatshirt he’d pulled from the bed.

Maybe the therapist had been right. But what if she was wrong?

Soda threw the ball lightly at Ponyboy, who caught it without thinking. “Hey, don’t get too serious on us, little buddy,” Soda teased. “College ain’t gonna be any fun if you spend the whole time mopin’.”

“I ain’t mopin’,” Ponyboy shot back, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” Darry said, his voice gruff but warm. “Now let’s get this disaster cleaned up before you end up forgettin’ something important. Like shoes.”

Ponyboy laughed, tossing the ball back to Soda. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

—

August 7th, 1968

Just breath.

The cold tile beneath Ponyboy’s legs did nothing to ground him. He sat hunched on the bathroom floor, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his body folding inward as if he could somehow disappear into himself. His head rested against his knees, hair damp from where his hands had been pulling at it.

The sink ran in the background, the water gushing steadily into the basin, but it didn’t help. If anything, the sound only added to the chaos, merging with the pounding in his chest and the roar in his ears. It was suffocating.

Breathe. Just breathe. But the air wouldn’t come. It caught somewhere in his chest, burning and tight, his lungs refusing to cooperate. His fingers dug into his hair again, his grip so tight it stung, but it didn’t matter. Nothing he did could stop the spiral.

His thoughts raced, chaotic and cruel.

‘Just stop, just calm down, god just relax—‘ 

He shook his head sharply, as if that would stop the flood of negativity, but the weight in his chest only grew heavier.

Flashes of everything he hadn’t done and everything he’d failed at darted through his mind—assignments he’d barely turned in on time, the things he said he’d fix but hadn’t. The way Darry had looked at him this morning, worried but too tired to say anything.

His vision blurred, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the sting in his eyes or the tightness in his throat. Time felt strange, slippery. How long had he been sitting here? Seconds? Minutes? Longer? He didn’t know.

“Ponyboy?”

The voice was faint, distant over the rushing water and his pounding heartbeat. For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it.

“Ponyboy, man you here?” 

Closer this time. Softer. Familiar.

Johnny.

He blinked, the voice pulling him back just enough to notice the edges of the present. The bathroom tiles. The sink still running. The muffled sound of footsteps outside the door.

He was supposed to go to the movies. They’d planned it yesterday—Johnny had been excited about some horror flick, and Ponyboy had promised he’d be ready.

Panic hit him in a new wave. He’d forgotten.

Forcing himself to move, he straightened slightly, wiping at his face with shaky hands. His limbs felt heavy, leaden. His voice cracked as he called out, “I—I’ll be out in a sec. Just need a minute to get ready.”

The words sounded wrong, like they weren’t even his. He stopped mid-sentence, the breath catching in his throat again. His breathing hitched, and he gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead back against his knees as his chest tightened painfully.

“The things you’ve described—feeling like you’re out of control, or when your thoughts race and you can’t slow them down—those sound like signs of anxiety.”

He could hear the therapist’s voice in his head, steady and calm, like she was sitting across from him again.

Ponyboy had leaned back in his chair that day, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’d shrugged, trying to play it off. “I don’t know. No.”

She’d raised an eyebrow but hadn’t pushed. “Maybe. But does it ever feel like you can’t handle it? When your chest gets tight, or you feel like you’re stuck in your own head?”

He’d shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. “I mean… sometimes, I guess. But everyone gets like that.”

“Some people do,” she’d admitted. “But not everyone feels it as often or as strongly as you’ve described. Some people have a harder time with it. It doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you, Ponyboy.”

“Ponyboy?”

The voice pulled him back to the present, cutting through the haze in his mind. His hands were still trembling, his breath still uneven, but he pressed his palms flat against the cold tile, grounding himself as best he could.

In. One, two, three. He inhaled sharply through his nose, his chest tight with the effort. Out. One, two… It wasn’t perfect—his heart still hammered against his ribs—but it was enough to clear a sliver of the fog.

“Johnny?” he managed, his voice barely a whisper, raw and uneven like he’d been screaming instead of gasping for air.

“Yeah, it’s me,” came the soft reply from the other side of the bathroom door. “Can I come in?”

Ponyboy froze, the embarrassment hitting him all over again. His chest tightened in a new way, a hot, twisting pressure that made his stomach churn. God, even Johnny’s gonna see me like this. He wanted to tell him to go away, to give him a few more minutes to pull himself together.

But as he sat there, he realized he didn’t have the strength for it. His shoulders sagged, and he exhaled shakily.

“Yeah,” he whispered, so quietly he wasn’t sure Johnny would hear him. “Yeah, you can come in.”

The door creaked softly as Johnny opened it, stepping inside like he was afraid of startling him. He didn’t say anything at first, just crouched down beside Ponyboy and sat there, silent and steady.

Johnny didn’t look at him directly, either—just glanced briefly at Ponyboy’s hunched form before turning his eyes to the floor. The quiet was grounding in a way that words never could be, letting Ponyboy hold onto the fragile sense of calm he was clawing his way toward.

Ponyboy swiped at his face with the back of his hand, as if that could somehow erase the red in his eyes or the tears he couldn’t stop. He avoided Johnny’s gaze, staring hard at the pattern on the bathroom tile.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice thick and uneven. “I—I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” Johnny said gently. His tone was calm, steady, but not pitying—it was just Johnny. “Seriously, it’s all good.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his lip trembling. He wanted to argue, to tell Johnny he was fine, that he could handle it on his own. But he couldn’t make the words come out. Instead, he nodded quickly, squeezing his eyes shut against the new sting in them.

Johnny shifted beside him, leaning back slightly so he wasn’t crowding Ponyboy but wasn’t leaving, either. His presence stayed quiet, constant. He didn’t press for details, didn’t ask if Ponyboy was okay, didn’t push him to talk.

That, more than anything, made it easier to breathe. Inch by inch, the tightness in Ponyboy’s chest started to loosen. His hands relaxed from fists to open palms resting on his knees. The air came a little easier now, though his lungs still felt heavy.

Johnny gave him time, watching him carefully but never making him feel watched.

After a while, Ponyboy dared a glance at him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks,” he said, his throat still tight, but the words felt important to say.

Johnny just nodded, his own gaze soft. “You’re good, man.”

They sat there for a little while longer, the quiet stretching between them. It wasn’t heavy, just... still. A rare moment where everything didn’t need to be explained or solved. For once, Ponyboy didn’t feel like he had to apologize or fill the silence.

After a few beats, Johnny spoke, his voice as gentle as his presence. “You still up for the movies?”

Ponyboy hesitated, his chest tightening again—but this time, it wasn’t panic. It was the thought of sitting in a dark room with people, pretending he was fine when he felt so raw, so exposed.

No, his mind whispered. No, just stay home. Lay down, hide under the blankets, and don’t let anyone see you like this.

But when he opened his mouth, a different answer slipped out. “Mhm,” he murmured, not trusting himself to say more.

Johnny gave him a long look, like he could tell Ponyboy was lying but wasn’t about to call him out. Instead, he stood, brushing off his jeans, and held out a hand.

Ponyboy stared at it for a moment, then forced himself to move. His legs felt shaky as he pushed himself up, taking Johnny’s hand to steady himself. The grip was firm, anchoring, and for a second, he was grateful Johnny didn’t let go too quickly.

Once he was on his feet, he winced, his free hand instinctively pressing against his ribs. The bruises from the jumping still throbbed dully, a reminder of how badly things had spiraled that night.

Johnny noticed. His eyes darted down to where Ponyboy’s fingers curled against his side, then back up to his face. He didn’t say anything, but the crease in his brow deepened, the silent question hanging in the air.

“I’m fine,” Ponyboy said quickly, waving him off. His voice came out a little sharper than he meant, and he flinched at himself, softening his tone. “Really, Johnny. I’m okay.”

Johnny didn’t look convinced, but he let it slide, his expression easing as he gestured toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go before the good seats are taken.”

Later that day as they stepped outside of the theater, Ponyboy tried to shake off the lingering ache in his chest. 

Each step jarred Ponyboy's ribs slightly, the ache still lingering even a couple of weeks after the jumping. He had to grit his teeth to keep from wincing, but at least the worst of the bruises had faded. The cool evening air stung his skin, sharp and bracing, waking him up a little more.

They walked in silence for a bit, the only sound the crunch of their shoes against the pavement. It wasn’t awkward, just a quiet that neither of them felt the need to fill right away.

Eventually, Johnny glanced over at him, breaking the stillness. “Soda said you started packin’.”

Ponyboy shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “Yeah, got a lot I gotta put together still.”

Johnny’s lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “He also says he ain’t sure you’re gonna fit everything in the car.”

That earned him a small shove, and Ponyboy couldn’t help the faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It ain’t that much. They’re both full of it.”

Johnny snorted softly, but the quiet crept back in as they walked a little further. He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “You excited?”

The question caught Ponyboy off guard. He glanced down at his feet, watching the cracks in the sidewalk pass by. Excited? Sure, in a way. But it wasn’t that simple. His chest felt tight just thinking about it.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said finally, his voice noncommittal.

Johnny shot him a look, eyebrows pulling together. “...Want to talk about it?”

Ponyboy shrugged again, giving an answer that wasn’t really an answer. “Nothin’ to talk about.”

They kept walking, Johnny not pushing him right away. They started chatting idly about nothing in particular—some kid they’d seen trip over the curb earlier, or how long the line at the movie theater was long. They talked to about the apartment at Dally had fixed up for himself and Johnny, how it felt nice to be out of the house for once. He could tell it bothered Johnny, but not as much as I had when they first talked about it.

It was easy, even if Ponyboy’s mind kept wandering.

“I’ll miss you though,” Johnny mumbled, face almost flushed at the admission. 

“Aw, Johnnycake. I swear I’ll call every day, honest,” Ponyboy said, bumping his shoulder against Johnnys who gave him a soft smile. 

But then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out, quiet but sharp enough to cut through the air. “You might be the only one who will.”

Johnny’s head turned sharply at that, his brows furrowing. “What?”

Ponyboy shrugged again, but it felt heavier this time. “I’m just sayin’... Steve’ll be glad I’m not taggin’ along all the time, botherin’ Soda. The guys won’t have to worry about me always tagging along to everything. And Darry…” He trailed off, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. “Darry’ll be fine. He won’t have to work so much, y’know?.”

Johnny stopped walking, his quiet footsteps halting completely. Ponyboy noticed a second too late and turned back to face him. Johnny was giving him one of those looks—not harsh, but steady, like he was trying to figure out what was going on in Ponyboy’s head.

“That ain’t true,” Johnny said finally, his tone even but firm.

Ponyboy shrugged again, but he avoided Johnny’s eyes. 

“It is, though. Darry’s always stressed out tryin’ to keep food on the table. I can’t go out drinking with Two or party with Dal. Steve acts like I’m a pain, and Soda—” His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “Soda’s got enough to deal with without me hangin’ around all the time.”

Johnny sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stepped closer. “Pony, you really think that?”

Ponyboy didn’t answer, just looked down at the ground again and shrugged. 

“Look,” Johnny started, his voice softer now but still firm enough to hold Ponyboy’s attention. “Steve’s Steve. He gives everyone a hard time—don’t mean he don’t like havin’ you around. Dal and Two don’t need to party hang with you, you see me drinking with them ever? And Darry… yeah, he worries about you. But you know why, right? ’Cause he cares.”

Ponyboy opened his mouth to argue, but he felt bad saying anything when Johnny was talking more than he ever did.

“And Soda?” Johnny added. “Soda’d give just about anything to keep you close. You’re his little brother, Pony. You think him or Darry want you to go just so they can ‘be better off’? That ain’t how it works.”

Ponyboy shifted uncomfortably, his hands tightening into fists in his jacket pockets. “It just feels like… maybe they’ll be less stressed or somethin’ if I’m not around. I dunno.”

Johnny shook his head, his voice steady but not confrontational. “You’re thinkin’ too hard about it. They don’t want you gone, Ponyboy. They want you happy. And if you leavin’ helps you figure that out, then fine. But don’t go thinkin’ they don’t want you here. Don’t think I don’t want you here.” 

Ponyboy’s throat felt tight again, but this time, it wasn’t from panic. He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

Johnny gave him a small nudge, his expression softening. “C’mon. Let’s just get home, huh?”

They fell back into step, the silence between them returning—but it didn’t suffocate him.

It never did with Johnny. 

—

August 9th, 1968

“Y’know, kid, when I fixed that car for you, I figured you’d use it.”

Ponyboy huffed a laugh under his breath as the familiar sound of Steve’s car rumbled up beside him. He put his hands on his hips, sucking in deep breaths as his lungs burned, the cold air cutting at his throat.

“I’m just—” He paused, trying to catch his breath, then swallowed hard to clear his dry throat. “Out running.”

“No shit,” Steve shot back, leaning out the open driver’s side window to give him a once-over. His sharp gaze flicked from Ponyboy’s heaving chest to the sweat dampening his shirt. “Get in. I’ll drive you back.”

“I just want a few more—” Ponyboy started, but the hard look Steve gave him stopped him in his tracks.

“Get in,” Steve repeated firmly, jerking his thumb toward the passenger side. “And be lucky I ain’t gonna snitch to your big brother about you runnin’ in the first place.”

That was enough to get Ponyboy moving, albeit reluctantly. With a sharp exhale, he yanked open the car door and dropped into the seat, slamming it shut behind him. The upholstery felt cold against his back, and he slumped down, crossing his arms over his chest like a sulky kid.

Steve didn’t say anything at first, just threw the car back into gear and rolled forward at a casual pace. The tension in the car hung heavy, thickened by the low hum of the engine and the distant noise of cars passing on the main road.

“You know you ain’t supposed to be runnin’ yet,” Steve said finally, his tone clipped but not cruel.

Ponyboy scowled, staring out the window. “I’m fine.”

“Bull,” Steve shot back, one hand gripping the wheel while the other gestured vaguely at him. “You’re wheezin’ like you just ran a marathon, and you look like you’re about to keel over.”

“I said I’m fine,” Ponyboy repeated, sharper this time.

Steve let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Man, you’re a piece of work sometimes, you know that? What’re you tryin’ to do, get yourself benched for track season? Or, hell, end up in the hospital again?”

“I said I’m fine!” Ponyboy snapped, turning to glare at him. “Why do you care anyway? It’s not like it’s your problem.”

The words came out harsher than he intended, and the second they left his mouth, he felt a pang of guilt. Steve’s hands tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he stared straight ahead.

“Damn right it’s not my problem,” Steve said finally, his voice low and edged with something Ponyboy couldn’t quite place. “But it’ll be Darry’s, and Soda’s, and mine when they’re worryin’ about you killin’ yourself doin’ somethin’ stupid like this at college.” 

Ponyboy flinched, sinking lower in his seat. Steve glanced at him briefly, his sharp gaze softening just a little.

“Look,” Steve said, his tone shifting slightly. “I get it. You’re pissed off, you’re stir-crazy, you feel like you gotta do somethin’ or you’re gonna lose it. But there’s ways to handle that without runnin’ yourself into the ground.”

“Like what?” Ponyboy muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Steve snorted. “You’re askin’ the wrong guy, kid. My idea of blowin’ off steam usually gets me into more trouble than it’s worth.”

That earned him a small, reluctant smile from Ponyboy, and Steve smirked, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

“See? There’s somethin’. Crack a joke, read a book, write somethin’. Hell, yell at me if it helps. Just don’t go pullin’ this crap and makin’ me run all over Tulsa lookin’ for you, alright?”

Ponyboy didn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping to his hands clenched in his lap. The weight of Steve’s words settled in his chest, uncomfortable but impossible to ignore.

“...Sorry,” he mumbled eventually, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.

Steve shrugged, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Just don’t do it again. Or at least wait ‘til your lungs ain’t ready to give out on you.”

Ponyboy huffed a laugh under his breath, the sound dry and humorless but genuine all the same. “Yeah. Okay.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, but it wasn’t the tense, heavy quiet from earlier. It was easier now, the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled with words.

By the time they pulled up to the house, Ponyboy felt a little less like his chest was caving in—not from the running, but from everything else.

“Thanks,” he said quietly as he climbed out of the car.

Steve just nodded, stepping out of the car and giving him a light shove with one shoulder. 

“Whatever, y’all got any cake left?” 

—

August 10th, 1968

Ponyboy woke with a start, bolting upright in bed as his chest heaved, desperate to suck in air that wouldn’t come. His room was dark, the corners swallowing the faint light from the streetlamp outside. It was the kind of darkness that pressed against his skin, heavy and suffocating.

He pressed a hand to his ribs, feeling the phantom ache of the blows from weeks ago. It wasn’t real—not this time—but his mind hadn’t caught up yet.

The nightmare clung to him like smoke, vivid and cruel. The alleys were the same, the laughter too familiar, sharp and jeering. He swore he could still feel the cold pavement scraping his back as fists rained down, the helplessness as he struggled to move, to breathe.

Ponyboy tried to shake it off, pushing his hands through his damp hair. He wasn’t in that alley anymore. He was home, safe.

But no matter how many times he reminded himself, the fear lingered, wrapping around his chest and squeezing tight.

He lay back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin as if it could shield him. His eyes darted toward the empty space in the bed. Soda wasn’t there. He was out late with Steve, probably laughing and tearing up the streets like usual. Normally, Ponyboy would’ve found comfort in that thought, but right now, the quiet of the room felt unbearable.

He rolled onto his side, staring at the faint outlines of the dresser and window. Sleep wasn’t going to come, not with the way his heart was still hammering.

Ponyboy shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to calm down, to stop feeling like he was still lying in that alley. But it didn’t work. Every creak of the house, every distant sound from the street outside made his chest tighten further.

His mind whispered what he didn’t want to admit aloud: I want my brother.

He hated how much like a kid he felt at that moment, curled up in his bed and aching for the presence of someone else. But he couldn’t fight the pull, the way fear made him feel small and desperate for safety.

Before he could think too much about it, Ponyboy slid out of bed, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. His ribs protested as he moved, a faint reminder of the beating he’d taken, but he ignored it.

The hallway was dark and quiet, but he didn’t bother with the lights. He didn’t need them to find his way to Darry’s room.

Standing in the doorway, he hesitated. 

The door was cracked open, and he could see Darry lying on his side, his face peaceful in sleep. Ponyboy felt a pang of guilt—he didn’t want to wake him. Darry worked so hard, carrying the weight of the family on his shoulders. He didn’t deserve to lose sleep over his little brother’s stupid fears.

But then another wave of that suffocating panic hit, and Ponyboy’s feet moved before he could stop himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing until he was already in Darry’s room, the faint creak of the door breaking the stillness.

The room was dim, just the soft glow of the streetlight outside slipping through the curtains. Darry was on his side, his breathing deep and steady, the kind of sleep Ponyboy envied in that moment. He lingered in the doorway, hesitating, his hands gripping the frame like it might hold him steady.

He told himself to turn around. To suck it up and go back to bed. But his chest tightened again, the weight pressing so hard it felt like it would crush him, and before he knew it, he’d stepped inside.

Moving quietly, Ponyboy slipped onto the edge of the bed, trying not to make too much noise. He stayed there for a moment, perched awkwardly, as if sitting too close would wake Darry. But his hands were shaking, his ribs felt like they were locked in a vice, and the quiet of his own room had been unbearable.

Carefully, he shifted, lying down on his side and curling in on himself at the very edge of the mattress. He kept his breathing shallow, hoping Darry wouldn’t wake up and see him like this—like a scared little kid who couldn’t handle a nightmare.

The mattress shifted under him, and Ponyboy’s breath hitched when he heard Darry stir.

“Pony?” Darry’s voice was thick with sleep, barely more than a mumble. He shifted onto his back, blinking at him in the dim light. “What’re you doin’, kid?”

Ponyboy opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He didn’t know how to explain it without feeling foolish, so he just pressed his lips together and looked away.

Darry rubbed a hand over his face, his movements slow and groggy. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he sighed softly, turning toward Ponyboy. Without a word, he reached out and pulled him close, his arm draping over Ponyboy’s shoulders with a quiet ease.

The motion was so simple, so instinctive, it caught Ponyboy off guard. He froze for a moment, the tension in his body refusing to let go.

“It’s okay,” Darry muttered, his voice low and calm. “Just a dream, kid. You’re alright now.”

Ponyboy’s eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut, his breathing still uneven. But Darry didn’t press him. He didn’t ask for explanations or push for anything Ponyboy wasn’t ready to say. He just stayed there, solid and steady, his warmth chasing away some of the cold still clinging to Ponyboy’s skin.

The room was quiet again, save for the faint sound of Darry’s breathing and the muffled hum of a car passing outside. Ponyboy stared at the ceiling for a while, his thoughts swirling too fast to settle.

But eventually, the weight in his chest began to ease, and the panic ebbed enough for exhaustion to creep in. He sank deeper into the mattress, his head resting against Darry’s shoulder.

By the time sleep finally took him, Darry’s arm was still around him. 

—

August 15th, 1968

Ponyboy Curtis had always wanted a car. 

The moment he’d been able to he’d gotten a license from the shitty program at his high school, passing the drivers test had been easy because it was in a parking lot too. He knew he probably wouldn’t own a car until after college when he could afford some clunker in a junk yard. So he hadn’t bothered much to practice in the last two years since he’d received his license in the mail.

You know how people say “it’s like riding a bike! You’ll never forget how to do it.” 

Yeah, those people are liars. 

“Easy, easy, easy—“ Two-Bit says for about the 7th time that day as they take turns and park in the parking lot nearby the church. 

Ponyboy slammed on the brakes, sending the both of them grunting as they flew into their seatbelts. 

Two-Bit exhaled loudly and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus, kid, we’re tryin’ to drive, not audition for a demolition derby.”

Two-Bit was the second to last person in their gang who was left willing to teach him how to drive. 

First each of his brothers had tried, with varying reactions but Sodapop wouldn’t stop laughing and Darry got into a fight with him so loud a cop pulled them over to make sure everything was ok. After the cop incident, Steve had attempted to drive with him and gave it 5 minutes before they both pulled over and gave up. Dally did a great job—by his standards, and Darry practically banned him from ever being in the car with Dally again. Johnny flat out refused to even try, especially since he didn’t even have a license, unless no one else could. 

So, Two-Bit was the only one left. 

Ponyboy sighed heavily, slumping forward against the wheel. “I’m trying, alright?” he muttered, his voice tight. “It’s not like this is easy for me.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Two-Bit teased lightly, though he kept his tone softer. “But hey, nobody’s born drivin’. Even I was a disaster at first, and I’m basically perfect now.”

Ponyboy huffed out something that was almost a laugh but didn’t quite make it. His hands stayed glued to the wheel, fingers fidgeting against the worn leather. “I just don’t get why I’m so bad at this. It’s just driving, right? Everyone else makes it look so easy. Even Steve said it’s not that hard, and he’s... well, Steve.”

Two-Bit smirked, leaning his elbow on the window. “Steve also thinks fixing a carburetor is a fun way to spend a Saturday. Don’t compare yourself to that lunatic.”

Ponyboy’s grip tightened. “Yeah, but still... What if I never get it? Darry’s gonna be so pissed if you can’t show me and just... I dunno, what if I wreck the car or something? I think im hopeless, Two.”

Two-Bit’s smirk faltered. “Hopeless? Come on, kid, now you’re just bein’ dramatic.”

“I’m not!” Ponyboy shot back, a little too quickly. His voice sped up, words tumbling over each other. “Darry’s all freaked out after the last time we drove together. Don't even want me touchin’ a car without one of you vouching for me. He acts like I’m an idiot, I’m trying.” 

He stopped himself, biting down on the words like they tasted wrong. His shoulders tensed, and he stared out the windshield, his gaze unfocused.

Two-Bit’s grin slipped away entirely. He shifted in his seat, watching Ponyboy carefully. 

“Pone,” he started, his voice quieter now, “where’s all this comin’ from? It’s just driving, man. Nobody’s expecting you to be a pro right outta the gate. Dar’s just worried ‘bout you, s’all.” 

Ponyboy shook his head, his foot tapping nervously against the floor. “I just... I don’t wanna get yelled at again. All I do is mess things up—”

“Whoa.” Two-Bit cut him off, sitting up straighter. His voice was firmer now, almost sharp. “Alright, that’s enough of that.”

Ponyboy blinked, turning toward him in confusion. “What?”

“You heard me,” Two-Bit said, pointing at the wheel. “Hands at ten and two, kid. We’re not doin’ this right now.”

“Not doing what?” Ponyboy frowned, his brows knitting together.

“This,” Two-Bit said, gesturing vaguely at him. “Whatever this is. We’re here to learn how to drive, not to overthink every little thing like you’re writing one of your essays.”

Ponyboy stared at him, taken aback. “I’m not overthinking,” he said, though the defensive edge in his voice made it sound like he didn’t quite believe it himself.

Two-Bit raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sure. That’s why you’ve already jumped to ‘hopeless failure’ over one lousy parking job.”

Ponyboy flushed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not—”

“Pone,” Two-Bit cut in again, softer this time, but no less insistent. “It’s just a car. It’s not life or death, alright? Nobody’s grading you here, nobody’s keepin’ score. You’re gonna mess up a few times, ‘cause that’s what people do. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Ponyboy hesitated, his hands still resting on the wheel, his gaze flickering between Two-Bit and the dashboard. “You’re acting weird,” he muttered.

Two-Bit forced a grin, leaning back against the seat. “Weird? Nah. I’m just tryin’ to keep us from dying in this deathtrap. Now come on, one more lap around the lot, and maybe this time, I won’t feel like I need a seatbelt for my seatbelt.”

Ponyboy gave him a skeptical look but turned his attention back to the road. He adjusted his grip on the wheel, his movements stiff but determined. Two-Bit watched him out of the corner of his eye, his easygoing grin hiding the knot of worry twisting in his chest. 

Two-Bit propped his elbow on the windowsill, his eyes fixed on the empty lot as Ponyboy guided the car forward. The kid was doing better—his turns were less jerky, and the car wasn’t lurching every time he tapped the brakes. Progress.

“Alright, not bad,” Two-Bit said, nodding as they rolled past the cracked asphalt of the lot. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might actually have the hang of this.”

Ponyboy glanced at him, lips twitching into a small smile. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’. I’ve seen you trip over your own feet enough times to keep my expectations low.” Two-Bit’s grin widened, but it softened when he caught the faint blush creeping up Ponyboy’s neck.

They fell into a companionable silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Ponyboy focused on the road ahead, his brows furrowed in concentration. He didn’t notice the way Two-Bit was watching him, not until they eased to a stop near the far edge of the lot.

“You know,” Two-Bit said suddenly, his voice quieter than usual, “you really oughta quit bein’ so hard on yourself.”

Ponyboy stiffened slightly, his hands gripping the wheel. “What’re you talking about? I'm not.” 

Two-Bit snorted, leaning forward to prop his chin on his hand. “Yeah, sure. That’s why you were talkin’ like the world was ending five minutes ago.”

Ponyboy frowned, his gaze fixed on the cracked pavement ahead. “I’m just... I dunno. I don’t wanna mess up, that’s all.”

“Messin’ up’s part of the deal, kid,” Two-Bit said, his tone lighter but still firm. “Hell, I still screw things up all the time, and look at me—I turned out alright.”

Ponyboy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re a real inspiration.”

“Damn right I am.” Two-Bit leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He studied Ponyboy for a long moment, his grin fading slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was more serious than Ponyboy was used to hearing.

“Listen, Pone,” he said, his tone steady, almost gentle. “You’re a smart kid. Smarter than most of us, that’s for damn sure. You’re gonna go places—college, a real job, maybe somethin’ big. And you’re gonna do it because you’re you, not ‘cause anyone else dragged you there.”

Ponyboy glanced at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “You look weird being serious.” 

Two-Bit shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I just...” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “We worry ‘bout you, kid. Don’t want you running off thinkin’ things that ain’t true.” 

Ponyboy blinked, the weight of Two-Bit’s words settling over him. “Ok.”

“Hey I’m a call away when you go to college, you get that?” Two-Bit looked at him again, but there was something playful in his expression, something soft. “I always got your bail money.”

Ponyboy snorted and Two-Bit gave him a wide grin as they settled back into the seats. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Ponyboy stared at the wheel, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite untangle. Two-Bit watched him out of the corner of his eye, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by something quieter, more reflective.

“Alright,” Two-Bit said suddenly, breaking the silence. “One more lap, then we’re callin’ it a day. And this time, try not to hit any old church ladies, yeah?”

Ponyboy smirked faintly, turning the key to start the car again. “We can’t have any more scandals at the church.” 

“Oh come on that was years ago—“ 

“I still can’t go to church without somebody saying something to me, thanks to you three.” Ponyboy shot him a look as the engine kicked on. 

Two-Bit chuckled, but his gaze lingered on Ponyboy for a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something else but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, he settled back in his seat, letting the hum of the engine fill the silence once more.

—

August 18th, 1968

Sodapop’s voice drifted through the quiet of the room, soft and hesitant. “Hey, Pone? You awake?”

Ponyboy blinked at the ceiling, the darkness broken only by the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the window. He shifted slightly, his voice low and a little hoarse. “…Yeah.”

The bed creaked as Sodapop leaned against the doorframe, his silhouette just visible in the dim light. He stepped into the room, his movements careful, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was welcome.

“Scoot over, yeah?” Soda asked, his tone light but with that undercurrent of warmth that always seemed to ease the edges of Ponyboy’s tension.

Sodapop dropped onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze somewhere far off. Then he let out a breath and turned toward his brother.

“You alright? You’ve been kinda quiet.”

Ponyboy hesitated, his fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Soda tilted his head, giving him that knowing look—the one that always made Ponyboy feel like he was five years old again, caught sneaking cookies before dinner. “That so?”

Ponyboy tried to shrug it off, but something in him cracked. The words spilled out before he could stop them. “I’m sorry.”

Sodapop blinked, his brows furrowing. “Sorry? For what?”

For a moment, Ponyboy didn’t answer. His mind churned, dredging up every mistake, every regret, every time he felt like he’d been a burden. He thought of Soda giving up things for him, of the nights he’d seen his brother worn out from working too hard. He thought of that awful night when he’d almost—

But he couldn’t say any of it. The words felt too big, too heavy.

“I don’t know,” he muttered finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… am.”

Soda’s expression softened, and he reached out, giving Ponyboy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Hey, you don’t gotta be sorry, alright? Not to me.”

Ponyboy didn’t look up, but he nodded faintly.

Sodapop shifted closer, his voice quiet but firm. “Listen, Pone. When I head off to college, you know you can still call me, right? Anytime. Day or night. Doesn’t matter what’s goin’ on—I’ll pick up. And if it’s somethin’ big, I’ll get in the car and drive. Don’t care how far it is; I’ll make it.”

Ponyboy finally looked at him, a small, skeptical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, until your car breaks down halfway there.”

Soda snorted, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re hilarious, kid.” He shoved Ponyboy’s shoulder lightly, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin.

The tension in the room eased, the weight of unspoken things lifting just enough. Ponyboy ducked his head, hiding a faint smile, and Soda ruffled his hair with a quick, affectionate motion before leaning back.

“Seriously, though,” Soda said, his tone more even now, “you don’t ever have to do this alone. You hear me?”

Ponyboy swallowed, the words sticking in his throat, but he nodded again, more certain this time. “Yeah. I hear you.”

—

August 24th, 1968

“He’s gonna kill me.” Ponyboy mumbled for the tenth time that day, slouching in the passenger seat of Buck’s T-Bird. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, twisting it so tight that the fabric bunched up in his palms.

Across the bench seat, Dally was grinning like it was Christmas morning, his elbow resting lazily out the open window. 

“Yeah, well, at least you’ll look tuff when he does,” he said with a low chuckle, his voice rough with amusement.

Johnny was in the backseat, his one leg pulled beneath him while th other stretched out, looking between them with a sly smile. He didn’t seem as outwardly thrilled as Dally, but there was a quiet warmth in his expression, like he understood why Ponyboy was doing this even if he wasn’t saying it outright.

“You can always change your mind, kid,” Dally said, his grin softening just a little. He shrugged one shoulder as if to remind Ponyboy that no one was forcing him. “Ain’t like it’s on you yet.”

Ponyboy chewed on his lower lip, the weight of Dally’s words pressing against his already frazzled nerves. His heart was pounding so hard it was almost distracting. Almost. 

“I know,” he said softly.

“You sure about this?” Johnny asked, leaning forward between the seats. His voice was quiet, careful, but there wasn’t a trace of judgment in it—just that calm, steady presence Johnny always carried.

Ponyboy glanced at him, and for the first time in the last ten minutes, he managed a small, tight nod. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice gaining a little more confidence as he spoke. Despite the aching worry gnawing at his chest— what would Darry say? What would Soda think? —he wanted this.

 He really did.

He was so sick of long sleeves, staring in the mirror with disgust at himself—even if everyone told him there wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. He wanted this to really really be a fresh start, and he wasn’t about to start it off with the worst moment in his life. 

Johnny nodded back, giving him a small, encouraging smile, and that was enough to steel Ponyboy’s resolve.

The T-Bird rumbled to a stop in front of a run-down shop tucked into the corner of a strip of older brick buildings. The faded sign above the door read "Ink & Iron" in chipped black paint, the neon “OPEN” sign in the window flickering like it was barely holding on.

“Place doesn’t look like much,” Ponyboy said, his voice a little shaky as he stepped out of the car.

Dally clapped him on the shoulder. “It ain’t the building, it’s the guy inside. Tim swears by him. Says he’s the best in Tulsa.”

“Best, huh?” Ponyboy muttered under his breath, hesitating on the sidewalk.

While he didn’t much trust the opinion of Tim Shepard, Tim and Two-Bit had both gone to this guy and their tattoos were perfect for them. 

“C’mon,” Johnny said, nudging him gently toward the door. “You’ll be alright.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard and followed them inside. The shop smelled faintly of antiseptic and ink, a strange combination that hit Ponyboy like a wave. It was a small space, dimly lit, with old flash art pinned to the walls. The buzzing of a tattoo machine hummed faintly in the background, and the sound sent a shiver down Ponyboy’s spine.

The tattoo artist gave Ponyboy a long, measuring look, his sharp eyes catching the tension in the boy’s frame. He nodded slightly, as if he understood more than Ponyboy had said, and motioned toward a chair near the back of the shop.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you set up.”

Ponyboy hesitated, glancing at Dally and Johnny. Dally, always quick to pick up on a mood, gave him a reassuring slap on the back. “Don’t look so scared, Pony. You’ll live.”

Johnny, quieter but no less steady, offered a small smile. 

“We’ll be over there if you need us,” he said, motioning toward the small lounge area near the front of the shop, where a worn-out couch and a pile of old magazines sat.

“Thanks,” Ponyboy muttered, grateful they weren’t going to hover. This was something he wanted to do alone—or at least without them watching every second.

The artist, whose name was Frank, gestured for Ponyboy to take a seat. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.”

Ponyboy reluctantly rolled up his sleeves, exposing the faint, crisscrossing scars on his forearms. They weren’t fresh, but they were there, and Ponyboy couldn’t help but feel exposed under Frank’s calm gaze. He braced himself for a comment, but Frank didn’t say anything. He just nodded again, his expression neutral, and reached for a sketchpad.

“So, vines and branches,” Frank said, already sketching with quick, confident strokes. “Anything else? Flowers, leaves, something personal?”

Ponyboy hesitated, then said quietly, “Names. Small, tucked into the vines. My friends’ names.”

Frank paused, looking up at him. “You got it, kid. Any particular font or size?”

“Just...small. Almost hidden, but not completely.”

Frank nodded again and got to work, the scratching of his pencil filling the quiet space between them. After a few minutes, he turned the sketchpad around, revealing a delicate design of intertwining vines and branches, with tiny, elegant names woven subtly into the pattern.

Ponyboy’s breath caught. It was perfect.

“You good with this?” Frank asked.

“Yeah,” Ponyboy said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Frank smiled faintly and prepped the equipment, explaining the process as he went. The buzz of the tattoo machine startled Ponyboy at first, but he forced himself to stay still as Frank leaned in to start the outline.

At first, the sensation was sharp, almost startling, but as Frank worked, it settled into a dull, rhythmic annoyance—not nearly as bad as Ponyboy had feared. The most biting sensations came near the start of his worst where he was skinny enough that it hit the bone, but it wasn’t anything worth crying over. He found himself relaxing a little, even as the machine moved over the more sensitive areas near the scars.

“Not so bad, huh?” Frank said, glancing up briefly.

Ponyboy gave a small smile. “Not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

As the session went on, Ponyboy’s thoughts wandered. The scars he was covering up told stories he’d rather forget, but the tattoo would tell a new one. One about the people who mattered most to him—the people who’d been there even when he hadn’t wanted them to be.

When Frank finally switched off the machine, Ponyboy blinked, startled by how much time had passed. His arms felt tender, like a sunburn, but when Frank handed him a mirror, the sight of the tattoo made it worth it.

The vines and branches wove gracefully over the scars, transforming them into something almost unrecognizable. Hidden among the design were the names: Darry, Soda, Johnny, Dally, Steve, Two-Bit. They were small, subtle, but unmistakably there.

Ponyboy’s throat tightened. He hadn’t told Dally and Johnny about the names—they’d find out soon enough—but it felt like the right thing to do. A way to carry the gang with him, no matter where he went.

Frank cleaned up the area, giving Ponyboy instructions on how to care for the tattoo. 

“You did good, kid,” Frank said, giving Ponyboy a small nod before disappearing into the back of the shop. “Hang tight, I’m gonna grab you something to wrap it with.”

Ponyboy muttered a quiet, “Thanks,” before looking toward Johnny and Dally. He swallowed hard, wiping his palms on his jeans as he waved them over.

Dally was the first to stride up, casual as ever, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. 

“Well?” he drawled, rocking back on his heels with a smirk. “Let’s see it.”

Johnny followed close behind, quieter but just as curious, his head tilted slightly as his eyes darted to Ponyboy’s sleeves.

Pony hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edge of the fresh bandages. He had been so sure about this when he’d walked in—confident, even—but now, standing in front of them, the nerves crept up his spine. What if they thought it was stupid?

The silence stretched just long enough for Dally to cock an eyebrow. “You gonna show us, or we gonna stand here all day?”

With a deep breath, Ponyboy rolled up his sleeves, first one arm and then the other. He kept his eyes on the floor, not ready to see their reactions.

The vines and branches curled over his skin in intricate patterns, flowing smoothly over the scars that used to stand out so sharply. Hidden within the designs, each wrist bore a handful of names in small, elegant lettering. On one arm: Darry, Soda, Johnny. On the other: Two-Bi, Dally, Steve.

“Damn, that’s some nice ink. Frank did a helluva job with it. You dig it?” Dally asked, his eyes lingering on the swirling vines and leaves, his tone casual, almost distracted.

Ponyboy nodded faintly, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Yeah, I think so.”

Johnny didn’t say anything at first. He stepped forward instead, his brows knitting together as his gaze fixed on Ponyboy’s wrist. There was a softness in his expression, a quiet kind of focus as he reached out slowly. His fingers hovered just above the fresh ink, careful not to touch the tender skin, before gently turning Ponyboy’s arm toward the light. 

The tattoos caught the faint glow of the shop, the names nestled within the vines. Johnny’s lips parted slightly, and he made a small, quiet noise in his throat—something between surprise and wonder. His thumb ghosted over the edge of the vines near his name, his breathing shallow, almost hesitant.

“You put...my name,” Johnny said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ponyboy shifted on his feet, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You like it?”

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His lips twitched as though he wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry, his dark eyes shimmering with something quiet. Finally, he nodded. 

“It’s real nice, Pony,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

Dally had been quiet, unusually so, watching the exchange with his head slightly tilted, an unreadable expression on his face. When Johnny let go of Ponyboy’s wrist, Dally stepped closer, his sharp gaze scanning the tattoos.

His name caught his eye near the crook of Ponyboy’s wrist, small and unassuming but impossible to miss. He stilled, his tongue clicking against his teeth as he took it in.

“You got my name on you too?” Dally asked, his tone light, but there was something deeper beneath it.

Ponyboy shrugged, his heart pounding. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely steady.

Dally reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the design, almost as though testing if it was real. His smirk faltered for just a moment, replaced by a flicker of something softer. He shook his head slowly, letting out a low whistle.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. His hand found Ponyboy’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s...nice. Tuff. I dig it.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them made Ponyboy’s chest tighten. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the nervous weight in his chest lifting.

Johnny lingered close, his eyes still fixed on the ink. He reached out again, this time taking Ponyboy’s hand in both of his. He turned it over slowly, tracing the vines and the names with the gentlest touch. His thumb paused over his own name, and he let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.

“I didn’t think...” Johnny started, his voice faltering. He looked up, meeting Ponyboy’s eyes. “It looks real nice, Pone. It's you.” 

Dally snorted lightly, breaking the tension, though the sound wasn’t mocking. “Bet Sodapop’s gonna bawl like a baby when he sees this.”

Ponyboy laughed softly, the sound shaky but genuine. The warmth in the room felt tangible now, easing the nerves that had gripped him since he sat in the chair.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice steadier. “If Darry don’t kill me first.”

“Nah, kid,” Dally muttered, his gaze lingering on the name Darry woven into the vines. His smirk returned, smaller but real. “I don’t think he’ll be too busted up about it.”

Frank returned then, a roll of bandages in hand, breaking the moment. “Alright, kid, let’s get you cleaned up. You’ll need to keep these wrapped and follow these care instructions,” he said, his voice steady and efficient.

As Frank wrapped Ponyboy’s arms, Dally ruffled his hair with a grin firmly in place again. “C’mon, let’s get outta here before Johnny starts tearing up for real.”

Johnny rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade. “Shut up, Dal.”

Together, they stepped back out into the light of the day, the ache of the fresh ink a small, distant thing compared to the warmth now settled in Ponyboy’s chest.

Chapter Text

August 26th, 1968

Ponyboy Curtis left for college in a matter of days. 

Long days stretched out lazily, filled with the usual mix of chores, reading, and killing time with the gang. It was the kind of slow end to the summer that reminded Ponyboy of how things used to be—before everything got so complicated. Before loss and grief chipped away at the family they were trying so hard to hold onto.

He was ready to go to college. 

His things were packed neatly in boxes that sat stacked by the corner of his room, waiting for the day he’d load them into the car and drive off toward a fresh start. The thought of it made him feel lighter than he had in years. For once, he felt at peace. Sure, there was still a quiet hum of doubt, like a pesky bug he couldn’t quite swat away. 

Would college be everything he imagined? Would he be enough to handle it on his own? He didn’t dwell too much, though. He told himself it was better to stop thinking about it, what happened would happen.

But then there was Darry.

Something about him had been…off? 

Not in a big, obvious way, but enough that Ponyboy noticed. It was subtle, like a faint crack in a window you didn’t see at first but could hear if you listened close enough. Darry was still Darry—worrying and working, always moving through the house with a purpose that kept everything from falling apart. But lately, he seemed different. It wasn’t what he said or did outright. It was more in the way he acted, especially with Ponyboy over the last few days.

At first, Ponyboy thought he was imagining it and then later he was sure he’d done something to upset Darry. 

But he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. 

The little things started adding up, making it obvious that Darry had a problem with him. The his brothers eyes followed him a second too long when he walked through the door. The way he asked if he’d eaten—every single day—like Ponyboy might forget to take care of himself the moment Darry stopped reminding him. Or the way he’d glance at the clock when Ponyboy stayed up late, his lips pressed tight as if holding back a lecture.

It wasn’t that Darry hadn’t always been a little overbearing; he had. Ever since their parents died, Darry had stepped into that role without hesitation. But this was different. It felt heavier, almost suffocating, like Darry was waiting for something to go wrong. Ponyboy couldn’t figure out what it was, and that nagging feeling only grew.

“You eat yet?” Darry asked from the kitchen, his tone more clipped than casual. He was scrubbing at a pan that didn’t look like it needed it, his shoulders tight.

“Toast,” Ponyboy mumbled as he passed through the doorway, already regretting the answer when Darry shot him a look.

“Toast don’t count as breakfast,” Darry said, reaching for the frying pan on the stove. “Sit down. I’ll make you eggs.”

Ponyboy sighed but didn’t argue. He grabbed a chair at the table, resting his chin on his palm while Darry worked. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’m not a little kid.”

“Then start eating like it,” Darry muttered without looking up. 

Ponyboy had to stop himself from rolling his eyes and felt like he was back to being 14 years old. 

By the time the plate was in front of him, Ponyboy had lost his appetite, but he forced himself to eat anyway. Darry kept glancing at him while he washed up, like he was making sure Ponyboy didn’t sneak off before finishing. 

He hadn't been like this since everything had happened a year ago, he was always on Ponyboy and worrying about him but not like he had been before that. It had almost been like he was terrified to say the wrong word and it was the thing that sent Ponyboy over. Now, it felt like they were going backwards, each day it would get worse to the point where Ponyboy was flat out avoiding Darry. Even the gang had started taking notice, not going as far as to step in but still shooting confused looks at each other when Darry would snap. 

Later that afternoon, Ponyboy found himself in the garage with Sodapop, helping him tune up his car. The air inside was thick with the tang of oil and grease, but the open doors let in a breeze that made the space bearable. Soda was leaning over the hood, grease smeared across his arms, whistling some half-remembered tune while Ponyboy handed him tools.

“Darry’s been on my case a lot lately,” Ponyboy said, breaking the quiet. He handed Soda a wrench and leaned against the workbench. “Don’t know what I did wrong, but he’s breathing down my neck.”

Soda didn’t look up right away, his focus on tightening a bolt. “He’s always keepin’ an eye on you,” he said, his voice easy. “That’s Darry for you—eyes in the back of his head.”

Ponyboy scowled a little. “Yeah, but it’s different now. I mean, he’s always bossy—”

Soda snorted, cutting him off, and shot him a quick look over his shoulder. “Ponyboy—”

Ponyboy waved him off, trying not to grin. “Yeah, yeah. But this is something else. It’s like...I don’t know, like he’s waiting for me to screw up or something.”

Soda straightened up, tossing the wrench onto the workbench with a metallic clatter. He wiped his hands on an old rag, his expression softening as he turned to face Ponyboy. “He’s just got a lot on his mind, kid. You know how Darry is—he bottles things up, sound familiar?”

Ponyboy shot Sodapop a look, who just shrugged not taking back his statement. 

“It’s just…I don’t know what his deal is. Do you know if somethings botherin’ him?” Ponyboy asked, folding his arms over his chest. 

Soda shrugged, the movement easy but his tone more serious now. “Everything. You going off to college. Me moving out with Steve. This house’ll be empty before long, and Darry’s gonna be here on his own. That’s rough on a guy, especially for Darry.”

Ponyboy blinked, the weight of Soda’s words settling on him like an unexpected blow. He hadn’t thought about it like that—about what all these changes might mean for Darry. But it still didn’t explain why his brother had been so relentless lately, always pushing him to eat right, sleep enough, or finish his chores.

“I thought he’d be glad,” Ponyboy muttered, nudging a loose bolt with the toe of his sneaker. “I mean, he won’t have to work so hard. Won’t have to worry so much.”

Soda let out a low chuckle and slung an arm around Ponyboy’s shoulders, pulling him in close. 

“You think Darry’s ever gonna stop worrying about you? College or no college, you’re still our kid brother, Pone. He’s just trying to make sure you’re set before you go. That’s all.”

Ponyboy sighed, his chest tightening as he stared at the grease-stained floor. Soda made it sound simple, but it didn’t feel that way. There was something more going on with Darry—something that stuck in his chest. He could feel it in the way Darry’s jaw tightened every time they argued, in the way his voice lingered on certain questions.

“I don’t think he wants me here,” Ponyboy muttered, barely loud enough for Soda to hear.

Soda gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, his voice firm. “You couldn’t be more wrong, little buddy. Darry’s proud of you, even if he don’t say it right. And you leaving—it’s tearing him up. He just don’t know how to show it. You’ll get it one day, I swear.”

Ponyboy didn’t answer, and Soda didn’t push. They fell into an easy silence, broken only by the clink of tools and the soft hum of the engine. But the words stuck with Ponyboy, nagging at him like a splinter he couldn’t reach. He wanted to believe Sodapop but a part of him nagged that they’d be so much better off without him. 

His brothers would be better without him—they just didn’t know it yet. 

–

“You know, Ponyboy, we spoke about this a few weeks ago,” Sarah—his therapist—said, her pen tapping lightly against her knee as she studied him. She wasn’t pushing, not yet, but he could tell she was waiting for him to crack.

“Doesn’t mean I changed my mind,” Ponyboy shot back, his tone sharper than he meant it to be. 

Guilt twisted low in his stomach when Sarah raised a single eyebrow at him, her expression calm and steady as always. She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms loosely in her lap like she had all the time in the world.

“Look, you just—” He stopped, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers picking at the edge of his jeans.

“I just what?” Sarah asked, her voice even.

“You don’t get it,” Ponyboy said, his words tumbling out in frustration. “You just don’t.”

“Then tell me,” Sarah said simply.

He looked up, caught off guard by the directness in her tone. She wasn’t demanding, not exactly, but there was something in her eyes that told him she wasn’t going to let this go.

“Tell me why you feel like they don’t want you here. And furthermore,” she added, her gaze never wavering, “tell me why you think I won’t get it.”

Ponyboy hesitated, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. He hated this—talking about things he couldn’t even fully explain to himself. But the way Sarah just sat there, patient and steady, made him feel like he couldn’t run from it anymore.

He exhaled shakily, his voice low when he finally spoke. “It’s just...I don’t know. I feel like I’ve ruined their lives.”

Sarah tilted her head slightly, encouraging him to continue.

“Darry—he could’ve been done anything, you know? A football scholarship, college, all of it. But instead, he’s stuck here, taking care of me. And Sodapop...he didn’t even finish high school. He says it’s fine, that he didn’t want to anyway, but sometimes I wonder if he would’ve done more if it weren’t for me.”

“And the gang,” Ponyboy went on, his voice growing quieter. “I don’t even know why they put up with me half the time. I’m not like them—I can’t fight like they do, or joke around the way some of them do. It’s like I’m always just...there. A kid tagging along, messing things up.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “And after last year...” He trailed off, his throat tightening.

“After your attempt,” Sarah said gently, filling in the silence.

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes. 

“I don’t think they’ll ever see me the same. Darry won’t even let me breathe without checking on me. I know he means well, but it’s suffocating. And I get it—he’s scared, and maybe he should be. I don’t even trust myself sometimes. So how can they? How can they want me here when all I’ve done is hold them back?”

The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning. When Sarah spoke, her voice was calm but firm, cutting through the noise in Ponyboy’s head.

“Ponyboy, you’re telling me all the reasons you think they don’t want you here. But everything you just said—about Darry, Sodapop, your friends—it sounds more like you’re the one who doesn’t want yourself there.”

He frowned, looking up at her, confused.

“Think about it,” Sarah continued. “You’re blaming yourself for choices they made. Darry didn’t have to step up after your parents died—he chose to. Sodapop didn’t drop out because of you; that was his decision. And your friends? They care about you because of who you are, not what you think you’re supposed to be.” 

She leaned in a little closer, resting her elbows on her knees and she looked honestly at him.

“You’re carrying guilt that doesn’t belong to you, Ponyboy.”

Ponyboy opened his mouth to argue but stopped. The words she said were sinking in, uncomfortable but undeniable.

Sarah leaned forward slightly, her tone softening. “Have you talked to your brothers about how you feel? Or any friends?”

Ponyboy shrugged a little. “Yeah, my buddy Johnny and I talk ‘bout it sometimes.” 

“And your brother? Darry?” 

He scoffed, the sound bitter. “Yeah, right. Like I could say all that to him.”

“You just did to me,” Sarah pointed out, a small smile on her lips. “What’s stopping you from doing the same with him?”

Ponyboy shook his head, frustration creeping back in. “It’s not the same. You’re my therapist. You get paid to listen to stuff like this.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow and Ponyboy gave her a slightly cocky smile, looking away as his face flushed. 

“And Darry’s your brother,” Sarah countered. “He’s supposed to care about you. And trust me, Ponyboy—he does care. More than you realize.”

Ponyboy didn’t respond, his thoughts spinning. He couldn’t imagine sitting Darry down and laying all this out, but Sarah’s words lingered, poking at the edges of his doubt. For now, though, he just crossed his arms and sank back into his chair, letting the silence fill the space between them.

—

Ponyboy never heard Darry scream, at least not like he had tonight.

The sound ripped through the house, jagged and raw, pulling him from the fragile sleep he’d barely managed to fall into. For a moment, he just lay there, disoriented, his heart pounding in his chest. Screaming was normal now—at least for him. The nightmares had been relentless since he got back from the hospital, leaving him gasping and drenched in sweat more nights than not.

He could still see Sodapop’s face the first time it happened, wide-eyed and pale as he’d shaken him awake, his voice trembling with panic. That night, one of Ponyboy’s stitches had ripped open during his thrashing, and a thin line of blood had trickled from his wrist. He’d watched Sodapop try to hold it together, his hands shaking as he pressed a towel against the wound. Ponyboy didn’t like thinking about that face, but it haunted him all the same.

He always thought about what it was like for his brothers to find him in the bathroom, and the face Sodapop had made as his hands shook was as close as he probably would ever get to seeing it. 

But this? This wasn’t him. The scream wasn’t his.

Ponyboy bolted upright, his breath catching in his throat. Across the room, Sodapop startled awake, his body jerking upright in a tangle of sheets. His wide, bleary eyes locked onto Ponyboy, the same thought flashing between them. But Ponyboy shook his head, and Sodpaops head whipped towards the door.

He was already moving, kicking the covers off and stumbling toward the door, his movements clumsy in his rush. 

“Go back to bed, Pone,” he muttered, but Ponyboy didn’t listen, sitting for a moment before shakily pushing the covers off. 

His legs felt shaky as he swung them over the edge of the bed, his bare feet brushing the cool floor.

He didn’t stay, but he didn’t rush, either. His stomach twisted, a sick feeling settling in his gut as he crept toward the hallway, his movements quiet and tentative. He followed the sound of low voices, the muffled murmur pulling him toward Darry’s room.

The door was cracked open, just enough for him to hear. He lingered there, his breath shallow as he pressed himself against the wall.

“…I’m fine,” Darry’s voice was rough, hoarse like he’d been yelling for hours. “Soda, just go back to bed. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Sodapop’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a determination Ponyboy wasn’t used to hearing from him. “You scared the hell out of me.” 

“I said I’m sorry, alright?” Darry snapped, his voice cracking under the weight of something deeper. Then, softer, he muttered, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You think I care about that?” Soda shot back. “Damn it, Darry, you can’t just—” He paused, his voice hitching before he continued. “Are you alright?”

There was a long silence. Ponyboy could hear Darry breathing, ragged and uneven, each sound like he was trying to pull himself back together by sheer force of will.

He hesitated, hovering just outside the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he pushed the door open the rest of the way.

Both of his brothers’ heads snapped up.

Darry immediately turned away, his movements stiff and deliberate as he dragged a hand across his face. The gesture was quick, almost automatic, as if he could somehow erase the lingering traces of the nightmare. Sodapop’s shoulders sagged the moment he saw him, his exhaustion plain as day in the dark circles under his eyes. He glanced between Darry and Ponyboy, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he didn’t say anything at first.

“Pone…” Sodapop finally murmured, his voice soft but edged with worry. “You should go back to bed. You need to rest.”

Ponyboy shifted on his feet, his eyes flicking to Darry. His oldest brother was sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, his jaw tight and his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. He didn’t meet Ponyboy’s eyes.

He knew they’d been on edge about him not sleeping. The nightmares had made rest impossible, and when he wasn’t fighting off sleep, he was wide awake in the middle of the night, pacing the house or staring at the ceiling. The last four days had been the worst of it. Tonight had been the first time he’d actually managed to fall asleep, but now it was like that brief moment of peace had never happened.

Still, as much as he knew they wanted him to sleep, Ponyboy couldn’t bring himself to go back to bed. Not with Darry looking like that.

He glanced over his brother again, taking in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. Darry looked like he was barely holding it together, like even one more crack might send him over the edge.

“Go back to bed, Pone,” Darry said gruffly, his voice thick and uneven. He still didn’t look at him.

Instead of answering, Ponyboy walked further into the room. He didn’t stop until he was standing between them, his gaze flicking between Darry and Sodapop before he quietly climbed onto the bed. Without a word, he wedged himself between them, his legs crossed, shoulders hunched forward.

For a moment, the room was heavy with silence. Darry stared down at him, his expression unreadable, while Sodapop sighed softly, dragging a hand down his face.

Ponyboy didn’t speak. He hadn’t spoken much at all since the hospital—words felt too heavy, too tangled in his chest to bother untangling. The effort it would take to say something, anything, felt like too much. Tonight wasn’t any different.

He leaned against Darry. His older brother froze at the sudden contact, his breath catching. For a second, Ponyboy thought he might pull away or push him off, but instead, Darry’s arms came around him.

The grip was too tight, too shaky, like Darry was trying to keep himself from falling apart but couldn’t quite manage it. It wasn’t frantic, not exactly, but it was desperate in a way that made Ponyboy’s chest ache. He glanced toward Sodapop, and the look on his brother’s face—soft and pained, his eyes full of quiet understanding—told Ponyboy all he needed to know about the nightmare.

Sodapop shifted closer, leaning forward until his head rested against Darry’s shoulder, his arm curling loosely around Ponyboy’s back. The warmth of his chest against Ponyboy’s side was grounding, even if it did little to settle the restless ache in his mind.

The three of them sat there together, pressed close in the dim light of the room.

None of them felt any better. The knot of fear, guilt, and exhaustion still weighed heavy in the air, but at least they were there. 

At least they had each other.

—

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot as Ponyboy followed Darry into the store. His therapy session was still rattling around in his head, Sarah’s words bouncing off the walls of his mind like an echo he couldn’t escape. But he wasn’t sure how much of it he believed yet.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hum, and the cool blast of air-conditioning hit his face. Darry walked ahead, scanning the list in his hand. His stride was purposeful, like it always was, and Ponyboy found himself falling into step behind him, his eyes trailing up to his brother’s face.

Darry had always seemed larger than life to him—his shoulders broad, his jaw set, his expression so sure of itself. Even when he was barking orders or frowning, there was a steadiness to him that felt unshakable. But now, as they wandered through the aisles, Ponyboy noticed the lines on his face, faint but there, etched into his forehead and around his eyes. He hadn’t really seen them before.

“You need notebooks, right?” Darry asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ponyboy said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.