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Soda wakes up, and the bed is cold.
He turns over on his side, blinks a few times in the moonlight, and realizes it’s cold because Ponyboy isn’t there.
Soda didn’t like to admit, to himself or to anyone, that he sometimes thought of his brother as a bit of a flight-risk. But ever since they lost Johnny and Dallas, he can’t help but fear he might lose Pony, too. He was sweet, and sensitive, and those aren’t easy things to be when you're a greaser his age. Soda didn’t want to admit that he was worried he might wake up one day and Pony would be gone for good-- hitching a train to God-knows-where and living out a cowboy fantasy that neither of his brothers fit into. Maybe Soda just didn’t want to admit that Ponyboy might not need him anymore.
He came to this conclusion a few weeks ago, when the nightmares started again and wouldn’t seem to let go. The doctor had warned them about something like this--- that somethings are hard pills to swallow and that a kid like him wouldn’t deal with it as quickly as someone like Darry or him might. They warned them to be cautious, to keep an eye on him and to not let him bottle things up too much. Well, Soda didn’t foresee that from then on, trying to get Ponyboy to talk about his feelings would be like trying to get a fish to fly, even for him. Pony could talk to Soda about the stars and the moon and the planets, his books and his movies and the new song on the radio, until doomsday. In fact, now he’ll even tell Darry about ‘em too. They were trying, both of them, to get through to the other. But getting him to talk about how he feels? Yeah, no way. Those things were too real, and saying them out loud would make them real, and anything too real for Pony got shut away in some little corner of his brain, and no prying or poking from either of them could get it out.
So, it was often a guessing game of what was bothering him. Soda had better guesses than Darry did, but only because Ponyboy talks in his sleep, something he’d never admit to Pony in fear it’ll subconsciously make him stop. He had it down to a science-- he dreamed about the car crash their parents were in the most, but never really about them. Again, too real. The weight would be too heavy. He’d just wake up, shaking like a leaf, cold and clammy, and Soda would pretend to be asleep while he inched closer and tried to soothe himself back to sleep. Johnny and Dally were reserved for particularly bad nights. He’d call out for them, mostly for Johnny. Soda could often tell he was dreaming of the fire, but he could also tell when he was dreaming about Dallas’ body on the ground, deathly still and bloodied. If Soda dreamt about it-- which he did-- there was no doubt in his mind that Ponyboy dreamt about it deeply.
It’s a rarity, though, for Ponyboy not to fall back to sleep after his nightmares. He didn’t like to stew in it, Soda knew that, so he would try and fall back to sleep as fast as he could. Evidently, not tonight. Soda is surprised he didn’t hear him, or get woken up by him, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to panic over all the reasons why he could have gotten up.
He tosses the blankets away and stands up, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before taking a couple steps forward. He tries to walk silently, as Darry never seems to get enough sleep, and if he hears anyone else awake, he’ll be up, too. It’s just the way he is. Soda tip-toes over the creaking floorboards, trying to step where it is most quiet. He pokes his head into the kitchen, and there is no one. The living room is quiet, too. The bathroom door is open and the table is empty. He tries not to start panicking.
He’s just about to say fuck it and wake Darry up when he realizes the porch light is on. He sighs a breath of relief, and hopes he can stay as silent as he has been as he gently opens the door.
Pony sits on the step, in long-sleeved pajamas and one of Soda’s sweatshirts, his knees pulled to his chest and a cigarette in between his fingers. Soda smiles with amusement at how the sweatshirt swallows him, then drops it. Kid needed to eat more, it was starting to freak him out. It’s also a little odd, as while the sun is long gone, it’s an incredibly warm summer night. Much too warm for that many layers.
“Darry doesn’t like it when you smoke at night,” Soda says, leaning on the closed door. “Says it’s bad for you.”
Pony jumps a bit, turns to look up at him, then rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t like when I smoke, period. You gonna tell on me?”
“Nah,” he replies, shaking his head and sitting down next to him. “What are you doing?”
Pony gives him an indifferent look. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
It’s Soda’s turn to roll his eyes. “I mean, it’s three o’clock in the morning and you’re smoking on the front steps. Is everything okay?”
“Can’t a guy sit on his own front steps?” he replies nonchalantly, looking back up to the stars. Soda doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so he looks up, too. They weren’t very bright tonight, but Pony could probably find the meaning in a pitch black sky. Soda’s eyes trail down to his brother's face, and he isn’t as unreadable as he normally makes himself in the daytime. In fact, it all seems to be written all over his face.
“You’re sick, aren’t you?” Soda realizes, a hand instinctively reaching for his forehead.
Pony smacks it away. “Am not.”
“Yessir! You’re sick as a dog. I can feel how warm you are from here,” and that is true. He’s a little guilty he didn’t notice earlier, but now the pajamas make sense. His cheeks are flushed red, but the rest of him is pale and clammy and a little sunken in. “Honey, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I wish you two would quit it with the pet names. I ain’t a baby,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing in a way that defeats the entire purpose of his argument.
“Pony, you’re the baby. Ain’t nothing we can do about it. We’ll be calling you that until you’re eighty-six with grandchildren,” Soda says with a light smile. He lifts his hand again, pushing Pony’s hair back. He doesn’t pull away this time. He’s very warm. “C’mon, you should be in bed.”
“I’m gonna stay here for a bit,” he says, his voice low and distant.
“Like hell you are. C’mon, before I wake Darry up and make him carry you. That’ll really make you feel like a baby.”
He goes to stand, but something in Pony's face makes him stop. "I mean it, Soda."
He looks worriedly at his brother who looks away and refuses to meet his gaze, instead staring out at the sky, his mouth turned down and eyes fixed on the horizon. A wave of vague fear washes over Soda. Something is off. “Come on, Pone, you’ve gotta get inside.”
He shakes his head, stubbornly looking ahead. “I won't sleep.”
"You need it. It looks like someone ran you over with a train." He means it as a joke, but it makes Ponyboy physically recoil and then it all starts to click. “What were you dreaming about?” he asks, his tone softening slightly, but Pony just ignores him, refusing to speak. “Ponyboy?” He puts a hand on Pony's shoulder.
“I used to forget,” he says, ignoring the question and putting his cigarette out on the cement step. “It used to just be like a black haze I couldn't remember. That doesn't happen anymore.” He glances at Soda, who frowns. What could possibly make the memory so bad that he's afraid to go to bed or even think about it? “Now, it's different,” he admits quietly, turning his head to look directly at Soda. “Ever since…” He trails off and looks back to the stars. He looks like he might as well be ten years old to Soda in the porch light. He knows what he's trying to say. He just doesn't know why he won't say it.
“It’s no secret you get nightmares, Pony,” Soda reminds him. “And no doubt they are worse now that you’re sick. Really, kiddo, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Didn’t want to worry you,” Pony replies simply.
Soda scoffs at that. “Well, that’s just plain stupid. I worry about you the minute you walk outta this house until the minute you walk right back in. That’s just what being family is.”
Pony gives a wiry half-smile, then drops it. His gaze hasn’t left the cluster of stars above them in minutes, like there’s something in them he can see beyond the cosmos. Soda wonders if he’s looking for Heaven.
“You call for them in your sleep,” Soda says, looking up and thinking that maybe he’ll find something in the stars, too. “Mostly for Johnny. Sometimes for Dallas. And every now and then…” Pony flinches, and Soda knows he’s hit the nail on the head. He sighs. “You can talk about them, you know. Saying nothin’ won’t make you feel better.”
“Remembering means I have to miss them,” Ponyboy admits, shivering a little bit. Soda really needs to get him to bed, but this is most he’s opened up in months, and he can’t risk it.
“Why are you afraid to miss them?” Soda asks.
Pony looks a bit bewildered, and whether it’s from the question or the fever, Soda doesn’t know. Pony takes in the question, then shrugs. There is a long, lingering silence that follows, and it feels like TV static all around them. Pony refuses to look anywhere but the sky, his breath shaking a little, like he wants to cry. Before, he would have, and Soda would have put him back together. Now, he refuses, and Soda can't exactly figure out why it feels worse. He puts his hand back to his brother's head, wishing he could take all the pain roaming around inside it away with just one touch. He pushes his hair back, and cups the side of his face in order to make Pony look at him.
“Why don't you talk to me anymore?” Soda wonders before he can stop himself. Pony looks shocked, hurt. But Soda pushes through it and continues, knowing he's going to regret asking. “You used to tell me everything. Why don't you anymore?”
He can tell the words sting Ponyboy deeply and Soda watches his expression crumble for just a moment before he quickly covers up any evidence of it. “I don't know. It's harder now.”
“Nothing's changed, Pony. I'm still here. I haven't changed,” Soda pleads, putting his arm around his shoulders. He squeezes hard once, twice, a third time. He keeps his eyes focused on the stars until Pony relaxes against him, burying his face in his shoulder and closing his eyes. He wraps one arm tight around Pony's waist, pulling him closer, and he holds on as tightly as he can.
“No. You haven't. I have,” he mumbles from within the embrace, almost as if talking to himself. He sounds almost broken, almost pitiful, and Soda doesn't know what to say, because he's right.
“Anyone who's been through what you have would,” Soda decides on, saying it to himself just as much as to Pony. “Your brother and I aren't going anywhere, you know?”
“Not yet,” he mumbles, barely audible.
They both know what that means-- the further you push away, the easier it is to let go. Soda doesn't have the heart to tell him that it actually makes it harder. He also doesn’t have the heart to tell him that if any of them are going to one day leave, it’ll be Ponyboy himself.
They stay like that for a while, listening to the crickets and the cicadas and the train horn. It’s beautiful and wonderful and Soda doesn’t want the moment to end, even if Pony’s feverish and crying in his arms. At least he’s there, and he can hold him. He’s tangible and he’s real, the two things Ponyboy is most afraid of.
It's not long until Soda feels him loosen his grip and fall asleep in his lap. He lets him, gently running his hand down the side of his face, until realizes suddenly he's not sure what to do with him now. He debates waking him back up when he hears the door open behind him.
“Shh,” Soda warns as Darry steps outside, rubbing a hand across his face, wearing one of their father's t-shirts. “He's sleeping.”
“What are you two doing out here?” Darry whispers, leaning on the porch beam, looking down to the sleeping Ponyboy.
Soda, to his surprise, feels some stray tears in his eyes, but he swallows them down and blinks. “I woke up and I found him here. Watching the stars. He's running a fever, I don't know,” he mumbles, holding onto Pony like he'll disappear the minute he lets go. He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to let him go. “He was having some pretty gnarly nightmares, I guess. I don't want to wake him now.”
Darry nods slowly. His face turns sad and he pulls himself away from the railing, coming closer to stand in front of them. “Poor kid,” he murmurs, leaning down to take him into his arms. Soda tries to hide how hesitant he is to let go, but if Darry notices, he doesn't say anything. Darry steps up to the door, holding Pony, and when Soda doesn't move, gently calls, “You coming, Pepsi?”
Soda sighs and nods. “Yeah.”
He opens the door for them, and in a few moments, Ponyboy is back in bed, swaddled in a few more blankets with water and aspirin on the nightstand for him when he wakes up. Soda sits on the edge of the bed, watching him closely, like he'll turn to dust if he doesn't.
“Hey,” Darry whispers from the doorway. “What's gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Soda whispers back, standing up to join Darry in the hallway. Then he feels vaguely hypocritical, so he says, “I just get worried about him. About him bottling things up too much. He used to tell me everything... now I feel like he's slipping away.”
“He’s not going to,” Darry promises him, wrapping an arm around Soda's shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
“How do you know?” Soda asks.
Darry shrugs. “Because I think he's a lot stronger than we give him credit for. I mean, he's not a kid anymore. Hasn't been for a real long time.”
Soda stares out into space for a while and then suddenly, his gaze wanders over to where Pony has taken up residence under his blanket fort, fast asleep. “And he's never gonna be one again,” he mutters sadly.
“But,” Darry begins in a tired, but sturdy voice, “he will always be our little brother.” Soda turns to glance up at him, nodding slightly, before he leans into Darry's side. They're quiet for a few minutes, until Darry squeezes his shoulder. “Go on, go back to sleep.”
Soda nods and pats his brother on the back, then crawls onto his side of the bed. There were far too many blankets for him to be comfortable, so he just lies on top. He’s about to fall back to sleep when he hears Ponyboy turn over to face him. “Soda?”
“Hmm?” Soda hums, half-awake.
“Mom,” Pony confesses. “I keep dreaming about Mom.”
Soda throws his arm over his brother’s shoulder. “Tell me about it?”
After a moment of silence, where Soda thinks he's fallen back asleep, Pony says, “She's singing me to sleep, like she used to when I was a kid. And she looks just like I remember, with the curls in her hair... and then I hear the train horn.” He pauses again, shudders, then says, “I miss her.”
“Me too,” Soda answers back after a short pause, resting his chin lightly on the top of Ponyboy's head.
“Wake me if I have another nightmare?” Pony asks. It's the first time he's asked something like that of him in months.
“Of course,” Soda promises. “Now, go back to sleep.”