Chapter Text
Curly doesn’t see himself when he looks in the mirror.
His hair is a mess; cut choppy and tangled. Pair of scissors in hand. Eyes trimmed red from the tears that won’t fucking stop but boys don’t cry and he fucking wasn’t one, was he? His skin is red from scratching and rubbing, and his lips are bleeding from biting and peeling skin. Bruises and cuts litter and linger all over his body, despite being three weeks old.
He shouldn’t look like them still. He doesn’t have Tim’s hardness in his eyes or Angela’s cunning smile. He should look like Curly. Curly, the one who isn’t what he says. Who can be as loud as a fire.
He’s not. He doesn’t have the burn his step-dad had (figuratively and literally) or the presence his mom did. Hell, he didn’t even have his dad’s confidence- the confidence that he still had when he drank himself to death and got hit by a car.
He should see Curly.
But he fucking doesn’t.
He sees Tim’s hair, Angela’s skin, his step-dads' scars, his moms temper, his dads eyes. He’s never been his own person- he lost count of how many times he’s been called ‘little-Tim’. It’s been like that forever. His brother and sister taking all the attention, while he’s forgotten about. They don't even share the same dad, and he still falls behind them.
And he doesn’t feel like himself either. He feels like Tim’s shadow, Angela’s near-twin sister (no matter how much he was told otherwise), his moms mistake, his dads suicide note, along with Tim and Angela’s, and his step-dads punching bag. He tries to make something of himself, to become his own person, he really does.
He can feel the hands, too.
Oh god, he can still feel the hands.
There’s a sharp itch where a hand had held his wrist and he wants to carve a hole in his face from where one covered his mouth. He wants to burn where one was on his hip and cut a spot from one that was on his thigh. He wants to scratch and bleed and hurt everywhere else until it goes away. He wants to rip out his throat until the screams finally come out.
He cuts his hair from where it was pulled and rubs the tears from where they fell. He can still feel it, but it’s been three fucking weeks.
It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.
For some god forsaken reason, he’d always been. He was the more ‘emotional’ Shepard, that he always felt more than his siblings- even the whole gang. That was fucking stupid because he wasn’t a sissy- wasn’t a girl (well it’s not like he was ever a real man).
And he’s always called the baby of the gang. He fucking wasn’t. He could be- he is as tough, and cold, and as much as a fighter as everyone else-
Fuck, he’s wasting water again.
Not like it was the first time. Tim’s been on his ass about it ever since. Not like it’s Curly’s fault the world screwed him over.
(Isn’t it? The world can’t control what you do. How isn’t it your fault? What isn’t your fault?)
He turns off the facet, the bath just about to overflow.
(That’d be easy to stick your head under)
He stayed crying in front of the cracked mirror for so long he didn’t notice. Pathetic. He wants to punch it, he doesn’t care if glass gets in his eyes- might make the shadows go away. He can still see that stupid fucking grin and those hollow eyes in the corner of his eyes and he just wants it gone.
He cuts off another piece of hair.
He still looks like Tim. He still looks like a girl.
But Tim’s not a girl and Curly, no matter how much he tries, will always be one.
(“The fuck are you tryin’ fool, baby. You ain’t no guy.”)
(“C’mon, sweets. Stop being so hard.”)
(“Your fuckin’ fault-“)
Maybe that last one was just him.
More tears fall and he’s not sure what they came from. His cheeks are red and wet, and he forgets his hiding scissors when he rubs at them. Cutting across his cheek like the crack that ruins the mirror. The blood drips down leaving a trail of red and a sting of wanting a desperate end.
He can’t.. he doesn’t want to feel him anymore. He doesn’t want to- want to feel the hands and see his face over his shoulder when he’s not fucking there but for some stupid reason his head won’t just shut up-
The hand tightens around his neck not letting him scream, his arms fall to his sides as he stares at the weak excuse of a Shepard in the mirror. The scissors digs into his palm.
And he realizes how easy it would be to slit his wrist and let the water carry everything away.
He.. he could. It’d be so easy. Just a flick of the wrist and everything would stop. He should-
He can’t.
He can’t leave his siblings. They’d miss him, right? They- they care for him, don’t they? They helped patch him up after his step-dad got into one of his moods; which happened so often, Curly started to hide some of them and fix it up so he wouldn’t bother them. They helped him move out of the shit show of a house when he was twelve because his step-dad finally got drunk enough to forget and his mom could care less. Surely that means they’d care if he killed himself?
You’d be less of a hassle to them dead, anyways. I’m sure they’d appreciate that more than they do you.
They would.. right?
Well.. Tim probably wouldn’t care all that much. He’s like that; never one for emotions and stupidity. All what Curly is. He’d get over it fast or never feel anything about it at all.
And- and Angela might care.? But, she has her own friends and life and more support than Curly could ever dream of. He’s just the weight in her shoe dragging her down. She’d forget about him, anyway.
They- they might still care-
Would they? Really, would they? Sure doesn’t seem that way. They’d probably count it as a blessing.
His hands shake. He slowly brings them both up, one wrist extended and one holding out a scissor blade. It hovers over his wrist, his throat holding back his pleads for life. The hand around his neck tightens and it’s so hard to breathe.
The face is there, still. Staring at him with blank eyes and a manic grin that never left.
He needs it gone.
He needs to be gone.
(Who?)
Curly swallows and feels tears rush past. Crybaby. He rests the blade on his wrist, near an abundance of scars that dance on his body, both from himself and others. It’s cold.
He looks back up at the mirror. He doesn’t see himself. He sees-
He sees Tim crying, holding onto the body in the tub. He sees Angela praying for him not to leave them. Tim’s once cold eyes filled with the tears Curly can’t stop from crying. Angela’s once perfect skin covered in his blood.
Tim’s holding him to his chest, begging god to bring him back despite not believing in him. Tim trying to stop the bleeding while Angela wraps up his wrist. Angela pleading for him to come back, crying for him to live.
He sees himself dead.
He sees himself for once.
(He sees his siblings still. No matter what, they never seem to leave and let him be alone)
(He won’t ever be alone)
(Not with him lurking in the shadows that Curly wishes were gone. Not with his siblings in his looks)
He sobs.
He presses the blade down. God, was he really going to do this?
He can feel the skin breaking-
He sees Tim crying and Angela begging for him.
He can do this, he can. No one will care-
He sees his siblings holding on to him.
He can’t do this.
Curly chokes a scream. And cuts his side with a cry, right between his ribs (right where a hand forced him down to stop him from moving). Not deep enough to be a problem, but well enough to bleed and scar.
Couldn’t fucking kill himself. Pathetic.
He throws the scissors to the floor and hugs himself, pleading to end it and scream. He cries because he just fucking can’t. He cries because he can still feel the hands.
The waters cold when he finally gets in. It tints red and burns. At first, he tries to scrub away the dirty feeling that never goes. It only makes his skin more red. He tries to hit it away, bashing his arms into the wall and digging his legs into the small cracks in the tub. It’s still fucking there.
It never works.
He curls up in on himself, digs his nails into his arms, and cries. Because for some reason he can’t stop.
(Tim comes banging on the door some time later. Curly drags himself out the bath, cleans the floor from the hair and blood, hides the scissors in his clothes and covers the cut with bandages he uses to hide the parts of him he wants gone. He wipes his face clear of any tears, and tells Tim to fuck off when he leave’s)
[Tim stares at the red dusting the tub and smells blood that certainly wasn’t there this morning. He stares at the red in the cracks, the hair in the trash poorly covering the toilet paper painted with blood, and wonders what the hell happened]
-+-
It’s Angela who first points out the hair cut.
The sun’s setting when he leaves his room hours later. There’s a plate of cold dinner next to his door with a note screeched in Tim’s messy handwriting saying ‘EAT’ and Curly finds himself throwing it out his window so the bugs and wild cats and dogs can eat it. Because then it wouldn’t go to waste.
He’s been doing.. that more often than not. Whenever he stays in his room for hours, not eating, Tim or Angela will leave food out by the door. He can’t ever bring himself to eat because he’s disgusting and never hungry anymore. So, as to not get them suspicious or angry at him, he throws it out the window and hopes it’s gone by morning. Last time he actually had a full meal was three weeks ago, the dinner he had on his last night in reformatory (the dinner before-).
Of course, he’s not starving himself. He’ll have, like, a bag of chips he swiped from a store and some gum. Sometimes he’ll even steal some fries- not a lot. Never a lot.
He just.. he just can’t stomach much anymore. It leaves a horrible taste in his mouth and he’s back to feeling like he’s about to throw up. And it’s not like he’s the only one with days like that! Angela doesn’t eat breakfast half the time and at least four times a week Tim doesn’t have anything for lunch.
(But you haven’t been eating for weeks? Isn’t that different? Ungrateful, maybe? Sure, their problems last for a day or so, but your shit has been going on for so much longer. What makes you different? That’s it’s your fault-)
It was mainly an issue with money that caused them to skip meals. Save them for later. And Curly knows he should probably wrap up the food so that it’s not being wasted, but then that would cause unwanted attention and conversations. Tim would probably be mad that he’s not eating the food he made, and Angela would call him names and question him. Everything he does not need.
(“You know you want this, baby. Why wouldn’t you?”)
He really doesn’t need that right now.
Tim’s sitting on the couch when Curly leaves. He’s reading the paper and has the crappy, half broken radio playing. Angela’s lounging in the old armchair in the corner, legs thrown over the side while she fixes her nails. He tries to make it to the door so he can go for a smoke, but the fucking floorboards creak and suddenly they’re both starting at him.
He knows he looks fresh out of a tornado: messy hair, wild, tired eyes, dirty clothes that cover nearly every inch of his body, and his skin most definitely has some redness to it. Whether it’s from dried blood or him trying to scratch and pull the hands away, Curly doesn’t care enough to figure it out.
Angela squints at him and hooks a leg in front of the chair, straightening herself to stare at him. Curly tugs a sleeve down and hunches in on himself slightly, feeling oddly exposed.
(She can’t know)
“..Curly?” Tim says slowly, like he’s trying not to scare off a wounded dog. He doesn’t sound soft about it, though. He puts the paper next to him. “..the fuck is wrong with you?”
What is wrong with him?
Well to start, he wasn’t fucking eating. He thinks suicide is the only way to live, but then is to much of a coward to actually go through with it. He’s got a fresh, new cut across his side that he didn’t clean right. He looks too much like a girl and too much like his siblings. He can’t see himself unless he’s dead. And he got fucking-
Is that the right word? It can’t be. It’s not like he ever really said no.
(It’s not like you ever said yes)
And it’s still all his own fault.
Curly scowls at Tim, “Fuck off, Tim.” He rolls his eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“Woah, hey- he was just askin’ if you were fine. Don’t be such an ass about it,” Angela intervenes, glaring at Curly. She’s put her nail polish on the floor next to the chair and has fixed herself to facing Curly with both legs in front of her.
“I don’t need him all up in my business. Tell him to get off my ass,” he hisses, hunching more in on himself, putting his hands in his jean pockets. He’s trying so hard not to start yelling because the last thing he needs is to feel like he’s back at that night: him yelling, the others not hearing him and making him quiet.
“That ‘him’ is right here,” Tim states, standing up. “Now, I don’t know what stuck you have stuck up your ass, Curly, but you don’t need to get so fucking defensive.” He takes a step forward, and Curly takes a small one back. “I’m askin’ because I care-“
And despite himself, Curly scoffs. “Like bullshit you care.”
Tim stops his rant about how much he ‘cares’ and stares at Curly. It’s unnerving. Angela’s standing up now, too. She shares Tim’s same expression- albeit a tiny bit more somber.
Curly wants to throw up.
He scowls again before he starts to walk away and towards the door.
“You can’t just leave after saying’ that-“
There’s a hand pressing down on his shoulder.
-there’s a hand grabbing his shoulder. He can’t remember what’s said but suddenly there’s one in his mouth and it’s hard to breathe. The one on his shoulder trails down and Curly can’t get out-
He flinches away. Nearly backing into a wall with wild eyes that of a scared dog.
He needs- he needs to get out- it can’t happen again, please-
His breathing is heavy and it’s the only other thing he can hear besides muffled voices and ringing. He wraps his arms around him in some sort of protection. He lets himself slide down the wall and hide.
“Don’t- don’t, please,” he begs quietly. He doesn’t know why he’s saying that, because it’s not like it’ll work. Maybe it’s for some sick comfort or odd peace of mind. “Please, I-I’m sorry.” If you were to ask, he couldn’t tell you why he’s doing anything right now.
He needs to get out-
He snaps his attention up, frantically looking for an out when he’s met with the faces of Tim and Angela.
They’re both kneeling in front of him (-drenched in his blood, pleading for him to come back-), and Tim has his hands raised up in surrender and Angela has a hand pushed forward on the ground like she wants to help. Have.. are they crying?
Curly blinks and registers that he is.
He doesn’t know why it’s so bad this time. Usually he can hide it or ignore it until he breaks down in the bathroom. He doesn’t know why a single touch had sent him off.
(Maybe it’s because you just tried to kill yourself, and now all those memories are now in the spotlight)
(Maybe it’s because you were too pathetic to go through with it)
(Maybe because it’s was all your fault)
Angela’s- Angela’s saying something and he tried to focus on that so he can look away from Tim. So he can look away from his eyes. And he wants to feel in chanrge of his own body again.
“-uh- you, you cut your hair, yeah? Seems a little shorter. Makes you look more like Tim, right? More- uh- more boyish- manly-“
Makes you look more like Tim.
Like Tim.
Curly never sees himself unless he’s dead. It’s always someone else. And, apparently, no one sees him either.
He didn’t want to look like Tim, he never has. He didn’t cut his hair to look like Tim, he cut it so he could try and stop feeling it being tugged back and ripped out by rough hands. He cut it so he would stop feeling like he’s still there-
But it didn’t fucking work, did it? It’s still in your skin, your eyes, your throat. It’s the venom you wish to spit out but can’t. You can’t leave what doesn’t want you gone. You can leave your own mistakes.
Would they finally see him if he were dead?
(Would he finally be left alone? Far away from the hands that won’t leave and the stares that won’t stop burning)
Would they even care enough to look?
“Shut up!” He cries, choppy and fast. He tries to move back more, but can’t. So, instead, he curls in on himself and tightly wraps his arms himself, digging his nail in his skin.
He doesn’t know if he’s yelling at himself or Angela. He just needs it to go away-
(What do you need gone? The hands? The voices? The face? Or everything? What do you need so badly to be gone)
(Yourself, maybe)
Curly’s eyes flick around the room, his breathing growing faster. There’s a vague warmth of blood on his arm and the cut on his side is stinging.
He- he’s trapped. It’s closing in and feels like his step-dad locked him in his old room again. No banging or scratching would ever open the door (he learned fast that being quiet was the quickest way to get out and stay out).
He can’t- he can’t breathe. He’s trapped between the wall and bodies (he’s stuck in a corner and there’s him, grinning and caging in and Curly tries to kick and run but he only gets so far before getting pulled and-)
There’s a door.
It’s- it’s behind the two, hazy figures that won’t give him space to breathe. He can feel the hands creeping up even when they don’t move, and he needs to get out.
The hands on his neck loosens ever so slightly.
He could try and kick and run, maybe it would work second time around?
What if it doesn’t?
It can’t happen again.
What if it does?
Curly would kill himself before it could.
The hand loosens.
“Get off me!” He screams, kicking out wildly. He can feel the impact and it makes his lungs squeeze a little less, but it still hurts to breathe. The door is more clear and he makes a choice.
Even with voices yelling for him and the touches on his skin burning again. Even with the shadows creeping out to grab him and that fucking grinding face. He runs.
He runs and tries not to look back.
(He’s didn’t make it that far before)
(He’s never made it that far)
-+-
It’s Ponyboy that finds him. Not his siblings.
There’s an old park at the end of the street on the East Side. Bits of metal stolen from the swing set, only one still hanging. Benches have been vandalized and crude drawings under a slide, some done by yours truly.
Tim had found it years ago, when they were still living with their step-dad. They had been running to the Curtis’s after Curly did something stupid to get on his bad side. Angela said that his legs were covered in blood, and Tim said he was barely breathing. Looking at the scar on his thigh- it’s probably not far off.
All Curly remembers was the cold pain and hazy feeling. But that’s probably he was used to more beatings than he should’ve been able to take.
They didn’t take him to the hospital, because then there’d be a record of it. Because then they would know and it would only get worse. And, maybe then the state would get involved. But he wouldn’t have his siblings anymore.
Mr. Curtis had sent Tim out for a walk to try and calm him down. Only going when promised Curly would be alive, apparently.
He probably left the moment you were out of his hands because he didn’t want to deal with your whining.
He’d found the park not long after, and suddenly they’d all go there if they needed to be out of that house and weren’t in danger. It’s far enough in greaser territory to where Soc’s wouldn’t jump them, but hidden away enough hardly anyone knows it’s there.
Curly goes there sometimes after him and Tim fight. Occasionally, he’ll see Cade hiding under the slide when he goes to sit at the swing. Neither say anything at all.
It’s easier to breathe the money he gets there, and not just because he’s not running anymore. It’s open and he doesn’t feel trapped anymore. He’s not backed into a corner.
He can be alone, too.
(He hates being alone)
He lets himself fall to the ground against a pole holding up the swing. He folds his legs in front of him, grasps at his chest and tries to breathe normally again. He’s still crying because he’s just that pathetic he falls apart the moment the hands cage around him again.
He gasps for breath and his chest shudders. It still hurts but it’s easier. He finds the hands retreating but still lingering. He scratches at his throat rough enough to draw blood and stay red for a while.
The pole is cold against his back, even with the old jacket over him. It’s grounding, in a way. Something to focus on instead of the shadows and his fucked up breathing.
It’s not the first time, but it’s still just as scary. Especially because Tim and Angela saw.
It takes a hot minute. Eventually he calms down enough and ducks his head against his knees for a second. Then, he knocks his head to the pole and rubs loose tears away with his thumb.
It’s embarrassing.
When he stands up, his legs feel wobbly and his head feels hazy. He doesn’t make any noise when he sits in the swing and starts slowly rocking. He used to do this a lot when he still lived with his parents. There’s old, dried blood on the corner of it from when his step-dad cut his arm with a bottle years ago. It was for something stupid like sneezing when he was hungover, probably.
He kicks at the rocks and mulch, and peels skin at his lips, running his tongue over the blood.
There’s footsteps behind him-
(-hands grabbing at his shoulders, his back, closing around his throat, cutting down his skin-)
He whips his head around, ready to jump off and run again. It-it can’t happen-
Ponyboy stands there like a deer in headlights. Except for the small grin on his face. He’s wearing that stupid purple sleeveless hoodie and ratty jeans- not that Curly looks any better.
Still tense, Curly asks, “Out for a run?” He threads his fingers though the chain holding up the swing, the other wrapped around the opposite chain pulling at strings in his jeans. His heart isn’t slowing down.
Pony laughs, “Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He walks over to lean against the pole Curly cried against. And absently, Curly feels the sting in his eyes as a sharp reminder of how much of a fucking embarrassment he is to wear his family name.
There’s a half dead street lamp a few feet away, so it makes seeing a bit easier, and Curly wonders if Pony can tell he’s been crying.
“It’s late,” Curly points out. He doesn’t want to talk, but he can’t bear to be left with his thoughts. It makes the hands crawl all over him and his body not feel like his.
Pony shrugs, “Just gotta be home by ten. It’s just nine now.” Curly hums and keeps his eye to the ground, but he can feel Pony fix him with a look. “Why’re you out? Have at it with Tim?” It ain’t your parents, right goes unasked, but with how many times he and his siblings went over to Pony’s house when they still lived with them after a beating (which Curly was almost always the receiving end), he’s used to the song and dance. Darry and Soda too, probably.
“Why’d you ask?”
“You’re- you’ve got bruises on your face, and your neck is red.”
The bruising has been there for three weeks. It’s slowly fading at this point, and Curly always bruised easily, but it hits him that people don’t know. Don’t know how he got them or how long. But they all think it’s from a fight he started.
Which- obviously. He hasn’t told anyone what happened. Last thing he needs is to get kicked out and have it happen again. It’s just… Tim and Angela think he got it in a fight at reform, Pony thinks it is from a fight with Tim, and Curly would pay anything for that to be the reason.
He, he assumed no one would ask about it. He always has them at least somewhere: knees, arms, face. He knew no one knows- he thinks about the what if’s. He knows.
But now, he realizes that that’s the name he’s made for himself. That he’s always starting trouble. That people think it’s his fault he got the bruises. It’s his fault.
Didn’t you already know that?
(“It sure as hell ain’t my fault. You’re the one who led me on.”)
There’s a difference in being told and knowing. And now Curly’s been told.
The hand grabs onto his neck again, and he can’t scream anymore.
“Ain’t from that. ‘S from reform,” he says. Threading his fingers through the chain, he wonders if he’d rip his fingers off if they get stuck. Probably. Might not even hurt that bad.
“A fight?” Pony asks, a smile in his voice. “Man, I thought you’d stop. Haven’ seen you causin’ trouble no more in town.” He stumbles over his words for a moment, and takes on a more serious tone,” It’s- it’s like you’re back with your parents. With you bein’ quiet.” It’s said hesitantly and carefully, like he’s worried it might trigger something.
‘With you bein’ quiet.’
It’s true.
When he still lived with his step-dad, and with his mom being drunk and on drugs she might as well be dead already, he was always quiet. Part of it was because if he talked he’d get locked in his room, from hours to days. Once it was so long, Angela had to sneak him food as Tim went over to the Curtis’s to see if they could get him out. Not like his step-dad would notice. Probably drank so much he forgot.
And he was always quiet. Even when it didn’t matter if he didn’t say anything, he would still get locked up. But he still stayed quiet.
The weird part about it? He didn’t mind it.
He hated getting locked up, don’t get him wrong. It’s probably the cause of his fear of tight or small spaces. He hated the silence, but he didn’t mind not talking.
He didn’t start talking till a little later than Angela. But, she was only ten months older so he was still bound to talk later.
But he remembers Tim trying to get him to say something. Anything when he was younger. But then, when he did, his step-dad put locks on his bedroom door and threw him in there if he heard.
So he stayed quiet.
But then he faded to the shadows.
Then he was only known for his siblings and the crash his dad basically killed himself in.
He was called ‘Little-Tim’ and ‘Angela’s younger brother’ ( ‘sister’ a part of his mind rasps. Because that’s what he is, and that’s what some people know him as). He’s only talked about in his relation to his siblings. To his family.
He loves his family name, he does. He loves his family name because he cares (loves) for his siblings. He just- he wishes he was known for it by himself. Not because it was shared with Tim, or because it was in the news years ago with one of his dad’s old mugshots on the front page and death date under.
He wishes he was known for him.
But he’s not.
And it’s because he’s quiet.
So he grew louder, more reckless, after he left the hell that was his old house. He put the quiet, scared Curly away and he tried to not look back. He ran from it and tried to leave it. He grew more loud to make himself known.
(He hates the loud)
He wishes to be known.
And he thought he left the quiet behind. He thought he left that all behind him. But- suddenly he gets out from reform and he’s back to the way it used to be.
He’s back to quiet.
(He likes being quiet)
Curly’s back to falling behind his family. He fades back into the shadows.
He’s losing the name he wishes he can make for himself. And it feels like he’s no longer remembered. Like he no longer exists.
He’s back to being quiet.
“I ain’t back to ‘bein’ quiet’, Pon’!” He snaps, Turning to look at Pony. “And I sure ain’t back with my parents!” There’s the taste of acid in his mouth anytime he says the word. Pony doesn’t back down, though.
Pony bites the inside of his cheek, looks him up in down with his brows furrowed. Curly smooths a hand over the strings he was pulling from his jeans and wraps it around himself for a terrible sense of protection and privacy.
Pony moves to the pole in front of Curly instead of behind. He leans against his arm on it and gives a tense smile. Curly follows him with his eyes and tries to give a glare but it feels about as pathetic as it looks.
Pony jerks his head up a bit, “Haven’ been here in a while, uh? Can’t say the last time I was.”
“‘Was in reform for six months,” he states dryly. “Don’t exactly let you out to the park.”
Pony gives a small laugh, “S’pose I should’ve thought of that.”
“Should’ve.”
It’s silent for a minute. They haven’t talked one on one in a while, but they’re old friends so it’s not all that awkward. And Curly, he honestly doesn’t mind it.
But then Pony has to go and open his big mouth.
“..you alright? It-it ain’t like you to not brag about a fight.” Then he looks him up and down again. “Unless you.. didn’t get the bruises from that.”
Curly looks down to the ground again.
“Curly..?” He stays quiet. It’s embarrassing. “Curls.” He digs his nails into his side. A hand comes down on his shoulder.
-a hand grabs his shoulder and throws him back. He hits the ground and he’s trapped-
Curly flinches. And- Pony, it’s just Pony- takes the hand off. His breath turned shallow and Curly isn’t in the right mind to remember when or how long it’s been like that.
Knowing Curly won’t raise his eyes, Pony gets down on his knees hesitantly and locks his eyes with the others. Slowly, he places a comforting hand on Curly’s knee and rubs gently circles.
“Curly,” he tires again, “how’d you get these bruises?”
And Pony knows that Curly wouldn’t flinch or avoid the question as much as he is right now unless it’s from something terrible. As terrible as the time he took glass to the face from his step-dad that left three rough scars. And Curly knows Pony knows it.
And he hates it. Hates how much Pony can read him. Hates how much Pony already knows about his life.
But he hates the bruises so much more.
He hates the hand that made them and he hates the person controlling it.
(How the person who made them is still controlling him)
“It’s ain’t anythin’,” he mumbles.
Pony sighs, “C’mon, we both know that ain’t true. You never avoid the question. Never react like that unless it’s your parents,” he says softly. Curly glares at the ground and bites the skin on his lips, running his tongue over the blood.
“..it’s nothing.” And he doesn’t believe it himself.
He’s lucky Pony doesn’t push, but he knows he’s going to get asked again when his mood’s a little better.
(He cares for you)
“Okay. But, you know you can tell me, right? I-I ain’t gonna judge you,” he says, and Curly gives a nod. If only for the sake of Pony.
Pony gives a tight smile. “Say,” he starts again, “you wanna hang around my house tonight? The gang’s over and we’re plannin’ on playin’ some card games.”
Curly huffs, mouth curling into a small grin, “Your brother don’t like me very much.”
“Darry?”
“Nah, the other one.”
“Soda? Really? The Sodapop Curtis don’t like someone?” Pony rolls his eyes, drumming a silent tune on Curly’s knee.
Curly shrugs, “He thinks Imma bad influence on you.”
“He lets me hang around Dally! And Two!” Pony laughs. Curly does too, quieter and he feels himself relax a little more.
[Pony gazes at Curly when his eyes close. His shoulders sag like he’s trying to keep the world from falling. That’s not his laugh. His laugh is more bubbly and full of life, which contradicts how he grew up. Contradicts the kind of greaser he acts as.
Pony, in his bones, feels that something is wrong. That something is very wrong. He wants to push for answers, he does. But Curly looked like he was about to break when asked. It’s terrifying. It reminds him of the Curly that was born and left in his parents house.
He makes a promise to himself to help, or at least get that tired, petrified look out of Curly’s eyes]
Pony stands, “C’mon,” he says, holding out a hand for Curly to take. “Let get goin’ before Darry gets on our asses about takin’ to long.” He grins, eyes mischievous.
Reluctantly, Curly takes his hand and lets himself be pulled up with a dramatic groan. That sparks up another round of laughs, and they’re on their way.
The touch doesn’t burn.
Curly doesn’t pull away.
The hands grow quiet. His face isn’t lurking in the shadows.
Curly lets himself breathe.
-+-
He does end up staying the night on the couch.
True to Pony’s word, the whole gang is over. When they get there, they have a game of poker playing- Cade having the most winnings.
They stop when they see him. Staring like he’s some animal at the zoo. His skin itches and he pulls at his sleeves. Pony’s still holding his hand.
“Hello,” Pony calls out, dragging them both to the kitchen. A choir of ‘hey’s ring out behind them and there’s a shuffling of cards.
Darry’s in there, sitting at the table with bills spilling onto the table. He’s got cracked glasses on and is mindlessly humming a tune. Pony knocks on the table to grab his attention and Darry looks up at them both. He pauses a moment when he sees Curly, but gives them both a quick smile.
Curly bites at the skin on his lips and pulls his sleeve down.
(The hand is on his wrist again, digging into his skin)
“Nice to see you again, Curly,” Darry says, setting his pencil down. Curly nods, trying not to talk anymore than necessary. Pony rubs his finger against his knuckle.
“Didn’t break curfew, did I?” Pony asks, mockingly almost. He takes the attention off of Curly, and the hand on his wrist loosens ever so slightly.
Darry sighs, but still keeps the smile, “No, guess you didn’t.”
If Curly did that, had he still lived with his step-dad, his hand would need stitches and he’d be locked away.
Pony gives a toothy grin, “See? You can trust me.” It’s said lightly, but they all hear the undertone.
“I’ll start trusting you when you stop bringing home stray’s,” Darry responds, nodding to Curly. “I didn’t make enough leftovers for another meal. Could’ve given me a heads up.”
“How?”
“Tell me you were plannin’ on goin’ by the Shepards.”
“I went to the old park at the end of the street, Dar’.”
“Really?” He asks, “Been a long time, hasn’t it?” Pony nods and rolls his eyes, and Curly feels himself sink into the shadows.
(He lets himself stay quiet, and doesn’t force himself to be loud)
There’s a knock, again, on the wall. Soda’s standing there, eyeing Curly with suspicion. And he can feel the hands on his arms and waist again. He wraps his other arm around his body and keeps to the ground.
(It’s not that same hungry look he gave you. The look he gave you before-)
Soda clears his throat, “I was- uh- was just gonna grab beer,” he says. “What’s Curly doin’ here?” He grabs the pack from the fridge and leans against it..
Darry leans over the table to ruffle Pony’s hair until his hand is swatted away. “Baby over here picked him up from his run. Guessing you’re stayin’ the night?” He looks over at Curly for an answer, but Pony beats him to it.
And, in a way, Curly’s glad. He hasn’t seen these people in a long while, and he doesn’t feel safe in his own home let alone another’s. He- he doesn’t exactly feel like talking to anyone right now, anyway. Or talking at all.
He’s tired. He wants to sleep and forget about the night three weeks ago. He wants to forget about the hands and his face.
“Yep,” Pony answers, popping the ‘p’ at the end and fixing his hair.
“Where’s he sleepin’ then?” Soda asks. “‘Cause I’m stayin’ with Steve tonight, lettin’ Johnny stay with Pon’ and the couch ain’t set up.”
Pony rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his, “I was thinkin’ the couch.. that-that’s fine right, Curls?” Curly hums and gives a quick nod. Pony tightens the hold he has on his hand and traces shapes in his skin.
“…Curly, you okay?” Soda wonders out loud. It’s a stupid question. Obviously he’s not. He’s stuck to the shadows and hands won’t stop disappearing and then crawling back to him for the worst things that have no pattern to it.
No, he wants to say. No because I can’t stop feeling him and seeing his fucking face and I can’t not freak out when someone touches me without knowing because three weeks ago I was-
He can never admit the end. It’s pathetic.
(“You’re pathetic. In every way, y’know. With you cryin’ and scratching and squirmin’. ‘S a wonder I’m helpin’ you feel like a girl-“)
“‘M fine,” he replies, “just tired.”
Darry stands from the table, “Well, how ‘bout we get the gang cleaned up and set the couch up?” He suggests. “They can come back from breakfast- you stayin’ till then?”
Curly shrugs and digs his nails into the cut on his side.
Darry sends Soda to collect the gang and Pony takes him to the closet towards the back to grab blankets. He asks Curly if he’s okay again and says that Curly can trust him.
And for some reason, the hand claws at his throat and it’s hard to even breathe. And the hands start climbing him again.
Curly doesn’t get much sleep.
-+-
He leaves when the sun starts to shine, making it back home when it’s up in all its useless glory.
Pony had offered to walk home with him, having been up from a quiet nightmare already. Curly, obviously, said no and tried to leave soon after, but Pony had gently taken his wrist after calling his name, as to not startle him again (which worked a bit, but still). Telling him that if he needed to talk, Pony would be there.
Curly had nodded, not planning to take him up on the offer.
It was cold when he left, breath showing like puffs of smoke from cigarettes. Making him ache for one and the small burns on his shoulders sting all the same.
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket and hunches in on himself, feeling stares that aren’t there. It’s stupid. The streets are empty.
The hands are back again, pushing him forward and pulling him back. Making him trip over his own feet. His face is there in alleyways, grinning. And Curly has to remind himself that he’s not here.
That it’s been three weeks.
Three-
Three weeks.
He left reformatory three weeks ago.
The hands have been dancing along his skin for three weeks.
Hands have been burning his skin for three weeks.
The bruises and cuts still show the last night. His hair cut from where it was pulled. He weaves himself through the shadows, pulling Curly back to the memories of that night.
Three weeks.
And he’s still looking back- still not fucking over it. He- he should be, shouldn’t he? Obviously. It’s no question, of course. Obviously, why- why isn’t he-
Isn’t that sad? Poor Curly, dwelling on the last but running for the future, promising to never look back knowing you’d break it anyway. Why do you ever think it’ll be different? It can’t. It won’t. Others would be over it, wouldn’t they? It was your own fault. Why are you stuck on it so much? No one cares. Not about that- never about you.
Why didn’t you take your life yet? Why don’t you take it?
Curly hugs himself, digging his nails into his arms and speeds up. His eyes grow hazy, but not teary, and his head feels full of cotton. His ears ring and he keeps his eyes looking ahead.
A hand dances on his thigh, where a scar lays and where the hand trailed up.
He speeds up.
He’s disgusting.