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Curly is practically royalty on the East side of Tulsa, Oklahoma.
If you were to tell someone who just has an outside view of his life that, they’d probably laugh in your face and try taking you to the looney bin.
After all, he was hauled in for some crime or another every other week. And those damn Socs don’t exactly shy away from jumping him and trying to beat him into the pavement.
But the fact doesn’t change just because he sometimes finds himself in a bit of trouble. He’s practically royalty on the East side because he’s practically royalty to the gangs there, and everyone in Tulsa knows the gangs run that part of town.
He’s part of Tim’s inner circle. Sure, it’s because he’s the guy’s little brother, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’d be crazy to come onto Shepard territory and pick a fight with Curly.
Just like you’d be crazy to pick a fight with any of the Curtises when they’re with one of their gang. Or you’d be crazy to pick a fight with any of the Brumly Boys if you’re over in Brumly. Or you’d be crazy to pick a fight with any of the Tigers over on Tiber Street.
Or—you get the point by now.
That being said, the inner circles of each gang are known by everyone and known well. When a Soc is feeling like trouble and they wanna piss of the Curtis gang, they’ll pick a fight with Ponyboy. If they want the Shepard gang to breathe down their necks, they’ll pick a fight with Curly.
That’s why Curly wears his black eyes and busted lips with a proud face. Because it means he matters enough that he caught someone’s eye.
There’re only two things he can think of that would ever make him want to give up that spot.
Ponyboy Curtis and his stupid fucking face.
Because if he’s practically royalty in the Shepard gang, then Ponyboy is definitely royalty in the Curtis gang.
Hell, Johnny Cade killed someone (and nearly died himself) because Pony was in danger. And, yeah, Curly heard the story straight from Pony. He heard about water entering Pony’s lungs and a last resort attack from Johnny, but anyone who wasn’t there that night thought it was just because they had gotten jumped.
Which means any time Pony and Curly go somewhere together, everyone’s watching them like the East side is gonna implode.
It quiets down for a second, when they enter the Dingo, and Curly can’t stand it. How he can already feel the phantom eyes grazing his skin and Pony shivers slightly next to him.
They walk over to a table in the far corner, and the eyes are still burning into his skin. It must be worse for Pony (whose head still stuck in the media storm after Windrixville half the time, convinced someone is analyzing him anyway.)
Curly lets him have the seat facing the door.
They don’t talk until the table right next to them starts up their conversation again.
“How you been?” Pony asks quietly, eyes trained on the windows facing the street.
“I was only in the reformatory for two weeks, man.”
Pony shrugs and pulls out a cigarette. “Got a light?”
Curly throws a matchbook he got from Angela as a homecoming gift to Pony who just nods in thanks.
It doesn’t escape his notice that Pony’s hand shakes when he brings the cigarette to his lips.
Suddenly, he regrets ever letting Pony talk him into going to a restaurant. Pony is right there, just a table separating them, and he can’t even touch Pony’s hand.
“Thought Darrel started being a hardass about your smoking habit.”
“He gave it up once I stopped being sick. He couldn’t catch me every time ‘cause I would always smell like it and say it was Steve or one of the guys.” Pony gives a sly smirk. “Man, am I lucky that guy doesn’t smoke or he’d be able to tell the difference between Two’s smoke and mine.”
Curly smiles, only really half-listening, remembering three weeks ago, right before he got booked for shoplifting.
They’d been in Curly’s room, where the eyes burning into their skin wasn’t gone, but it was less. Pony had curled up next to Curly, and he hadn’t even cared that he was just doing a math assignment, it felt like he was floating on air the whole time. He had been scared to move, scared to let Pony know that he was there, he was the one Pony was leaning on.
The smell of cigarette smoke, cheap Old Spice cologne, and Murray’s hair grease filling every inch of Curly’s head and he had felt so unusually content that he could’ve died there, happy.
Pony always had that effect on him, giving him that overwhelming feeling of contentness so thick he could choke.
He had never understood how Pony could always just zone out, how the kid could be walking along and just completely check out. Now he gets it.
Tim has made fun of him a million times in the past couple months, saying he needed to stop hanging around with that Curtis kid, if he was adopting his habits.
But Curly found it too easy to be wrapped up in the idea of Pony Pony Pony that he could hardly even breathe, let alone think.
When a waitress comes over to the table, he lets Pony order for him, the thought of snapping back to Earth seeming like a Herculean task. He knows Pony’ll order him a lemonade and order himself a Pepsi, so he doesn’t have to listen in.
He lets Pony talk, probably ranting about something, if the look on his face is anything to go by. He can hear the voice but any words he tries to latch onto just slip right past his reach.
If he were a poet like Pony, he could probably put it in some real flowery, pretty-like words. Something something honey something something velvet. But right now, he just settles on Pony’s voice being smooth, comforting like the handle of a switchblade.
He’d be willing to sink into it and listen for the rest of time, but he can’t do that, especially not in public. So, he sips on his lemonade when it comes and shakes his head when the waitress asks if he wants anything to eat. (She’s the only thing interrupting the flow of Pony’s voice and it makes an irrational bolt of anger flit up his spine, sparking in his brain. But then Pony’s talking again and she’s gone, so the firework fizzles out.)
Jeez, he’s so gone for this guy.
Tim would probably purse his lips if he could see Curly right now, whack him upside the head and tell him to stop being so damn soft.
But Tim ain’t here right now and Curly ain’t gotta think about it.
It’s not the first time he finds himself wishing Pony were a girl, so they could hold hands or something. Kiss on the sidewalk without anyone batting an eye. Anything more than a hidden ring on a chain around Pony’s neck.
Hell, if it meant Pony would be safe, and they could finally be together without anyone saying anything about it, Curly would declare himself a queer and walk through the West Side with a peace sign hanging around his neck like some kind of hippie.
But that’d get him nothing but a bad beating and maybe an early grave.
Curly doesn’t wish for many things, because he knows it does nothing but waste time (‘If you want something done, don’t look at a damn star, Curls. Just do it yourself.’ Tim says, on their couch, patching up an injury. He’d gotten hurt, but he’d gotten the scrap delivered on time. Curly is nine, and he takes in every word like its gospel.) but he breaks that rule, wishing with his whole being that he wasn’t such a damn freak.
That he and Pony wouldn’t get hauled into the station for kissing on a public street.
That they both wouldn’t be killed eventually if someone with a big mouth found out.
That his status as basically-royalty on the East Side would grant him protection, instead of just some useless reputation. (But it isn’t useless. Not to Curly or to Ponyboy. It’s one of the few things they can cling to without seeing it washed away in a second.)
It must’ve been a whole half-hour spent in Curly’s head, wallowing in regrets and basking in the sound of Pony’s voice, because Pony’s done with his fries, throwing down some money that Soda must’ve given him and jerking his head towards the door.
Curly can vaguely register the Dingo quiet for just a second again when he and Pony stand up, but he doesn’t snap back to reality until they’re already out the doors.
Once they’re out of the parking lot, and past the nauseating mix of sights, smells, and, sounds that make up the Dingo, his head quiets a little bit, enough that he remembers to tuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and slouch his shoulders.
They’re firmly in greaser territory right now, not just because the Dingo is technically downtown, but because there’s plenty of other hoods milling around.
Curly speeds up, just so he’ll have an excuse to grab Pony’s wrist and drag him along.
When a hood gives them a weird look as he passes by, Pony pulls his hand back and whispers. “We’re in public.”
Public means people.
People with eyes.
Watching.
Curly sighs and puts his hand back in his pocket.
When they get to Pony’s house (it goes past Curly’s own by a couple minutes, but he’ll just double back around if it means Pony gets home safe), if his brothers or his gang ain’t there, he might pull Curly inside for long enough to kiss him, but if there are people at the Curtis house, Curly won’t even get a foot inside the gate.
He looks down at his watch.
It’s 4:37.
Sodapop and Steve get off work at 3:30 on Wednesdays.
Curly sighs again, staring up at the sky and soaking himself in Pony’s voice.