Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     “Gosh, Johnny… You and your…”

     Ponyboy didn't get to finish his sentence as the thermometer twittered to life, startling them both, and he reached over to pluck it out from Johnny's mouth. The cool taste of the metal and plastic left the poorly boy's searing hot tongue — a momentary relief which left Johnny humming out sorely in disappointment at its absence. Ponyboy only turned over the tool with the flick of his wrist and looked at the green numbers displayed: it was just over 100 degrees.

     Ponyboy's eyebrows furrowed as he continued, this time in a lower tone that rumbled in his throat (it reminded Johnny an awful like how Darry spoke), “your excessive stubbornness."

     (As if YOU can be talking, Ponyboy?)

     A worried, almost self-degrading, expression dawned over Johnny's sickly face at his friend's words. Ponyboy was quick to apologize — his hands fluttering about him in his rush — as a flush of pink embarrassment burned into his twitching cheeks, rumbling upwards into a sheepish smile, with its tell-tale heat pressing at the insides of his skin; he hadn't noticed the harshness of his own tone. Truly, by the author's word, he was only worried for his friend's selfless recklessness.

     “Don't look so worried,” he said, reassuringly, “I'm not actually mad. Just lie there and rest now.”

     Johnny's wrinkles soothed out on his face, and, obedient to Ponyboy's word, he leaned back against the pillows that cushioned his heavy, aching head.

     As if a bell had sounded somewhere where Johnny couldn't hear, Ponyboy then suddenly perked up from his place at the edge of the couch. He pushed himself to his feet and walked hurriedly towards the open doorway of the kitchen. The clicking sound of a stove being turned off and ice tumbling into a glass cup could be heard, before the auburn-headed returned with a bowl of soup and a cup of iced water. Both in each hand, carefully held and balanced.

     He placed the cup on the coffee table, which had been moved to stand closer towards the couch, just at Johnny's reach. Ponyboy handed him the bowl (rest assured, it had been thoroughly cooled down before given), and he could see Johnny's Adam's Apple bobbing in his neck.

     You know how hunger is during days of illness. It leaves a heavy emptiness that doesn't feel quite empty, but doesn't feel quite full.

     Ponyboy pleaded, “Just a few bites, Johnny. Please?" And he would show off his big, shiny eyes off towards his friend, looking as helpless as possible in the efforts to convince his friend into eating.

     Johnny gave in easily. He usually did when it came to Ponyboy. He was lucky in that aspect.

     The both of them sat in a contented silence, with only the soft  sound of Johnny slurping the soup, his teeth clattering against the metal occasionally, interrupting the quiet. Indeed, it was only a few scoops before Johnny put down the bowl, a hand on his stomach. He tried to keep it down, tried to simmer the bubbling. Ponyboy set it aside, and gave Johnny a few sips of water to help.

     Johnny laid back on the couch, letting out a sigh, and Ponyboy pulled out a book. (From where? Don't ask me!) Gone With the Wind. Without question, like the two were connected by the mind, he began to read in a soft tone, making sure his voice was quiet enough so that the buzz of the background noise, outside, was audible, but loud enough to cut through any distractions. Johnny, lulled slowly by Ponyboy’s reading, wasn't strong enough to pull himself from the temptations of sleep.

     As he was pulled further and further — deeper and deeper — he had these stumbling last thoughts floating clumsily through his mind:

     that's just the kind of person Ponyboy is, huh?...

     His care wasn't loud. It wasn't audible — not exactly. It was like the background of a movie; made to blend into the casual routine of life, but if you looked close enough, you would notice that he always smiled at Darry and Soda before leaving for school; you would notice that he always hid a spare bottle of beer in the fridge for Dally for the bad days; you would notice that he managed to remember how everyone liked their eggs cooked.

     You would notice. I'm sure you would.

     You would notice that even when he thought that Johnny had drifted to sleep — though he didn't — Ponyboy continued to read. Maybe for his own enjoyment. Maybe to fill in the silence that Johnny would leave once he surrendered to slumber. Maybe he didn't want to leave the birds perched on the branches on a cliffhanger.

     Soiled deep in his skin, though, there was an unforgettable, undeniable vein of warmth rushing through Johnny’s body as he lost his consciousness — and he was quite sure it wasn't from the sickness.

     Ponyboy’s warm voice filled his cold head, drowning out his thoughts, as he drifted off.

     He noticed.

Chapter Text

     What do you do when you're fourteen years old, and your friend had drunk himself into a slump a few hours ago, and you only have a faint idea of how to handle a hangover because your older brothers are usually the ones to solve that kind of problem?

     That question quietly revolved like a gear in Ponyboy's mind as he gently pat-pat-pat at Two-Bit's back, perpetually blocking out the sounds of his friend's regurgitation that echoed off the bowl of the toilet. It was a few moments before the bathroom grew quiet once more, and Ponyboy felt a sudden weight against his legs that nearly sent him tumbling to the linoleum floor; Two-Bit had lost the strength to hold himself up anymore, and slumped backwards against the only thing that would anchor is fall.

     Ponyboy, finding his balance quickly, then looked down, seeing Two-Bit's droopy eyes and heaving chest. He dragged him to sit against the wall. He gave him some water and flushed down the inner contents of his friend's stomach. He shivered at the sight.

     After a few sips of water and wiping his mouth clean, Ponyboy managed, not without a great deal of struggle, to throw Two-Bit onto the couch. He landed with an ungraceful, rather haphazard thump against the cushions. Ponyboy let out a huff of breath when the ginger-haired greaser was settled the couch.

     Two-Bit looked like every aspect of a drunken mess: his hair losing its greasy affect as the strands stuck out this way and that — towards the table, towards the carpet, towards the side table, towards the TV — and his Mickey Mouse shirt looking like it sat on top of his beer-belly instead of on. One pant leg was rolled up just a few inches above his ankle, the other remained loose over his heel.

    Yeah. He was a mess.

     Ponyboy let out a pitiful sigh — because, admittedly, he never liked to see Two-Bit like this, and he shortly wondered how differently alcohol can affect different people — before sitting down right above Two-Bit’s messy head of redish-orange hair. The older let out a groan, his muscles straining as he tossed himself onto his side. Ponyboy was sure he could hear the rumbling of Two-Bit’s stomach again, and he readied himself to run for a trash can. His feet were magnetized to the floor.

     But Two-Bit only said, in the quietest voice Ponyboy had ever heard from his own tongue: “Pone…. The… The light….”

     Ponyboy sat there. Soaking in the quiet. Not just from the room. Then, his hand absently reached over and dimmed down the lamp just a bit. The discomforting creases, which spoke of his agitation, on Two-Bit’s face then disappeared. There was a kind of unnatural peacefulness in his face; Ponyboy would stare, eyes absorbing every detail. Scanning, like there was something to be found.

     Two-Bit shifted again. This time, his head ended up on Ponyboy’s denim lap.

     Ponyboy just barely froze in surprise, just barely stiffened. Not even a squeak of a sound left him, despite of his startlement; something inside him urged to suppress any kind of sudden movement that would scare Two-Bit away back to his side of the couch. Another part of him wanted to push him away. Greasers weren't affectionate. Greasers were tough... Both sides wrestled behind those doe, glowing green-gray eyes as he stared down at the hazy expression of his friend.

     It seemed he was gaining a bit of himself back, if that smug look said anything.

     “Hey, Pon',” Two-Bit would say after a good minute of silence. Ponyboy blinked, but didn't get to answer, as the other pushed further, “Pony… Y'know… You're a good friend, huh?... You're better than all of us, y'know… Y'so smart… N’ cool n’ stuff…”

     Nevermind. He was completely lost in the sauce.

     Ponyboy could feel his cheek enlighten with that familiar — unfortunately for him — rush of heat that settled deeply underneath his skin and made itself comfortable in the rush of blood. He could practically feel himself glowing, though Two-Bit didn't comment on it. Maybe he was admiring how the glow made Ponyboy’s face look a little younger than he already did. (As the author, I feel obliged to tell: he definitely was, and was wondering how someone like Ponyboy ends up on the East side of Tulsa.)

     Ponyboy suddenly slapped a hand over Two-Bit’s mouth, tongue trembling as the words traveled. “How about you focus on getting some rest instead of running that mouth of yours? Your breath stinks.” He added that last part almost as a mumble, and Two-Bit couldn't help chuckling.

     He did close his eyes, however. The imprint of Ponyboy’s face did sear into the back of his eyelids.

     His voice spoke again.

     “You're a good friend yourself, Two.”

     Ponyboy could only hope that Two-Bit had heard what he said before he had drifted off — and he did.

     Though it wouldn't show on his face at the moment, a few days later, Ponyboy would find a cardboard carrier full of Pepsi bottles in the fridge instead of beer.

     For now, in the present, Two-Bit's head would remain on Ponyboy's lap, and he would not push away. The golden dim illumination from the lamp grazed like a gentle hand against the hungover friend's face, soothing him further and further into sleep. Once again, Ponyboy watched a pair of eyes, holding a sickly, peaceful gaze, fall shut. The darkness behind your eyes doesn't feel as intimidating when you know someone is with you.

     Ponyboy wouldn't push him away.

Chapter Text

     "C’mon Soda — c’moonn! Just drink it!”

     “No! Hell no! —”

     Were the words that spat from Soda’s cracked and dry lips as he hunched over into another coughing fit, at least the fourth one since this morning. It only lasted for a moment though, shorter than the previous ones, and Ponyboy's sudden spike of worry declined quickly when Soda sat upright again and glared, again, at the shot of purple liquid in the plastic cup like it had personally offended him and his whole generation.

     Ponyboy rolled his eyes dramatically, but the bubbling feeling of amusement in his stomach refused to settle down. “This is literally the ONLY medicine you'll have to drink all day!” Soda's younger brother urged him, thrusting the cup forwards. “Drink it!”

     And yet, Soda remained resolute, backing away from the cup as if it contained the world's deadliest disease; his face grimaced just at the sight of it, not to mention at the smell of it!

     Ponyboy mentally berated the Darry three weeks earlier over getting grape medicine over bubblegum at the drug store, which, in Soda's argument, was objectively better than a grape medicine. (It was, very much indeed, a subjective argument, for you readers. I can already sense your fingers twitching for the comment section. Soda doesn't — or at least didn't — know the difference. I assure you, he definitely meant subjective.)

     Letting out a huff of determined defiance, Soda threw himself backwards onto the mattress, which rippled underneath his weight, sending waves throughout the freshly-cleaned sheets — smelling of a softener that tingled your nostrils — and underneath Ponyboy’s legs, before he tossed the thick layers of blankets over himself. Now his brother was just a lump in a bed, an octopus among the reef. Ponyboy groaned out dramatically.

     For, well, about the sixth time that day.

     Okay, then, Ponyboy thought. If that's how we're gonna play this… Two can play that game.

     Of course, Ponyboy knew that Soda was just fooling with him. He still hated grape medicine, of course, but there really wasn't any reason for acting so dramatic over it! (Other than… Hating grape medicine.) Ponyboy could read him like a book. He generally could for everyone — the expression of a person was just like printed text, and the way it changed and shifted and warped felt familiar to how the pages fluttered between his fingers.

     He wouldn't really call it a talent, though. (How humble!) It did come in handy with situations like these. Sometimes it opened up to Ponyboy more than he could handle.

     While Soda remained hidden under the covers, Ponyboy quickly rubbed at his eyes aggressively, scratching his calloused knuckles against his skin. Suddenly, like a switch being flipped in a theatre — darkness! — a multitude of scenes began to flash through the darkness behind his hands. His eyes… Successfully, tears began to bubble over, and I don't think I need to explain to the reader what Ponyboy had done in order to trigger such a rapid reaction.

     (Just in case: he's using crocodile tears. Fake tears. It's up to you who taught him.)

     He sniffled loud enough for Soda to hear; the fish caught his bait, and slowly, Ponyboy reeled him upwards over the surface with the sounds of his crafty sobs.

     “Ugh… You're frustratin’ me, Soda..!” He whined in his most pathetic voice possible, internally cringing at himself over the sound. He kept back a shiver and wept like the world depended on it, “I don't want you dyin’ over me just because you wouldn't take your goddam medicine! I'm worried for you!”

     Immediately, through the blur, Ponyboy watches as Soda's reaction melt into concern as he takes in his little brother's "sobbing" state. Inevitably, a part of him knew that this really was all a prank back at him, Ponyboy's revenge, but that other, sentimental part couldn't help the pang of disturbance at the sight of his brother.

     Swallowing heavily, Soda let out a huff of amusement as he took the cup from Ponyboy’s hand. “Okay, okay. You win.”

     Glaring at the cup with disgust, Soda put it to his lips and gulped it down quickly, with Ponyboy watching with a sort of sadistic fascination as the thick liquid drained down his pipe. Soda made a visceral reaction, but smiled as Ponyboy grinned and wiped away his fake tears.

     “Gotcha.”

     Soda rolled his eyes.

     He'll pay him back one day.