Chapter Text
Tulsa City County Library, June 20 1966
Ponyboy stepped into the building, the smell of books and the quietness of his early morning shift hitting him all at once. Normally it would have been a great comfort, to be surrounded by stacks of knowledge all at his fingertips, but this was a job, not his free time. And the worst part was the socs that hung out there all the time. Because the building had recently gotten the tiniest bit of funding, as well as air conditioning, the socs had all taken it over. It made Pony nervous in a way; his biggest goal was to just avoid trouble, but here he was, working in the middle of it. He did what he could, cleaning up, wearing tuff clothes like his worn jeans and a scuffed up jacket he found in the back of his and sodas closet. He constantly tried to use hand sanitizer, just to smell a little cleaner, no matter the headache it gave him. He was damn proud to be a greaser; of course he was, that was his family. He just… felt he had enough to deal with. His legs still burned badly, he had no desire to get up every morning, and goddammit he was struggling so badly with grief everyday. Why add excessive bullying to it? So he stayed tuff, head down, clean, and did his job quickly and efficiently. And it worked, most of the time.
Pony shakes his head, taking himself out of his thoughts. He pushes on the piston for the hand sanitizer on the wall, rubbing his hands together as he takes a straight left to the break room. He punches in and puts on his employee badge. He kinda liked having it, something he wore proudly on his chest whenever he was helping someone find a book. Sure, going anonymous would be better so no one could pick on him when the school year started again, but right now he could just be Ponyboy: the kid who knew exactly where to help you find that book you wanted.
He steps back out into the main area, silently checking in with his coworkers through a look. Nobody talked to each other unless necessary. He loved it. Walking over to the returned book stack, he collects all the books from the 300-400 category and starts to take the stack to the appropriate bookshelves.
He sat in front of the shelf with a quiet groan of pain, picking up the first book. He loved the texture of the covers, the feel of the pages, the smell of well taken care of but thoroughly read books. He reads the label; 331.709, a book on historical trades and professions. He sets it on the shelf, finger slowly tracing down the spine as he picks up the next. And the next, and the next. Once he was finished with this pile, he tried to stand, his leg and hip barely cooperating with him. He could just barely stop the whimper that tried to escape as pain shot up his leg. His joints had felt so incredibly bad today, much worse than normal. It had felt as if a thick iron hook was stabbed through his knees and ankles and hips, each joint having its own 50 pound weight attached. They felt loose, like gravity and those weights had pulled them down and out of where they were supposed to be. He bit his tongue, limping now to grab the next set of books. Nobody bothered him about it; tears? Not a single ‘are you okay’. Limping? Not one ‘what happened?’ Even when he collapsed, everybody just stepped over him instead of going to help. This was the norm for Ponyboy, everywhere he went. You would think home would be better, with how protective his brothers are, but they were just so… busy, he would say. Nobody paid attention to his pain, and in turn he never purposely whined about it. He just kept pushing.
He grabs more books, legs shaking now. He could do this. He was tuff, like Dally. Like Darry. Like Johnny, even. He could do this. It was just a little pain, probably worsened from track practice. He slides the books into the shelf, fitting them perfectly in place to where all of them stood completely upright. He paused at the next book, reading the front: THE UNITED LIBRARY OF FAMILY HEALTH - The New ILLUSTRATED Medical and Health Encyclopedia. It was fairly new, published two years ago and the 13th volume of what Pony assumed was a series. He opens it, and begins reading over every condition, every symptom that he could find inside. He loved learning new things, even just for fun, but this felt a lot more personal if he was being honest. Maybe it was born from the small bit of hope that it gave him, seeing the brunt of his pain and suffering turned into words. Not that anything he was seeing fit exactly, but some things did. His eyes lingered on ‘juvenile idiopathic rheumatoid arthritis’, which seemed to fit him somewhat. I mean, he had the widespread pain, and the difficulty walking. His joints never seemed to be particularly inflamed, but Pony was so desperate to have even the smallest answer that he would cling onto it. Maybe more research would help confirm something, anything.
Pulling down any medical book that was both on the shelf and from his earlier stack, he starts to read. He studied each and every page, absorbing as much as his muddled brain could. He felt a little guilty, sure; he was still clocked in, and doing absolutely zero work. And the guilt piled on even worse when he started to come to the realization that no, arthritis didn't exactly fit. His joints were too loose for that, and the lack of inflammation was pretty damn telling. Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe he was just weak, maybe he needed to push it more. That would be better than moping like this, he supposes.
He sets the books back up, limping back to the front desk. Seeing that there were no more books to put back into their respective shelves, he gave a big sigh of relief and headed back to his somewhat safe spot near the back of the library. The socs stayed up front, and this place had both a seat and was hidden. He limps over to the desks, slipping his way between them and the wall. These were testing desks, so they had built in dividers that hid Pony perfectly. And because it was summer, nobody was testing there, so it was a win-win. He couldn't bask in the happiness for long, though, as the pain started to crawl back into his veins and make itself known. He could feel nausea bubbling back up in his gut, starting from where his ribs ended and shooting straight through his throat. This had been happening a lot recently, as when Ponyboy's brain ran out of distractions from the pain, it hit him full force. Tears started to bubble, making a sharp pain shoot through his head right about where the frontal lobe and parietal lobe met on the right side. This just made him more overwhelmed, and he could feel the sharp silent sobs wrack through him. He hit himself in the head as hard as he could until the tears stopped, grounding himself in the present and forcing himself to calm down. He couldn't do this, not right now. Not at work. Not when he could easily be hurt. He needed to shut himself and his brain off, to function like a zombie just until the work day was over.