Chapter Text
Time doesn’t stop. Not for anybody.
Darrel Curtis was well aware of this, but that didn’t make the fact any easier to accept.
Johnny and Dally were gone. Two-Bit’s drinking was getting out of control. Steve was fighting with his dad more. Soda was a mess. Ponyboy was falling apart at the seams.
And Darry? He didn’t really know how he was handling it. He kind of just...
Wasn’t.
Not really.
It was just too much for him to process—Johnny dying in his hospital bed and Dally getting shot. His brain wouldn’t let him consume it. He didn’t want to believe it.
And that was fine. He could ignore it. He could try.
When Ponyboy was in an okay enough condition to go back to school, and Soda had begged for them to stop arguing so much, and the court hearing was over, Darry worked more. Harder, if anything. Pony’s medical bills weren’t anything light, and if roofing houses from dawn to dusk meant that he didn’t have to think about everything—like the box in the living room labeled ‘Dally’s stuff’, and the trash bag of Johnny’s belongings that none of them were brave enough to go through, then so be it.
Working kept Darry’s mind from wandering into dark places. He didn’t need to think about Dally and his gun, Johnny and his eyes, Mom and Dad and their laughs and their hugs. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Darry did think about it. He thought about it when he woke up first thing in the morning. He thought about it when he drove to work. He thought about it on top of the houses he worked on. He thought about it when he drove home from work. He thought about it when he closed his eyes and dreamt about the newspaper and the courtroom and Ponyboy.
And he thought about it, unconsciously, when he pushed the door of the house open that night, free from a twelve hour shift, the heaviness of work and stress and exhaustion pulling his shoulders down as his boots hit the floorboards underneath him.
And he thought about it when he slumped against the doorframe and closed his eyes, something burning longingly in his chest, like his heart was reaching for something untouchable.
He thought about it when he opened his eyes and looked up.
Ponyboy was in the kitchen. Doing… something.
Darry stopped and blinked a few times.
Then, and only then, did he stop thinking about it all. His thoughts were focused on something else.
Something like: Ponyboy left his room? Willingly?
That was the thing—Ponyboy, ever since that week in Windrixville, had been a wreck and a half.
He wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating, wasn’t trying in school anymore. His behavior had gone from quiet to completely reserved. Mom and Dad’s deaths had already destroyed him. Now? After Johnny and Dally, he was locked in his head without a key.
His smoking had gotten out of control. He argued more frequently. He hardened, in some kind of way—like a timid fox who growled when approached.
He softened, somewhat, when Soda had fled the house in a fit of emotion because of the constant arguing. But the fog over his eyes never fully retreated.
Seeing him out of his room in general was one thing. But seeing him out on his own accord was a different can of worms.
Pony looked up at him then, eyes dull and blank like there wasn’t a thought behind them. He looked like a zombie in the moonlight.
Darry didn’t like when his eyes clouded over like that. It made him sad.
“Hi,” Pony called, and then went right back to whatever he was doing.
Darry slowly walked up to the kitchen counter and slumped against it. He didn’t know what to say for a long time. He just closed his eyes and breathed.
“Hey, Pony,” he said eventually, casually, because it took an arm and a leg to get Pony to even talk these days and he didn’t want to scare him off. “What’re you doin’ up? It’s eight o’clock.”
What he really meant was: Why are you out here? You usually aren’t. What’s different about today?
Pony resumed to… stirring a pot of something on the stove. “What’re you doin’ home? Didn’t you get off at nine?” He asked cautiously.
“M’boss let me off an hour early,” then Darry looked over and raised an eyebrow. A boiling pot of noodles sat on the stove. “You’re… cooking? Why?”
It was odd because it was dark out and Pony didn’t cook. Not anymore. He used to like cooking a lot because it reminded him of their mama.
Now, he barely even ate.
The kid shrugged simply, like that made any lick of sense. “You ‘n Soda were working late tonight, and neither of ya end up eatin’ when you come home.” And jeez, saying that made Darry and Soda both sound like hypocrites. “Thought I’d, like… do somethin’ to help. Pull my weight around here.”
Pull his weight? Darry’s thoughts acknowledged, What?
Then Pony looked at the ground thoroughly, like he was having a silent conversation with it. “V’been layin’ around too much,” he mumbled diffidently.
Darry’s posture tightened, and he looked up.
He didn’t like that. Not one bit.
But he didn’t say that out loud—instead, he moved swiftly, placed himself in front of the kitchen sink, and began washing the dishes.
Ponyboy eyed him as he did so, shoulders coming up as he said, “Darry, you just got home. Go shower or somethin’, I can do it.”
But Darry shook his head—he could feel something dark radiating off of Ponyboy like fog that wouldn’t dissipate. It vacuumed up the air and it was very, very hard not to notice.
And maybe he couldn’t say the right things to get Pony out of that fog, like Soda could—but he could try.
“S’okay, Pony. I want to help,” he said, because he did. He didn’t care if he just got home. Pony was more important than the exhaustion pulling his shoulders down.
Pony reacted weirdly to that. His shoulders came up fast as he bit his lip and turned away, finding the pot of noodles he was stirring to be far more interesting than indulging in any conversation.
They stayed that way for a while—silence, somewhat tense, but tired all the same.
Pony was focused on stirring the pot of noodles as he asked, “When’s Soda comin’ home?”
“In an hour,” Darry replied simply, not looking up. The kid hummed in acknowledgment and carried on.
When most of the dishes were done, Darry slipped past Pony’s hunched over figure and took the onion from the counter. He picked out the cutting board and the cutting knife as his little brother turned to him, eyes narrowing.
“Darry, please,” he said, voice low, “I can do it. Go lay down.”
Could Pony do it? Darry wasn’t so sure.
He used to be able to, before everything happened. Now he just looked like a frail leaf waiting to be blown away.
So he changed the subject. “How was school?” He began cutting the onion into small pieces. Pony sucked in a sharp breath behind him. It made his stomach twist.
“Fine,” he whispered, “Just fine.”
“Steve drove you home, yeah? Was he speedin’?”
“He wasn’t.”
“Good.”
The silence that followed was a little grating.
Pony came over and strained the noodles in the sink next to him, expression twisted in an odd way.
“How was work?” He asked charily.
Darry eyed him, but didn’t comment how the question made him blink. Pony had stopped asking that when the fighting had gotten worse. Stopped looking at him in general.
But they were getting there. Slowly, if anything.
“Good,” he replied, the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of his lips. “Real good.”
Pony didn’t look at him, but Darry could see the fog in his eyes retreating. Just slightly. “Good.”
And then it was silent again, but that didn’t bother Darry none. They weren’t talkers around one another, and that was fine.
When the onion was cut, Darry dumped it into the small pot filled with red sauce and took the cutting board to the sink. Ponyboy was already occupying the space, head ducked and shoulders raised as he rinsed out the noodle pot.
He was wearing one of Soda’s old jackets, but the sleeves were so big on him that water was getting all over the cuffs.
What happened then was sort of instinctual. Darry saw a problem, and his brain immediately went to fix it. He came up behind his brother and tugged his soaked right sleeve up to his elbow, just to get it out of the way.
He didn’t register the way Pony tensed until he was already reaching for his left sleeve. He pulled at it without a thought—then Pony’s hand came up abruptly and stopped him.
It caught him off guard. A simple, “What are you doing?” left his mouth as he pulled the sleeve the rest of the way up.
And the moment he did, he froze. His brain didn’t process what he saw for a moment.
Oh.
Pony’s wrist was completely covered in burn marks.
But not the same marks from the fire in Windrixville—not wild and uncontrolled like some of the scars he had from the burning church.
These were clearly from cigarettes. His cigarettes.
Oh.
There were countless of the wounds, burned deep into his skin, inflamed and angry, some old and some very new. So new, in fact, that the skin around the wounds peeled and frayed.
And, because he was a fool, Darry stared. All the breath escaped his lungs and all he could do was stare.
Pony was frozen in his hold, his expression blank. His eyes fogged over again.
The moment went as quickly as it came. His little brother reached up and pulled his sleeve back down, hiding the wounds like they were never there at all, and went right back to washing the dishes.
Like the interaction never even happened.
Darry stared at his brother’s turned back, something ugly and mortified and confused tugging at his heart and crawling up his throat.
Pony didn’t even look at him. Not once.
That was a clear sign that Darry had crossed a boundary that he hadn’t even known existed. He invaded something so personal and private that he didn’t know what to do except stare.
Ponyboy was hurting himself.
The silence was thick.
“Pony,” the word slipped out. It was weak and broken—just like his voice had been when Pony first left the hospital after the fire.
But Pony ignored him, which was probably what hurt the most. He kept washing the dishes like it was the most important thing in the world.
It wasn’t. The dishes didnt matter two cents to Darry. Nothing mattered. Not now. The only thing he cared about was that his little brother was hurt, but clearly not just physically.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
“Ponyboy,” he tried again. Still, nothing. “Ponyboy, please—“
Pony’s shoulders hiked up to his ears again, almost instinctively, and a heavy breath tumbled out of him like a landslide. “Can we not do this right now, Darry?”
And all Darrel could do was stare dumbly.
Now, he wasn’t a mind reader by any means—but his brain ticked off questions, comments, and concerns.
Were those wounds about Johnny? Dally? Mom and Dad? He didn’t know. He didn’t know and that scared him stupid.
And again, what happened then was instinctual. Darry saw a problem, and his brain immediately went to fix it.
He broke out of his frozen stance with a simple step forward.
Pony’s back was turned to him, but he must’ve felt him approaching, with the way he hunched further into himself.
Like his little brother was a fragile thing that was at risk of shattering, Darry reached out and softly gripped his shoulder. Pony went rigid as a weak sound escaped his throat.
“Darry, I’m fine,” he attempted, but he didn’t manage to finish his sentence. Darry was already pulling him into a firm embrace.
Time halted around them, making space for Pony’s weak breaths and the way his shoulders shook when he was antsy like this. He was stunned in his arms, frozen like a timid little fox, and he was so much smaller than Darry remembered. So much younger.
Then the logical part of himself reminded him: Pony was just a kid. He was young. He was small.
He always felt things vividly, from the tips of his fingers to the beating heart behind his ribs. Darry knew this. He’s known this for a long time.
But now? Now he really took it in.
Ponyboy was hurting himself, and it meant so much more than just the wounds themselves.
And Darrel didn’t know how it really started, or when it happened. But before he knew it, he was crying.
It wasn’t the same kind of tears that ran down his cheeks when Ponyboy left the hospital. These weren’t loud and messy. These were quiet and weak.
It wasn’t a secret that Pony was going through something—the entire gang was. Darry just didn’t realize how bad it was.
His hands came up and weakly gripped the back of Ponyboy’s jacket, thumbs twisting into the fabric like if he didn’t hold on for dear life, Pony would be washed away under waves he couldn’t see.
And he didn’t exactly expect it, nor did he realize it until it was happening, but Pony started sniffling under his breath. Then, gradually, he broke out into sobs. Desperate, ugly sobs that wracked his fragile body and made him shake.
The air shifted, ever so slightly, as Pony’s hiccups and cries and weak attempts at words filled the tense silence. It melted away his first reserved behavior, and he cried with every bone in his body. Every tear that slipped past his eyelashes was loud and full of grief and so unmistakably him, and Darry wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Pony always felt things to the fullest—with his whole body and heart. He tried to suppress it for a long time, still tried to this day, but that never changed the fact that he was abstract. He was different. He’d always been different.
And lately, that signature part of him was fading away. Like a flame had gone out somewhere deep inside him. Like his core was losing its light.
He was turning into Dally, Darry realized. Dally before he died.
Dally was already dead before he took his last breath. He’s been dead for a long time. Grief was all that he was, from the way he laughed to the dull glint in his irises.
And lately, Ponyboy was looking and acting more like him by the day. With his bleached hair, empty eyes, dull laugh.
But this? This was a sign that Ponyboy Curtis wasn’t too far gone. Not really. He was in there somewhere, through the regret and the fear and the grief that invaded his head, heart, soul.
Pony’s hands came up and grabbed at his shirt frantically, his fingernails digging into his back like a cat with its claws bared. He tried to say something, but it was washed away by the waterfall of tears that dampened Darry’s shirt. He didn’t mind. He never did.
They held onto one another like that for so long that time warped around them. Not a single coherent thing was said. Darry didn’t think he could even form a sentence with how weak his breathing was. His hands shook as he held his little brother, his everything, his light close to his chest, like Ponyboy was a scared treasure in need of protecting. Something deep and buried away and forgotten rose from Darry’s heart and he cried it out with his nose nestled in Ponyboy’s bleached, tangled hair.
Pony sobbed in his arms for so long that his voice went ragged, like a broken record. “I’m sorry,” was the one coherent word that Darry heard throughout that train of cries. Pony kept repeating it, the way a priest repeated prayers, and it made his stomach twist in such a desperate way that he didn’t know what else to do except cry harder.
“It’s okay, baby,” he assured between his own broken sobs, because Pony had to know that it would be okay. If nobody told him, then he’d never know. “It’ll be okay. I promise. I promise.”
And Pony just cried, the same way he did in the hospital, the same way he did at mom and dad’s funeral, the same way he did when he didn’t know what else to do except succumb to his grief.
The emotions that poured out of their hearts was so intense in the moment that Darry was pretty sure he’d pass out if he didn’t put a stop to it. So, finally, after managing to suck in a breath, he pulled away from Ponyboy’s shaking figure and gripped his shoulders tightly.
“We aren’t gonna do this right now,” he breathed, because he simply wasn’t in the state to say anything coherent, and he was pretty sure Pony felt the same. “We’re gonna talk about this, okay? Just—just not now. You’re gonna go to bed and get some rest. We’re… we’re gon’ have a talk tomorrow, ‘kay?”
Pony looked a little frightened by that, but only for a second. “Okay,” he nodded after a moment, reaching up and wiping at his puffy eyes. “Okay. Okay.”
And Darrel tried to smile through his tears, he really did, but all he could manage was a crooked half-grin before giving up. “I love you, Pony,” he had to make sure he knew or he’d regret it forever, “I love you so much, okay? I ain’t tryna be your enemy here. Not about this. Never about this, okay?”
His little brother just nodded weakly.
“Go get some rest, kid,” and with a weak breath, Darry reached up and pressed a soft kiss into his hair before nudging him to the direction of his room. Pony looked a little lost for a moment, eyes darting back at him wildly, but he eventually made a beeline for his room and shut his bedroom door softly behind him.
Darry stared after him. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and breathed anxiously.
His eyes found the unfinished pot of spaghetti on the stove.
His eyes watered again as he stared at it.
Ponyboy, his thoughts breathed, What is going on in that head of yours?
The worst part was that he didn’t know. He hated that he didn’t know.
——
When Soda stumbled through the front door with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Darry was cleaning up the kitchen after Pony’s abandoned dinner attempt, with tear tracks and red eyes instead of a tired gaze and a cold stare.
Soda sensed it immediately. It was like he woke up all of a sudden, with the way his eyes widened and his shoulders came up to his ears.
“Darry?” He said, shutting the door behind him with something serious bleeding into his voice. “Darrel, what happened?”
And all Darry could do was stare at him helplessly. He didn’t have the words. He never had the words.
But he had to say something, or the weight in his chest would pull him under waves that he couldn’t see.
“Pony,” he breathed out, the single word difficult to say. At the mention of his younger brother, his body kind of went limp against the kitchen counter, like all the breath had been knocked out of his lungs.
Soda went tense. “Pony?”
That was all it took for Darry’s nervous system to crash.
A gag leapt from his throat, and he had to slam a hand over his mouth and turn away as a something confused and sick twisted in his stomach.
He was pretty sure he’d vomit right there. Or pass out. He wasn’t sure which one.
Soda was at his side in an instant, looking mortified and concerned, eyes wide and eyebrows knitted together like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Darry, you’re shakin’,” he called, but Darry just turned away even further, instinctively if anything. He never liked when Soda saw him like this. Like he was something fragile.
But he was lucky, because Soda didn’t care two cents about any of that. He recognized whatever was happening—when Darry’s body would cave in on itself from stress and exhaustion. His voice went softer and he reached a hand out. “Dar, sit down for a sec, yeah?”
His younger brother took both of his wobbling hands and slowly led him down onto the ground. At that point, Darry’s breaths were coming out choppy and weak and he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. His back met the kitchen cabinets and he almost curled into himself, the way he used to when he was small and in trouble.
Soda knelt in front of him with a stupidly soft expression. “Darrel, what happened to Pony?”
Darry looked at him helplessly. “He’s,” he sucked in a heavy breath, taking his hands out of his brother’s grip and burying his face in his palms. “He’s hurting himself, Soda.”
Then Soda went rigid. “What?”
“He’s—I saw it. His wrist. His cigarettes.” Another weak noise leapt out of his throat without his permission, but he couldn’t find it in him to feel ashamed about it. All he was at that moment was worried. “He’s usin’ himself as an ashtray, Soda. An ashtray.”
The silence had never been thicker.
Soda looked… ghostly, with how pale he looked in the moonlight. Like he was frozen in time.
He didn’t speak for a moment. Darry didn’t think he ever would. But after about thirty seconds of solid silence, a small noise escaped the back of his throat. A weak thing that would’ve gone unnoticed to a stranger.
“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh.”
That single word made Darry completely lose it. He was in such a state of shock and concern that he didn’t know what else to do except cry.
Soda got that look on his face—that one that made him look a lot younger than he really was. He whispered, “Oh, Darry,” before slinking himself against Darry’s quivering body and hugging him tight.
They held onto each other like that for a little bit, just… crying. It didn’t take long for Soda to sob along with him. They sat there, bodies pressed against one another as their hearts bled with worry and their eyes overflowed with emotions.
“What are we going to do?” Soda whispered into the crook of his neck through heavy sobs. Darry clung to him tighter as a cry ripped from his throat.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, the words breathy and weak. “I don’t know, baby. I’m sorry.”
He usually had the answers. He could solve the problems. He usually knew what to do.
But this? How could he fix this?
His wracked his brain for a solution, but came up empty-handed.
——
Darry’s thoughts, as always, were not kind to him.
When Soda retired for the night, tired and antsy and wrung out, Darry—numbly, like he was dead—showered, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed. His ugly thoughts never let up through the process. Not once. They raced that night, like buzzing mosquitoes he couldn’t wave away, and they kept him up.
He stared at his ceiling, feeling hot under his covers as his head spun.
Ponyboy is hurting.
Ponyboy is hurting himself.
I didn't know.
How long has this been happening?
What else don't I know?
They kept him up all night.
I didn’t know.
How didn’t I know?
The smoking was getting bad. He was only ever wearing sweaters nowadays. Nobody saw his wrists.
It should’ve been obvious, but I had no idea.
I’m supposed to protect him.
I didn’t.
I’ve failed.
He didn’t sleep a wink.