Chapter Text
October 7, 1969, 12:50 AM
A coffee house in a city he didn’t know wasn't the ideal place to hide from a gang, but it was better than a wet and rainy street.
It was a nice setting, all things considered. Although the surrounding city groaned with urban activity relentlessly, the quiet presence of talking people and baristas provided a thin refuge. Fluorescent lights pierced through the raindrop doused windows. A scrawny man armed with a guitar solemnly sung on a small wooden stage, though no spotlights accompanied him. His voice was rusted with years of cigarette smoke. His beard was thin and meager. He blended in well with the collection of long haired, artsy customers.
God, Curly thought, clenching his fists, when can I book it?
He had taken a quick glance at the train schedule when he’d first arrived, but no place felt safe enough to stay. Every time he stood on solid New York ground it felt as though the concrete itself could sense he didn’t belong and would crumble beneath him, sending him right back into the fiery hell of Tulsa.
It was his constant scramble and his terrible gap in knowledge surrounding New York that led him into Greenwich Village. He felt so out of it here, surrounded by hippies and folks he assumed burned their draft cards. Some part of him wondered if he could run into Pony here. Another part wondered if Pony had burned his draft card, or even if he got one in the first place. He was too weak for war.
Curly anxiously ran his fingers through his rain-soaked hair and glanced wildly around the room. Lord, am I high or somethin’? He wondered. It was, after all, natural for him to be anxious. It was the first real crime he’d ever committed without Tim around to back him up or bail him out. He was an actual adult now (if you’d consider 19 an adult).
People cruised around the room and chatted to one another, popping over to the counter and ordering another coffee that Curly was sure had to taste like shit. Two people lazily moved around chess pieces, completely disregarding the rules of the game. One person sat hunched over an empty notebook and restlessly rubbed the bridge of their nose, taking their glasses off to rest them on the table. In a table only a couple of feet away, an eager young woman was throwing her pencil across her notebook in brave strides. Every once in a while, somebody would glance over, meet Curly’s gaze, and immediately break it again.
Every time it would happen, Curly would think the same thought: Man, what’re they scared for? Is it my eyes? Or my tuff outfit? Then, he’d look down at his torn up jeans and leather jacket he was too small for. I’m too old to be sayin’ tuff. It’s outta style, he’d narrate. Then the cycle would repeat.
Curly slouched down in his small booth made for two and reached into his pocket, fingers stumbling around before managing to summon two quarters. If he was going to camp out here, he might as well have a drink.
He weaved through cramped tables and uneven wood flooring to make it to the bar area. A small glass case held pastries and cake slices. A croissant laid slathered in chocolate sauce next to a thick, moist slice of chocolate cake. He couldn’t help but think of the Curtis brothers.
The barista looked at him expectantly, giving no greeting, but waiting dutifully for the order. He was a man of short stature, and one clearly running low on patience. Bags weighed down his eyes, dragging down his skin. The face of a college student.
By the time Curly had noticed him, the barista had disappeared. From a door behind the counter, he could hear a muffled conversation between two people.
“It’s 1:00 AM, why are we even open? There’s a moron out there-” the rest was muffled by the sound of a coffee machines whirr.
“I can just take over if-” the old man began singing again. The voice, both the singing man’s and the mystery employee’s were soft.
“Oh thank God. I have a project due now, man, you’re a lifesaver.” The voice became louder when the door creaked open and a boy with shoulder-length fluffy auburn hair backed out of it.
The boy turned to face Curly, who stood slightly slack-jawed at what he was seeing.
Ponyboy Michael Curtis stood in front of him, not much taller than he’d been when he left Tulsa. His face has lost most of its roundness and was replaced by sharper, yet kind features. His eyes were still round and green, his hair still long and auburn, though the tips of his hair were bleached a terrible yellowish-blond.
Curly, who couldn’t think of any greeting or words that would suffice, remained slack-jawed for a solid minute.
Ponyboy seemed to pay no mind to the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in a year, instead he politely asked for Curly’s order. He waited, boring into Curly’s head with unavoidably large eyes.
“Uh- a- uhm,” Curly stammered, “Coffee, please.” How long has it been since I said please?
“Sugar? Milk?”
“No-no, just black.”
“I’ll have that right up for you. 25 cents please.”
Curly slid over one of his quarters, dropped his last one in the tip jar, then stood and watched as Pony absent-mindedly waltzed around behind the counter, grabbing a mug and making his coffee.
He rounded back around to the register and handed him the coffee. “Thank you, have a nice night,” he said, looking beyond Curly for any other customers.
“Yeah, yeah, you too,” Curly muttered, dragging his feet as he walked then slowly lowering himself back into his booth.
Jesus, his mind raced, did he recognize me? Is he still angry? Lord, I hope not.
He sipped his coffee and nearly yelped when the scalding hot liquid touched his tongue. A demandingly hot warning to keep himself on Earth.
He spared a few looks back at the counter and resisted the urge to run over and yell at Ponyboy, begging for any hint of a memory. For the most part, he kept his head down and observed the grain in the wood, wishing he hadn’t tipped so he’d have another excuse to see him again.
Curly had been hanging his head morosely over his mug, which was now filled with room-temperature sludge, for perhaps five minutes before the furious sound of jeans rubbing against frieze fabric sounded like an alarm across the booth.
“Curly Shepard!” A voice bellowed, “now why didn’t you say hello?”
Curly’s head snapped up to a half angry- half absurdly excited Ponyboy. “I did. I went up and got a coffee. Even left a tip.”
“Well, christ, no wonder I didn't recognize you. Never thought you’d leave a tip. Lemme guess, you said your pleases and thank yous as well?”
Curly had never felt so dumbfounded before. “Well, yeah, actually. I did.”
Ponyboy’s face softened. “Curly,” he prodded, “Curly, why are you here? Are you in trouble?”
“No,” he said, but then remembered it was Pony he was talking to. Ponyboy could read him like a book, and all that boy did was read books. Curly was a damn good liar, but his lies could never go undetected by Ponyboy.
“You don’t gotta tell me about it, but I’m sure you aren’t just here to visit.” Pony drew in a breath. “Tell me, though, how are Soda and Darry? I haven’t called them in a while, been so busy.”
Curly thought back to the last time he saw them. Darrel had broken his arm, but was due to go back to work in a couple of weeks when it healed. Soda was, when he wasn’t fussing over Darry, at work and hitting on girls. Something telled him that Soda was more into Steve than the girls, though. He could see it in his eyes.
Pony shook his head when Curly told him, though the Steve comment went unshared. “Glory, I need to call more often.” He chuckled. “They’re fallin’ apart without me.”
“Shouldn’t you be working right now? Don’t you have bills to pay or whatever?"
Pony scoffed. “God, you sound like Darry. And no, it’s not my shift. My next one is in an hour, I was just taking over for a little while.” He scratched his arm. “Last shift of the night, then we close.”
“You’re open at 2 AM but you draw the line at 3?”
“Well,” Pony explained, “It’s a bunch of college students around here and people cram at 2 AM, but a lot less at 3. Less business, so there’s no real point in staying open.” Ponyboy looked up at him with the eyes he’d fallen in love with when he was 15. Large, green, two expanses of knowledge. “Curly,” he said with a softness Curly treasured and kept stored between his ribs, “do you have anywhere to go?”
Curly remembered his less-than perfect situation and slumped slightly. “Yeah,” he lied, “I’ll be alright.”
Pony’s posture shifted slightly. His eyes bored into Curly’s head like he could just whisk the information out of him with a glance. Pony, as usual, was correct.
The pell-mell that was previously crammed into the coffee house had slowly dissolved into a few employees and a couple of disgruntled customers, bags under their eyes and deadlines on their shoulders. This fact dawned upon Curly too late for him to simply diffuse into a crowd and the awkwardness of the situation pressed on his shoulders with an absurd weight. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t find a way to worm out of this situation the way he usually would. The uneasiness of trying to forget was beginning to seep into both of them, a wound that time was having a hard time stitching back up was reopening. For how much longer could they pretend?
“I’ll figure it out, Pones,” Curly insisted, pushing himself out of his slump and unsteadily rising to his feet, his movements drunk with exhaustion. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before.” He made a move for the exit, sloppily wiping his eyes.
“No, you don’t have to figure anything out. I’ve already done the mental math. Come to my apartment, Curly.” He grabbed Curly’s wrist and Curly came to an abrupt stop. “Stop pretending. I don’t know why you’re here, but it can’t be good. I’m not sure if it’s the fuzz, or a gang, or even if Tim’s just on your ass and you needed to get out. But I want to help.”
No, Pony, don’t do this now, he thought, the voice in his head smaller than usual.
“I can help, Curly, I really can. I don’t want this to happen again. Let me help.” Then, again, more softly, “let me help.”
If Curly wasn’t persuaded the first time, he was the second time. He dropped his hand and immediately missed the warmth of Pony’s soft palm pressed against his bones. “Alright,” he murmured. He couldn’t turn to face him. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll go.