Chapter Text
For the first two months of the semester, Ponyboy Curtis achieves the impossible, successfully evading every single epidemic that the approaching winter brings to Couch North. The weather has been particularly bad this year, and with it has come multiple rounds of the flu, and one nasty strain of bronchitis. Every single boy on the sixth floor, save for him, has succumbed to one infection or another, and at this point, Pony’s counting himself as immune to all and any sickness.
At least, that was until he got caught out in the rain during his training session yesterday.
As Pony tries to muffle yet another cough, Jim looks up from where he’s sprawled across his bed with some zoology textbook, shooting a passionate glare. “I knew you were going to get sick. I told you!”
“I’m not getting sick!” Pony replies with no little amount of stubbornness, reaching for the glass of water resting on his bedside table. “It’s a cough. Doesn’t mean a thing.”
The older boy rolls his eyes. “It does when you come back to the dorm looking like a drowned rat!”
By the time Pony manages to stagger back to Couch North, he’s managed to cycle through every single curse word in the English language, and then some. There’s no one to blame other than his own stupidity, but somehow, each new burst of thunder sounds more vindictive than the last.
Coach Murphy had cancelled training for the day, which should’ve in itself been a blessing, considering his newfound obsession with Lydiard. While Pony’s high school team had focused more on speed, at college, it was all about volume, and lots of it. Twelve miles before class at a pace that could’ve sent the decrepit to sleep, another six after. He’d never question Coach’s judgement, but considering his specialty is the 400m, the mileage is feeling a bit excessive.
So, when their evening run had been cancelled on account of the fact it was raining so hard no one could see in front of them, the relief was palpable amongst his teammates. There was barely a word said as each of them had picked up their bags and made an escape for their respective dormitories.
Pony had looked out at the track from where they were huddled beneath the shelter, opening his fat mouth before he could even register what he was saying. “I might do a couple of laps. Already out here.”
Glancing out at the torrential downpour, there’d been skepticism written all across Coach’s face. “You sure, Curtis? It’s bucketing cats and dogs. I wouldn’t send my worst enemy out in this.”
But Pony’s nothing if not mulish on occasion, and he can hardly back down now. Besides, he’s got everything to prove to the man who gave him his ticket out of Tulsa. Without Coach Murphy, Darry and Soda would be working five jobs between them just to put him through college, if they’d even been able to afford it at all. He owes this man his life, or at the very least, the same dedication that got him scouted at those high-school meets.
“Yeah, just a few laps. Nothing too strenuous,” he replied, already regretting the words.
The coach nodded approvingly. “Alright, Curtis. I don’t have your guts so I’ll leave you to it. Keep this up and you’ll be smoking them at the next meet.”
So, only four miles later, Pony’s half falling through his door in relief, greeted by an equally confused and disapproving roommate, who very quickly tosses him a towel and tells him to go warm up before he catches his death.
“You can’t get sick from the rain, Jim,” Pony retorts, wrapping his blanket tighter around his shoulders, “I think it’s an old wives’ tale. You’re studying biology, surely you know that!”
The tease lands exactly where it needs to. With a huff and a fond grin, his roommate goes back to preparing for his end of semester exams.
As it turns out, there’s a fair bit of merit in the older boy’s words, because two days later, Pony lies in bed feeling as if he’s been run over by a truck. The dull headache sitting right behind his eyes is only worsening, and is now accompanied by unbearable waves of dizziness that wrack him whenever he dares to move. Jim’s out at class, but given that it’s nearing 4pm, is due to arrive back at any minute. Pony decides to do the brave thing and migrate to his desk to keep up the facade that he’s been holding onto the last forty-eight hours.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pushes himself up confidently, only for the world to tilt sideways and send him stumbling into the wooden table. Blindly, Pony reaches out to grab it, managing to catch himself just as Jim opens the door, having just arrived back from his laboratory.
“Told you so!” His roommate announces cheerfully as he throws his satchel down on own desk. “Hope that run was worth it!”
Ignoring the very specific gesture he receives from Pony, Jim moves to where the younger boy leans against the wall, reaching out to gently grab his arm. “Come on, it’ll do you no good standing up. Go back to bed.”
“I’m fine,” Pony mutters hoarsely, almost out of habit. Still, he lets his friend push him down onto the mattress, his brief stint standing up having taken all of the energy out of him.
“Sure you are,” Jim says knowingly, “I’ll run down to Liberty and grab something. Rory might have some pills but he’s nosey as hell so better not risk it if you don’t feel like being mothered. Did you know that third floor’s dorm counselor buys them booze? I’m applying for a transfer.”
“You don’t have to -,” Pony starts to say, but is abruptly cut off by Jim throwing a spare blanket at his head.
“I’ll be back in twenty.” His roommate shuts the door behind him before another word can be said.
Pony must fall asleep, because he’s woken by the older boy lightly shaking him, concern etched into his usually blasé expression.
“God, I was only gone a few minutes,” Jim tries to joke lightly, “I stole a thermometer from Rory as well.”
“What? Why’d you tell him?” Pony exclaims, instantly overwhelmed by a severe bout of deep coughs. Bless Rory, but the last thing he wants is their dorm counselor walking through the door every few hours to make sure he’s still breathing.
“Relax,” Jim rolls his eyes, tossing him the offending item, “I didn’t say who it was for.”
Pony’s temperature comes out at 101.3. Absolutely not high enough for anything to be gravely wrong, but it certainly leaves his roommate vindicated.
“Can’t argue with that, Pony,” Jim says smugly, before throwing Pony the case of medication. “Look, I have to head out and meet some friends to study, but I’ll be back around eleven. Try not to die while I’m gone.”
He rolls his eyes, reaching beside him to the water bottle that lives on the bedside cabinet. “I’ll do my best. No promises.”
Jim leaves not long after that, and Pony’s left to mull in his own sad existence. While the medication has taken the edge off whatever he’s suffering from, he still feels incredibly lousy, although not tired enough to sleep again. He decides the best course of action is to sit at his desk for as long as he can bear and finish off the planning for his Classic Literature unit, which deserves an academic medal in its own right.
It’s only ten minutes later that he absently catches sight of the phone, and Pony is struck with the mildly horrified realisation that he’d promised to ring Darry at six o’clock, which is only fifteen minutes from now. He loves his brother dearly and always enjoys their calls, but the very thought of having to speak with his already stinging throat is enough to elicit a groan. Still, it’ll be nothing if not suspicious if he doesn’t do as said, and so, he once again shows exemplary courage by stumbling over to the landline on the wall.
Pony takes a shaky breath as his fingers twist the rotary dial, guiltily hoping that Darry doesn’t pick up so that he doesn’t have to hold up the pretense of being well. The older boy has always had an incredible talent of catching him out in his lies and omissions.
Alas, luck is not on his side tonight, and Darry’s voice penetrates through the phone after the first thing. “Curtis residence.”
“Darry, it’s me,” Pony does his best to hide the hoarseness in his throat. “Promised I’d call.”
“Hey kid, how’re things?” the grin is clear without even having to see his face. “College doing okay?”
Now, Pony means to say something inspirational, like how he’d gotten an A on his last history paper, or that coach was impressed with his pace improvements for the 800m. What comes out is instead a series of coughs, each deeper and more congested than the last.
“... Pony, are you sick?” Darry’s voice holds no room for argument. There’s never any point being untruthful to his brother anyway.
“Yeah, a little,” he mutters, trying not to aggravate his throat, “nothing awful. Got stuck out in the rain at track yesterday.”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Have you tested for fever?”
Pony rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
“How high is it?” clearly, the older boy is content enough to engage in this game of question and answer tennis.
“It was 101.3. It’s nothing, I just feel lousy.” What he’d really like is for this conversation to either change direction, or better yet, end, so that he can continue on this paper while the pills are still in his system.
Darry is silent for a few moments, and Pony thinks the call has accidentally cut, until, “I know you don’t wanna hear it, but I really think you should come home, kid. It’s Friday today. You can drive down before it gets bad and get over the worst of it in your own bed.”
“It’s not going to get worse, Darry,” Pony tells his brother with as much patience as he can muster, even though he’s not overly sure himself. “It’s just a cold. Not to worry about.”
Through the landline, the frustration is evident in the older boy’s tone. “Alright, you’re old enough to make your own choices. I’ll leave you to rest, but promise you’ll call if you feel worse. I’ll phone tomorrow morning to see how you are.”
“Sure, Darry.” Pony is absolutely positive he’ll later regret how short he’s being, but at this moment, all that he can think about is how his headache is slowly returning with more force than it had before.
“Get some sleep, kid.” Darry’s voice softens.
He falls asleep not long after his brother hangs up, head falling against the scattered papers of an unwritten history essay. Once or twice, Pony wakes in a haze, shivers wracking his whole body as the fever takes its hold, but he isn’t properly roused until a few hours later by the insistent ringing of the phone.
At first, he thinks he’s dreaming; some twisted mutilation of the day’s events manifesting itself into induced visions. After a few seconds though, Pony is alert enough to realise that it’s very much a part of his reality. There’s the brief thought of ignoring it - after all, it may very well be one of Jim’s friends asking him out drinking. However, the noise is so awful that it’s worth standing up for, and for the second time tonight, Pony staggers over to the landline.
“Ponyboy Curtis,” he answers as lightly as he can. Even to his own ears, he sounds utterly wretched.
“God, you sound something awful!” Soda’s voice rings through the other end of the phone, his worry as prominent as ever. “Darry said you were sick, but I haven’t heard you this bad in a while!”
“Way to make a man feel good,” he croaks out, leaning against the wall as the dizziness threatens to take both him and the blameless phone to the floor.
“Honey,” Soda whispers, ignoring the previous remark, “why won’t you come back and let us look after you? If you feel too unwell to drive, we can come up right now and bring you back with us.”
Now, the thing is, Pony would love nothing more than to close his eyes and find himself back in Tulsa with his older brothers. It’s entirely too juvenile, and he’ll forever blame it on the fever, but at this moment, all he wants is to be back in his childhood bed.
The whole thing about being in college is that independence is the new chain of popularity. For Pony, who has spent a lifetime trying to escape the curse of his brothers’ shadow, it’d be the suicide of his cause to be picked up from dorm because he can’t handle a cold.
And so, he says the only thing he can think of. “Soda, it’ll be six hours here and back, in the dark no less. Besides, it’s already past eight o’clock.”
As expected, his brother huffs. “You know we don’t care none about that. I’d rather you were back here with us.”
“Please,” Pony begs, another cough breaking from his lips, “just leave it, Soda. I know you and Darry mean well, but I just need to sleep it off.”
A cross edge replaces the usually calm demeanor of his older brother’s voice. “God, Pony, we’ll drive up right now. You’re being difficult.”
Well, that one hurts a bit. “I’m not trying to be difficult! I just don’t want you coming all this way for something I can handle myself.”
“Fine,” there’s an exasperation in Soda’s voice that wasn’t there before, “ring us in the morning, and take some meds before you sleep. Sweet dreams.”
The phone clicks before Pony can so much as get a good night in, and he lets his head fall against the wall with a dull thud. He’s got half a mind just to sleep right there on the floor. Every inch of his body aches as if he’s come back from one of Coach’s brutal twenty milers, and the vertigo is equally unbearable. Still, Pony conjures up the last bit of motivation he can possibly find and moves back to his bed, only going as far as to remove his sweater before collapsing on top of the blankets.
There’ll probably be an apology due for his brothers come morning. For now, Pony feels too utterly miserable to care about much more than sleep, his eyes closing on their own accord. He fades quickly after that.
The phone is placed back on its cradle with more force than what is probably necessary as Soda bites back a groan, an uncomfortable wave of irritation washing through him.
“He’s not stupid,” Darry offers gently, walking over from the kitchen and resting a hand on his shoulder.
Soda shakes his head. “He’s being stupid right now! You heard him, poor kid sounds awful! I’ve got half a mind to go up there right now, Darry. He’s too stubborn for his own good.”
His brother sighs, absently chewing on the corner of his lip. As much as the older boy is trying to be the voice of reason, Soda knows he’s just as worried. “Alright, little buddy, how’s this? We’ll wait for Pony to call tomorrow, and if he’s worse, we’ll drive up and sign him out. I’d rather not bruise his pride if he’s not going to drop dead, y’know?”
And there, that’s the difference between the two of them. Soda has had the privilege of only ever needing to be his authentic self around his friends. He’s never understood their youngest brother’s need to preserve this front of independence, shouldering the world as if its burdens are his to carry alone. But there was a time where Darry had spent a large amount of time playing as something he wasn’t, where in order to assimilate, he’d given up what had raised him.
It’s no surprise that the latter understands this version of Ponyboy better than Soda does.
“Neither of us have work tomorrow,” Soda argues, although he suspects he’s fighting a losing battle. “I know you’re just as worried as I am.”
“‘Course I’m worried,” Darry’s tone has a slight edge to it as his eyes linger on the phone, “but we agreed to ring in the morning. That’s what we’ll do, okay?”
In the end, it’s not worth the continued dispute. “I’m gonna head to bed,” Soda sighs, “I’ll just sit here all night, otherwise.”
Sleep doesn’t come easy. All that he can think about is his baby brother sick as hell over a hundred miles away. It doesn’t seem very long ago that Pony was thirteen and trailing after him and Steve with all the eagerness that fresh teenagehood had to offer. Even just a few months ago, the younger boy had seemed almost reluctant to leave Tulsa behind, afraid of whatever this new life was going to take away.
But Pony’s adapted to college now, and other than the weekly phone-calls, it’s as if his brother has discovered that he doesn’t really require them anymore. As much as it pains him to admit it, Soda’s not entirely confident how to be anyone for Pony if he’s not needed. It’s been his identity for too many years now.
Of course, he’s thrilled for the other boy, and he’s got a chance that not many of them are ever talented or lucky enough to score. Still, there will always be some incredibly selfish bit of him that wishes Pony had never left at all.
The entire night has been spent caught between a state of dreaming and lucidity. Darry isn’t entirely sure he’s managed to get any real sleep at all, but around eight o’clock, the shrill ring of the landline cuts through the hallway and all semblance of exhaustion is erased.
Thanking his lucky stars that his stubborn as hell brother actually listened to his instructions for a change, Darry all but runs to the living room and picks up the receiver.
“Pony, is that you?” he answers, relieved that the younger boy is well enough to be calling so early.
“This is Darrel, yeah?” a voice that is in no shape or form Ponyboy’s asks rushedly. “It’s Jim, Pony’s roommate.”
A wave of horror quickly fills him. “Where’s Pony? Is he alright?” Darry’s voice sounds frantic even to his own ears.
“Yeah, he’s not going to drop dead,” came the completely unsettling response, “I’m using a friend’s phone, so he doesn’t know I’m calling, but he’s really sick, man. He was bad yesterday, but I came home last night and he didn’t even know who I was for a minute. Refuses the clinic and won’t even let me tell our dorm councilor. Look, I’ve only known Pony for a couple of months so I don’t wanna overstep, but he’s being a stubborn asshole and I don’t know what to do. Thought you should know in case you’ve got any words of wisdom to help me out.”
Darry remembers Jim well enough from the ten minute interaction that they had when Pony had moved in. He comes from a family who can afford to put him through college without too much trouble, but there’s no trace of the trademark Soc snobbishness that is carried with pride in Tulsa.
Soda and Pony have gone downstairs to finish filling out the residential forms at reception, leaving just him and the boy who had introduced himself as Jim a few minutes ago.
“Hey,” Darry walks over to Pony’s desk and reaches for a pen and paper. Quickly, he scribes their phone number before shoving it into Jim’s hands. “This is our landline. If anything happens, or he gets into any trouble, call us. And don’t tell Pony I gave you the number.”
Jim raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms.“What, can’t he look after himself?”
Darry rolls his eyes. “Of course he can. I’m not asking for an evening report. Just - we’ve always looked after each other. Doesn’t need to change just ‘cause he’s at college.”
The boy had looked contemplative for a moment before walking over to a shelf and slipping the paper behind a molecular biology textbook.
Darry sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll drive up and get him, Jim. We’re a couple of hours away but can be there around eleven.”
“That’s insane, Darrel,” he can hear the incredulousness in the younger boy’s voice. “I just need to know how to get him to the damn clinic.”
“No,” Darry says firmly, “he’s our brother and he’s sick. I appreciate what you’ve done, but it’s our job to look after him.”
Hanging up the phone, he makes quick work of shaking Soda awake. “Hey, I’m gonna go get Pony. If you wanna come, I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
Well, that startles him. “What, is he okay?” Soda pushes himself up onto his elbows, stifling a yawn with his hand.
“Yeah,” Darry’s already halfway out the room, “just being a stubborn idiot. His roommate called to say he’s pretty ill. I’d rather he’s at home.”
The thing is, while it took a long time for them to realise it, Darry and Pony are cut from the same cloth. It’s why they argued so much after their parents died, and it’s the reason that he understands exactly why his baby brother would rather stay all alone in a dorm room over a hundred miles away.
Darry, well, he might not have gotten the chance to go to college, but he certainly remembers those evenings after one of their football games. A beer in hand, tearing around town in the passenger seat of Paul Holden’s car and wishing like hell that he was back at home with the boys from their street.
It’s easy to forget the life that you love when you’re too busy enjoying the pleasures of being young, but the realisation will always find its mark. He’ll bet ten dollars on the fact that his brother wants nothing more than to be in Tulsa, but just has too much pride to say so.
But it seems that Pony has forgotten an important thing: the world would have to be at its end before Darry makes him ask for something he can so easily give.