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It’s still dark when Pony bravely forces himself to push the covers away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. There’s just a hint of dawn pressing against the curtains, and he knows that with the sun will come the same horrible heat that Oklahoma has been experiencing for the past month.
Next to him, Soda is still fast asleep, mouth half open and arms curled beneath his head. The spare room had been made up after Pony’s early arrival, but since that first night, neither of them have seen it fit to change what was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. It’s too familiar to them; falling back into years of routine despite the time he’s spent away.
The older boy stirs, groaning as he lifts a hand to rub at his eye. “P’ny, what’re y’ doin’?”
A quiet laugh breaks from Pony’s lips as he pushes himself off the bed. “Go back to sleep. I’m gonna get this run done before it gets hot. Should be back by nine.”
“It’s too early.” Soda pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Do it later.”
Pony grins, and there’s little resistance when he gently shoves his brother back down onto the mattress. “I’m doing you a service here. Unless you wanna be paying over five hundred dollars for my tuition and board next semester, that is.”
See, the curse of being a college athlete on full ride is that while summer break excuses academics and even routine training, neglecting these three months is a foolproof way to find yourself in thousands in debt when you can’t meet expected quotas.
Besides, Coach Murphy has promised him the anchor leg for the 400m relay if he can get his time below 45 seconds. Such opportunities are rare for anyone, let alone a kid from Tulsa who’s only just finished his freshman year.
He closes the door quietly behind him before Soda can respond, leaving the older boy to make the most of his morning off.
The kitchen is completely silent, save for rhythmic increments of the clock as it moves from one second to another. Pony stifles a yawn, already regretting his previous motivation, and pulls the instant coffee down from the shelf in the pantry before can think too hard about going back to sleep.
When he was younger, he drank it how Darry always has; just the granules and boiling water. It was the only way Pony had really seen it made, and asking his brother to show him, well, that would’ve been too much for his teenage pride to handle. Finally, after watching him choke down the stuff for the better half of two weeks, Darry had taken pity, and one Saturday, introduced him to a revolutionary concept that was milk and sugar.
Pony had never looked back.
“Kid, what the hell are you doing up?” A tired voice sounds from somewhere to his left, mimicking what their brother had said just minutes earlier. Darry stands there in his sleep-shirt, hair sticking up at all sort of odd angles. “It’s six in the morning.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, Pony moves out of the way so that his brother can start getting ready for work. “Coach has me doing two anaerobic sessions a week over summer. I’m gonna get out to the old track before the sun comes up properly.”
Darry shakes his head, disbelief spreading itself across his face. “They work you too damn hard up at that university. Don’t they know it’s called ‘summer break’ for a reason?”
“I’ve been guaranteed anchor as long as my times come down a bit,” Pony explains, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Worth the heat if I can get that.”
His brother’s face flashes with pride. “Nice going,” Darry grins, “there’s a reason you’re on full ride. If you wanna wait half an hour, I’ll drop you off on my way to work.”
“That’d be great,” Pony says appreciatively.
It’s not so much about the time saved. This first week home has served as a testament to how much he’s missed everything; the purity of simply spending time with his family and friends. When they both climb into their old Ford, and Darry turns the radio station to Pony’s favourite, he’s reminded of his gratefulness to be home.
If Pony ever has the displeasure of meeting Arthur Lydiard, it’s highly unlikely that the latter will make it out alive. If it weren’t for Coach’s obsession with old Artie’s methodologies, then he wouldn’t be stuck out here at seven o’clock in the morning, unable to decide on what interval sets will be the least painful. Sadly, there’s no denying their effectiveness, and so Pony tosses his head back, curses the running gods, and walks to the startline.
The track itself isn’t used often by the general public. It used to be a recreational training ground before they built the upgraded facilities on the West side, and all that’s really left of it is the unmaintained remnants of the cinder path. Pony’s about the only one who ever came out here to run formally, and nowadays, it’s used as a gathering place for those who want to drink without being disturbed. Still, everything stands just as it always has.
Pulling out the stopwatch that Coach had loaned him for the summer, he begins his self-inflicted torture. The first four hundred metres takes him forty nine seconds, and Pony allows himself a moment to rest before beginning his next set, trying to consume as much air as his gasping lungs allow.
Second lap; forty seven and a half.
It’s not an all-out effort, but it’s close to it, and as he runs lap after lap of the circuit that he’s trained on since he was young, Pony’s reminded of why he ever loved it in the first place. The way that nothing seems to matter except the next mile; that for a few short hours, every stress seems insignificant compared to what he’s just achieved.
Besides, this is something that he’s always been good at, and for a kid who grew up with a football prodigy and a movie-star lookalike as brothers, well, he’s eternally thankful that he was given a talent of his own.
He takes it easy for a little, but lap number twelve is completed at forty six seconds, and is almost enough to send Pony to the ground. As he crosses the four hundred metre mark, he finds himself doubled over, desperately drinking the oxygen he’d deprived himself of.
“Christ, you’re fast, Curtis,” comes a voice somewhere on his left. “You were makin’ me dizzy just lookin’ at ya.”
Still trying to regain his composure, Pony swings around to see a disheveled Curly Shepard sprawled across the dying grass. He’d clearly been so focused on not dying during his session that he hadn’t even noticed the other boy.
“What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” Pony asks in confusion, walking over and throwing himself down next to his old friend.
Shrugging carelessly, Curly pillows his head underneath his arms. “Never went to bed. Didn’t you know you could run like that!”
Pony rolls his eyes. “I do track. At College. I have to run like that.”
Curly falls silent, an uncharacteristically contemplative look falling across his face. For a moment, Pony’s worried his friend will have an aneurysm thinking as much as he seems to be, but then the boy’s lips pull themselves into a grin.
“Do you remember that game we all used to play as kids?” Curly asks, turning towards him. “You used to beat us every time.”
Of course he does. It’s a pastime that every single one of them was raised on. The goal was to do one lap as fast as possible around the track while others did all that was in their power to prevent you from crossing the line.
The only rule that existed was that when the runner forfeited, then the game was stopped. It was messy, brutal, and reckless as hell, but God, it gave a high as good as winning any meet to finally cross that four hundred metre mark. Once, Pony had come back with his leg torn to shreds from where he’d been unintentionally dragged across a broken bottle, and Darry had all but grounded him for his stupidity.
Curly’s tone is light. “How much faster d’you think you are now?”
Shrugging, Pony offers his friend a competitive grin. “A fair bit.”
The other boy’s eyes are aflame with excitement. ““How’d you like to test it? Down here tomorrow, just like we used to. I’ll cut you 20% of the profits.”
“Hm,” he pretends to consider, “you offer a good deal, Curly Shepard.”
He knows it’s stupid. Coach would likely suspend him from the team if he knew about this, or at least give him an incredibly stern talking to about making reckless decisions that could leave him injured. Yet, from what he knows, the man was raised as straight and narrow as they come. Over the years, Pony has done this enough times to know how to fall; where the cinder has worn down unevenly leaving patches that cause unsuspecting pedestrians to slip.
Say what you want about Ponyboy Curtis, but he’s a greaser through and through. College might’ve given him the chance to prove himself, but it certainly didn’t eradicate what Tulsa has shaped him to be.
“What time do you need me here?” Pony asks with an air of innocence, and Curly’s grin only widens.
That night, Pony finds himself curled up on the sofa with one of his summer readings, his brothers watching some football documentary on the television. It’s the quiet familiarity that he’s missed, and once the novelty had worn off from his arrival home, they’d all settled back into their routine as if he’d never left at all.
“I’m probably not gonna be home ‘til after supper tomorrow,” he mentions casually, preparing himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions. “I’ll sort myself out.”
“Where are you going?” Darry asks, not taking his eyes off of Jim Brown’s touchdown.
Pony habitually opens his mouth with a half-forced lie, before remembering that he’s eighteen years old and can actually do as he pleases without permission. “I think I’m the new stake in Curly’s illegal gambling pool.”
That certainly catches Darry’s attention. “You know full well you shouldn’t be getting caught up in that.”
Rolling his eyes, Pony begins to explain. “It’s nothing serious. It’s something we used to do all the time. You run around a track and people try and-”
He’s quick to be cut off. “I know how it works, Pony! That game’s been around long before you were old enough to play it.”
“Yeah, he was a real champion back in his day,” Soda grins at the exchange between his brothers. “Are you doing it at the track? I’ll come by after work and watch the trainwreck!”
Pony snorts. “I appreciate the faith, Soda. It’s good to know you’ll always have my back.”
Shaking his head, Darry looks at him observantly. “Well, I guess you know what you’re doing. Lord knows you’ve come home enough times.”
Pony tilts his head up and grins.
“ D’you think you’re any faster than you used to be? I remember hearing about an unbeatable two minutes six.” A minute smile graces his eldest brother’s lips.
There’s one way to find out.
The sun slips against the horizon, painting the track in a dying light as the first traces of sunset appear in the Tulsa sky. If one was to walk past at this moment, they’d have the pleasure of seeing about twenty young men standing on the sideline, lukewarm beer in hand as they cycle through pack after pack of cheap cigarettes.
David grins, taking a sip of his can. “How many laps did you say he did yesterday?”
“Dunno,” Curly shrugs, fiddling with the piece of chalk in his hand, “I was there for about four of them. No idea how many were run before that.”
As per usual, William, an older man who rides in the rodeos, doesn’t take that lying down. “I’m not puttin’ cash on somethin’ I don’t know nothin’ about.”
But Curly Shepard is nothing if not a good odds-maker, and he stands firm. “No one’s making you,” he scoffs, “but you can clear out if you’re not here to gamble, ‘cause I’m certainly not having you in defence.”
Meanwhile, Ponyboy Curtis is having a miniature crisis of his own. Being banished to the changing sheds to warm up, he’s slowly come to the realisation that this might not have been his cleverest idea. There’s every chance that the boys out there are expecting a miracle from him; a college athlete competing for state records coming home to reclaim former glory.
While he knows that the gamblers don’t give a damn about the accolades as long as he can make it around the track in the time they guess, Pony still feels as if he’s got everything to prove.
Steve and Two-Bit both lean against the wall, having insisted on abandoning the crowds to keep him company.
“Gonna break your record, kid?” Two smirks lightly. “Tell you what, if you agree to run the time that I put money on, I’ll buy you a milkshake afterwards.”
“Yeah?” Pony grins, reaching up to stretch his arms over his head. “How does ninety seconds sound to you?”
“College is gettin’ to your head.” Rolling his eyes, Steve crosses his arms. “Don’t try to be a hero out there. It’s not worth getting hurt over.”
The words come out uncharacteristically gentle for the older boy, and it takes Pony by surprise for a second. Over the years, their relationship has changed from one built on proximity to something that to anyone else would be recognised as friendship. They both know it isn’t that though. It’s brotherhood now, and while they still argue and fight to no end, Pony knows that whatever bond they have is completely unshakeable.
The door to the shed rattles, and Soda steps through the threshold with a trademark grin. Immediately, he slips an arm around Pony’s shoulders. “Feels just like old times again, huh? Nervous for the big show?”
It’s true. They’ve done this together more times than he can count, standing on the side of the track as the sun sets over the skyline.
Darry had aged out of this game many years ago, too concerned with keeping a roof over their heads to engage in something that, at its core, is nothing but foolish. But Soda, well, he’d always found the time to come and watch him run, treating it with almost as much importance as one of his meets. The East Side gives its inhabitants a sort of wildness. His brother’s always been the one cheering the loudest from the side of the track, having placed money down on a time that Pony will never be skilled enough to achieve.
He appreciates the faith that Soda has in him nonetheless. Still, if he looks closely enough, he can see the concealed apprehension that lingers in the older boy’s eyes. Pony may be fast, but it never removes the risk that comes with being six grown men doing everything in their power to stop him from making it across the 400m line.
There’s a loud knock against the door of the shed and Curly’s voice sounds through the walls. “Ready, Curtis?”
As he emerges into the late afternoon sun, a chorus of cheers sounds from all those that plan to make their winnings. The thirty odd hopefuls all turn their gaze on Pony as if he’s their last chance, making him feel like some prized horse at the Kentucky Derby.
Forcing the familiar waves of anxiety reminiscent of those he gets before any race, he spares a glance to the chalkboard that stands at the startline, Curly’s almost illegible handwriting has transcribed wagers ranging anywhere from 1 '48 to 8 ‘52. It seems as if no one really knows what to expect from him.
“What’s your record, Curtis?” Someone calls out from the mass.
“College or this?” Pony yells back, keeping his voice as steady as possible. “College, 45.8 seconds. Here -”
“Shut it!” Curly slams a chalk-dusted hand over his mouth. “Don’t throw off my high rollers.” Then, to his friends and brother, “are you three putting down?”
While Soda shakes his head, the others are more than happy to accompany Curly to the board, both boys standing in front of it contemplatively.
Steve swings around, examining Pony with a scrutinizing glare, before turning back towards the wagers. “Who’s up for defence?”
Curly rolls his eyes. “Eric, Johnno, Mitch, Biff, Dan, and Red to finish. Happy with that, Randle?”
There’s a pause. “He had that session yesterday, but the kid's damn fast now. Put me at 2 '15.”
It’s quite a generous time, and Pony’s flattered at the faith that Steve has in him.
Two-Bit takes longer, stepping back to look at the numbers as if performing the mental calculations in his head.
After two minutes, Curly throws up in hands. “Jesus, Matthews, hold us all up, why don’t you! I’ll put you on for ten minutes if you don’t give me a number!”
Two holds a hand up, allowing another moment before shooting Pony a grin, “2 ‘05. I think he can still hold it.”
Above them, the sky is filled with soft touches of scarlet, heralding the end to yet another day. Pony offers Soda a reassuring smile, before nodding at Curly and moving to take his place at the startline of the track. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, but if he is meant to do anything with his life, it’s running. Those boys can’t hold a torch.
“Righteo, everyone!” Curly calls out, “your bets are final! No changing wagers.”
Leaving behind empty beer bottles, the young men allocated to defence begin to take their places alongside the track. Eric, Mitch, and Dan all spread out across the 100m mark, while Johnno and Biff take the 200m. Red hovers between the 300m line and the end of the track; one last obstacle before Pony takes his victory.
They are all so busy with their last minute preparations that no one notices someone else arriving at the field, scrutinising eyes scanning the layout with a proficiency of one who has done this many times before. He and Pony had missed each other by mere minutes, and perhaps the younger boy hadn’t even considered that his greatest hindrance would be his own blood.
Soda’s face breaks out into a wide grin, even as Pony’s stomach drops to the cinder below his feet, horror replacing the adrenaline. Every chance of getting a good time has just been dashed to pieces.
There’s another loud cheer, and it’s likely that some of the older men at the track are recalling the days where Darry Curtis used to run these laps faster than the wind would catch him.
“Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about,” his eldest brother says carelessly, even though his face is filled with a rare boyish excitement. “Alright for me to jump in and defend, Shepard?”
Curly is too busy to respond, occupied by the crowd who are desperate to change their bets now that the lineup has changed. Still, he gives a lazy thumbs up, before turning his attention back to the hoard of wagerers.
“What’re you doing here?” Two-Bit returns from the chalkboard, face completely amazed, “Lord, you haven’t done this since high school.”
Darry shrugs, moving to stand beside Pony and Soda. “Didn’t want to miss the show. How’re you feeling, kid?”
Swallowing his nerves, Pony groans. “Why are you acting like the college scouts are here? It’s just a bit of fun. What happened to not approving?”
“I told you,” his older brother rolls his eyes. “I don’t approve of Curly’s illegal gambling ring. It’d be hypocritical of me to fight you on this.”
Still, there’s a flash of apprehension, and Pony knows exactly what he’s thinking. This is a notorious game, and while it’s not intended to be violent in the way that a fight is, it’s in Darry’s innate nature to worry. They were raised tough though, and there’s a silent understanding that as long as it all remains superficial, then the older boy will step aside and patch up his injuries at the end.
Soda swings his arms around both of them, his tone joking. “Isn’t this nice, all of us together?”
As Steve returns from replacing his bet, he lets out a short laugh. “You’ve really thrown them, Superman. They don’t know what to make of you!”
Well, for one thing, Pony can just about guarantee that his predicted finish times have been knocked down by out five minutes. They wouldn’t be far off the mark either, if the occasional backyard wrestling match they used to have is anything to go by.
Jesus, couldn’t Darry have done the decent thing and let him keep his pride?
It takes another ten minutes before the commotion has calmed down enough for Pony to begin. Red is sent down to the 200m, while Johnno, who is notorious for being slow, is scrapped and sent to take his wager. Soda offers him one last reassuring smile before moving to the sideline with Two and Steve to join the main group.
God, it feels like he’s getting sent to his death.
“Curtis, you’re up!” Curly shouts, tone laced with impatience, “let’s get this done before dark so we can actually get some proper drinking in!”
As Darry walks past him to take mark, he reaches out and ruffles Pony’s hair. “I got round the track in 2 ‘19 in my senior year.” He winks. “Let’s see what you’re made of, kid.”
Pony shoots his brother a well-meaning glare as he moves up to the start of the track, right where Curly is standing with a cracked stopwatch.
“Ready, Curtis?” his friend grins, fingers teasing the pusher.
The younger boy returns the smile. “Born ready, Shepard.”
And the world holds its breath.
The cheers mean absolutely nothing to Pony as he begins the first stretch. It’s no different to doing laps at college, Coach standing on the side watching his every stride. There’s ninety metres where all that he hears is his shoes beating against the cinder below, and it’s only as he rounds the first curve that he’s flung back into reality.
Pony knows that he can easily outpace the three boys waiting, but it does little to help the fact that they’ve evenly spread themselves in a line across the track. Tactically, he makes the split second decision to dodge around them, but Mitch has done this enough to know his movements, and doesn’t hesitate to send him crashing to the ground.
The impact knocks the wind out of him, and from where he’s spectating, Soda shudders.
“That’s the game,” Steve mumbles, squeezing his friend’s arm, “that’s why there’s so much money on him. Kid’s had far worse than that.”
Cheers echo clear across the field, and Pony fights with everything that he has, pulling himself forward. He directs a well-aimed kick at Dan, who has pinned his left leg, and finally, scraped to all hell, he manages to break free from their hold.
There’s not a second of hesitation; it’s not something that can be afforded considering what is ahead. It’s not an easy feat to make up for lost pace, and Pony wouldn’t be surprised if he runs a personal best trying to make it to the next mark. Sadly, he’s no longer in a state of blissful unawareness; he can feel every single footfall, every brush of wind resistance that threatens to slow him down. It’s overstimulating in the best way possible.
The finish line is so close that he can feel the thrill of crossing it.
Biff Miller and Red Davis are not known for being forgiving. They’re both older, used to be the ones to manage these things when Pony was just old enough to come and watch. They know every trick in the unwritten manual, and training six days a week does nothing to prepare him for the brutality that they are known to show.
Pony hits the cinder before he can even register what’s happened, dust rising up around them as their hands pin his shoulders. He struggles beneath them, desperately trying to be free of their hold, and the well-aimed punch to his cheek from Red will certainly bruise tomorrow.
“Fuck,” Biff gasps as Pony knees him hard in the gut, “you sure know how to fight on, kid.”
It’s as good a praise as any, and almost makes up for the cut that a sharpened fingernail gives him right above his eyebrow. Pony feels the blood drip slowly down his cheek; a testament in itself for all that he’s fought for.
God, he’s missed this. College is a place where he has to suppress this part of who he is; everything that is reckless and wild. The pain is a reminder of where he’s come from, the Tulsan soils that raised him up to be as true as he is. Pony can see his family; Soda, Steve, and Two all cheering like hell, Darry standing there a hundred metres away, waiting for his arrival.
Against the red clay of the earth, Pony is exactly where he wants to be.
Finally, after an eternity, he finally manages to find a gap and pull himself away from the older men, stumbling slightly as he acclimates to the lack of weight. Looking up, he sights his eldest brother standing somewhere between the 300m mark and the end of his suffering.
Darry meets his eyes, and the older boy gives him a tentative smile as the distance closes between them. It’s twenty metres, ten metres, and suddenly, they’re colliding, every bit of their mutual force sending them down. In its own way, it’s no different than when they used to roughhouse as kids, rolling and tumbling around the cinder just as they always have.
It’s as if Darry knows his every move, and despite Pony having grown at least half a foot, his brother still has the edge due to his build. There’s a moment where he thinks it’s all over, managing to get his leg up and into form, but it’s short-lived as he stumbles, and a second later, he’s pulled back.
The crowds are louder than they have been all day, the men shrieking Pony’s name as if it will get him over the line faster. His efforts haven’t been for nothing, and the finish is an agonising ten metres out of his reach. But Pony’s pinned well and good now, the older boy’s weight almost entirely on him.
Soda hovers anxiously, worry etched into every part of his expression as he joins the choir. Still, he knows, just as everyone else does, that Darry Curtis would never hurt his baby brother.
“Jesus Christ, Ponyboy!” Steve yells somewhere to the right, “the damn line is right there! Fight for it!”
Curly Shepard’s stopwatch passes the eight minute mark. “Ponyboy,” he calls over the noise, “have you had enough?”
“Screw that,” Pony spits, trying in vain to wrestle out from under Darry’s hold.
He’s a Curtis through and through.
The sun has almost completely set now, the sky left a deepened grey as it tilts in behind the horizon. As the two brothers fight for their lives upon the dust, another minute passes, and then another, and then another.
At fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds, Ponyboy Curtis tilts his head back and starts to laugh, going completely slack in the older boy’s hold.
“You done, kid?” Darry’s voice rumbles with an edge of desperation.
“Yeah,” he grins, allowing his brother to take his weight. “I’m done.”
Darry rolls off him, just as out of breath as he gasps for air. “Thank fucking Christ for that.”
At fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds, Ponyboy Curtis drags himself over the finish line.
The sofa has never felt more comfortable in his entire life. Ponyboy leans his aching head against its back as Soda sits next to him with the first-aid kit, sorting through an assortment of anti-septic and bandaids.
“God, you really did a number on yourself, honey,” his brother murmurs, tilting his face towards him and starting to clean the cut on his eyebrow, “thought you were never gonna give in.”
“I didn’t give in!” Pony cries out indignantly. “You try having Darry sit on you for fifteen minutes!”
“Heard that!” Darry shouts from where he’s trying to source a cold-pack from the kitchen.
His friend both sit lazily at the dining table, acting like they’ve just finished a hard day’s work. Two is happily tossing around his earnings like they’re made of pure gold, having sung Pony’s praises the whole way home for being just slow enough for him to win them.
“How’d you know it would take me so long to get around?” Pony asks curiously, once he’s gotten over the offence of the older boy’s doubt.
Two raises an eyebrow, grinning lightly at him. “Kid, I’ve been with Darry enough times around that track. You never stood a chance. Not even with that fancy college training you’re getting.”
“Does it hurt?” Soda winces, turning their attention back to his war wounds. “It doesn’t look that deep, but…”
The thing is, everything absolutely hurts like hell, and Pony’s sure that he won’t be leaving the house tomorrow. It’s ironic that this is the happiest that he’s felt in a long while, warmth flooding his chest like fire. He’s with his family again for the first time in months, the old record player playing one of their dad’s old vinyls, and God, it’s home.
Pony’s laughing before he knows it, and Soda flinches backwards, looking twice as concerned as before.
“Do you have a concussion or something?” Steve frowns at him in concern, making a half move to stand up.
He shakes his head and replies, “no,” before taking a shuddering breath to get control of himself. “It’s just so good to be back.”
At long last, Darry emerges with a makeshift icepack, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Pony and Soda. “Kiddo, I think you need to work on your 400m time before you return to college. Isn’t that supposed to be your best event?”
Pony is so very tempted to hit him, but resists as his eldest brother reaches for the first aid kit and pulls out some of the strapping tape from his high school days.
“Where does it hurt the most?” Darry asks, not hiding the concern in his voice.
He throws his head back. “Everywhere.”
Darry rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.” But even so, he gently removes the ice from Pony’s swollen knee and begins to expertly wrap tape over the ligaments. “It doesn’t look sprained.”
“Nah,” Pony reassures, because he knows his brother needs it, “just went down hard a few times.”
The next half hour is spent with his brothers patching him up far more than he probably needs to be. By the end of it, almost every inch of his visible skin is covered in some sort of plaster or tape, which probably acts to reassure them more than it does himself.
Darry sighs deeply. “I still don’t approve of you putting yourself up as a wager.”
“Ah, you can drop the whole responsible front,” Soda grins, “you don’t have a leg to stand on after the show you and Pony put on tonight.”
And perhaps, that’s why their eldest brother is so quick to drop it. After a whole year away at college, they consider themselves lucky that Pony is still the exact same kid that left them. God, Darry is well aware of how easy it is to fall away from what you’ve known your entire life. There’ll always be some small part that’s afraid that Pony will forget; move on to new horizons that are so far away from Tulsa that everything will become memory.
His brothers should know him better than that though, because while he’s smart enough to understand that leaving was the right thing to do, his heart will always remain here in this very room with the people he loves.
That night, after he’s been medically treated to an acceptable standard, the five of them all pile into the Pony’s Mainline and drive down to the diner. Two is feeling especially generous and uses a portion of his winnings to pay for everyone’s food, and they reminisce on their own track anecdotes.
At some point in the evening, a waitress with blonde curls slips Darry her number on the back of a piece of receipt paper, before running off to where her coworkers are giggling behind the bar.
“She’s very pretty,” Soda nudges, causing the older boy to shoot him a glare that would’ve set anyone else straight to Heaven.
And God, hasn’t this been missed. Sitting in the corner booth with his brothers and best friends, he’d quite happily hold onto this moment for eternity. To be honest, Pony’s not entirely sure how he’s gone a year only seeing them all sporadically; a week here, a few days there. Now that he’s back, it’s gonna be complete and utter hell to leave all over again.
It’s alright though; he’s still got three months, and Lord, he’ll make every second of them count.