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Ponyboy muffles his sobs into his palms, trying to quell the tremors in his body so that Sodapop won’t notice. But his efforts prove to be futile, because he feels Soda shift from behind him anyways.
“‘ony?” Sodapop slurs, still half asleep. It’s not until Ponyboy sniffs again that his voice becomes clearer, more alert. “Pony, are you crying? What’s wrong?”
For some reason, that just makes Ponyboy cry harder. He feels like that’s all he’s good for lately.
Sodapop rolls over so that he’s facing him, his expression creasing with obvious concern even in the darkness.
“Oh, honey.” Is what Sodapop says, and Ponyboy just breaks. He cries and cries and doesn’t try to fight it when the warm hands come up to hold him and rub gentle circles into his back.
“Shh, It’s alright, baby. I’ve got you, you’re okay,” Sodapop murmurs gently, rocking back and forth slightly, and it's a little strange from their position on the bed but no less comforting because it’s Soda. And he somehow always radiated that kind of energy like a badge of honor.
Ponyboy doesn’t tell him about the nightmare, but apparently he doesn’t need to. He lets out all of his built-up fear and exhaustion, clutching onto the fabric of Soda’s shirt like a lifeline. He’s probably getting it all wet and gross, and he wants to apologize but can’t quite find his voice through his tears.
At some point the light in the bedroom flickers on and then off quickly, the distant sound of footsteps and a quiet whisper audible. Ponyboy hardly notices through his own wheezing, nor does he pay attention to the vertical shift of the world as he’s lifted upright.
“-need to breathe. Just copy me, okay?”
Ponyboy vaguely registers a new, deeper voice commanding him to do something; and then the feeling of someone’s chest expanding beneath his skin as they implored him to do the same. He does, or tries to, shaky coughs sticking inside of his chest oddly. It creates a weird rattling noise, and suddenly he’s so fixated on it—anything but the confusing amalgamation of his emotions—that his breathing begins to steady out without meaning to.
“There you go,” The different voice praises, and Ponyboy preens under it even if he’s not too sure who’s talking. “Just like that. You’re doing great, kiddo.”
Ponyboy keeps going, deciding that oxygen is underrated as he sucks it in greedily. He takes one inhale, and the another, and then gradually the black spots over his vision recede and things begin to make sense again. And then he freezes, because he’s pressed against somebody’s chest, and it’s not Soda’s. His throat dries up when the person reluctantly pries away.
“You okay, Pones?” Darry asks gently, hands still firmly placed on Ponyboy’s shoulders.
Ponyboy glances around in a daze, and his eyes feel real crusty from crying even when he blinks slowly. He notices that Sodapop is sitting a little ways off to the side, giving them space reluctantly. He looks as if he was forced to be pulled away, wearing an expression of sheer concern that was almost impressive had it not made him feel so guilty.
Darry shakes him again; not unkindly, but attentive. Ponyboy scrubs at his eyes, suddenly embarrassed. Had he even woke up Two-bit, who had been camping on their couch? Darry probably had words with him. God, he would be insufferable with his jokes in the morning if he heard. The greaser got funny like that whenever he was feeling bad for you.
“Pony?”
“‘m fine,” Ponyboy murmurs, trying to pull away from his brother’s grip, but Darry just tightens his hold.
He shakes his head. “No, you ain’t. What was that about, huh?” Darry’s voice is firm like it gets whenever he wants to talk seriously, but still uncharacteristically soft in a way that tugs on Ponyboy’s already fragile heart strings
Ponyboy bites his lip to keep it from trembling. He wishes Darry would just let it go. If everybody stopped treating the constant nightmares like a big deal then it would be a lot easier to manage.
“Nightmare,” He confesses quietly, hating the way his voice wavers on the words. Ponyboy sniffles pathetically, staring at his feet. “S-sorry. Didn’t mean– mean to wake everybody.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, honey.” Sodapop chimes in softly, apparently having moved closer now that Pony wasn’t on the verge of hyperventilating.
Then there was a comforting hand placed on his back, and Ponyboy leaned into it the best he could. As ashamed at his meltdown as he was, it also felt real nice to be surrounded by this much love. He wonders vaguely if he deserves it–that small comfort. He thinks of dead, glossy eyes–
Ponyboy shudders violently, and he thinks he might start trembling again. The hand on his back starts to rub in circles again. Darry still has a grip on both of his shoulders, but something in his expression shifts as he watches this display, eyes flickering between Sodapop and Ponyboy. It’s a helpless kind of look.
“What can we do?” Darry asks. And it’s spoken like a plea.
Sodapop pulls Ponyboy tighter against his side, nodding his own encouragement. An unspoken agreement passes between the two older brothers as they glance at each other. It makes Ponyboy nervous.
He hates it. Ponyboy knows that they mean well, that they really want to help, or else they wouldn't be putting up with his screaming fits each night, but sometimes their attention just becomes too much. Too similar to being examined under a glass jar and shook upside down. And doesn’t that just make him seem ungrateful? He thinks about Johnny’s dad, and about all the other greasers he had ever known who never felt any touch that wasn’t violent.
But Ponyboy doesn’t want to worry them both any more than they already were. He thinks again, this time about Darry–sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands, stacks of papers spread over the table; his leg kicking the peg underneath because Darry got restless when he was stressed and his body could only hold so much energy before exploding. The eyebags that were ever present on his face, and how they seemed to worsen during the past few weeks.
Ponyboy saw it all. The exhaustion evident on Darry’s face after each one of Pony’s nightmares, or whenever he zones out and ends up a bit too lost in his own head–or the more terrifying of times that Pony wanders out of the house at night in a blur of confusion and has to be tracked down by two concerned faces.
And then there was Soda. For as much as he tries to hide it under gentle reassurances and smiles and laughter, Ponyboy knows that he’s being dragged into his problems too. He sees the way Sodapop frowns at him whenever he goes quiet for too long, (like he does most days now) and the hushed whispers outside of their bedroom that Ponyboy picks up on because the walls are thin, let’s face it, and he’s never actually sleeping when they think he is.
Ponyboy knows in a way that he needs the support. But he can’t allow himself to actually have it, because then that would also mean admitting there was a problem, and admitting that he has a problem meant admitting there was something wrong with him. And if Ponyboy was wrong, he would need to be fixed. Fixed meant more money, meant more bills for Darry to pay, more creases between Soda’s kind eyes. Broken was a burden, one that they couldn’t afford.
So Ponyboy, even after leaking snot all over his brother’s tee and becoming a blubbering mess– knew he would have to learn to bear the weight inside of him so that it didn’t have to crush anybody but him.
Ponyboy’s watery eyes meet the carpet. For some reason, he’s overcome with a sudden bout of emptiness. “I don’t really– I don’t know.” He admits in a soft whisper, and doesn’t look up. Even when he hears the sharp inhale next to him and the strong hands on his shoulders that leave suddenly as if scorched.
What he really means is, there’s nothing you can do. Ponyboy thinks he might be this way forever.
He doesn’t need to see Darry’s disappointed expression to know it’s there. “Okay.” He says slowly and takes a deep breath. “Okay, that’s alright. You don’t have to right now. Just.. let us know if you need something, alright? Anything at all.”
Sodapop rests his head on Ponyboy’s head, and his hair is still damp from the shower that he took three hours ago. The cold water makes Ponyboy jump a little. God. What is wrong with him?
Soda doesn’t even seem to notice–Darry eyes him funny, but says nothing.
“Dar's right, Pones. We’re here for you. Both of us.”
Ponyboy finds his voice with effort. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, kiddo.” Darry says, and Sodapop just smiles one of his toothy grins, and that in itself is enough.
For a moment, there is silence. Not the awkward kind, but rather the kind that makes Ponyboy a little sleepy, lying there in the dark with the comfort of his brother’s warmth beside him.
And then the mood dampens, because Darry is a problem solver, and has always liked to get to the bottom of things. That also means he asks questions. A lot.
The bed dips as Darry comes to sit on the other side of him. He sighs, long and hard. “Do you– do you wanna talk about it?” He asks gently, and Ponyboy flinches despite himself.
Sodapop shoots him a warning glare, gathering Pony closer in his arms protectively. “Darry–”
“I just thought it might help–”
“No.”
Ponyboy surprises them by speaking apparently, two heads swiveling in his direction. Ponyboy flushes at the attention, resisting the urge to bite his fingernails; a nasty habit he picked up after their parent’s death that Darry has been trying to break for years. It had stopped for a little while, until all of that happened, and then it was right back to square one. He doubts that Darry would be happy to see it reappear again.
“No. I mean, thanks Darry,” He begins, a little softer than before because he’s trying to be more appreciative of his older brother. Ponyboy risks a glance at Darry to clock his reaction, and just barely catches his strained smile before it vanishes. “But I can’t– not right now.”
The awful part, Ponyboy thinks, is that it’s not technically a lie. He wants to. Lord, does he want to. How he wishes for the weight to finally be lifted off his shoulders if only he just caved and told them the dreams in detail–about the fire, drowning, car crashes, a boy with scars wrapped around his body. Johnny’s wide open black eyes staring at him. The sound of gunshots ringing in the air. How his mind distorts all of those events like the screeching of a broken record, and how it somehow always leads back to Ponyboy.
If he confesses, if he just tells them how it was always his fault; how he carries death around like a bad omen, infecting everyone he came into contact with. Then maybe they’d finally understand.
Maybe they’d hate him forever. Maybe they’d tell him it wasn’t his fault, but that would be the lie, wouldn’t it? Because he knew that deep down, it was. He was near choking with how much it was.
“It’s alright,” Sodapop reassures immediately. Ponyboy wonders if he can feel the goosebumps forming on his arms. “It’s alright. Right, Darry?”
Sodapop glances up at him, and Darry swallows thickly in response; Adam’s apple bobbing. He looks familiar that way, all clenched fists and swallowed frustration. “Right. Look, Pones, I ain’t trying to force anything on you–”
Ponyboy doesn’t mean to zone out the way he does–really, it just kind of happens. One second he’s present, listening to Darry go on about therapy, and professionals, and there’s something horribly wrong with you–he’s pretty sure Darry doesn’t say that last one, but he’s definitely thinking it–and suddenly his skin is tight with an explosive urge to get away, and the next he’s overcome with this floating sensation. It’s a sensation that Ponyboy knows well.
His vision trembles, and he can vaguely make out the sound of people speaking, can vaguely make out the mouths moving too fast for his brain to comprehend, but it’s all very faraway now, muffled behind his glass wall. The sort of black-and-white from cartoons and old films Ponyboy used to see on the TV consumes the world and leaves it colorless.
Ponyboy feels like a simple observer outside of his own body as he glances around. There’s nothing recognizable in this blurry canvas; he’s not sure if this is even real, if his surroundings aren’t just a product of his imagination.
It’s almost like the feeling before you fall asleep, but less warm. Less inviting. Strange and dream-like. The voices overlap like hornets buzzing in his ears. His vision gets foggy. The lamp hurts his eyes with its sudden intensity.
Ponyboy’s not sure how long he stays like that–just existing between time–but it must be long enough, because suddenly there are rough hands shaking him, the voices getting louder. But it’s not until cold water drips down his back and shocks his senses enough that the world quietly comes back into focus, his vision tunneling in and out like a kaleidoscope.
“—ony!” The voices come in radio waves.
“—wrong with him?”
“I don’t know—”
Ponyboy blinks. Glances around to the worried faces peering over him, the hands shaking his shoulders. He must make some kind of noise, because the hands stop shaking him abruptly.
“Pony?” Sodapop calls softly. It’s not until then that Ponyboy realized he had begun slowly pulling away from him and into himself, shoulders hunched as if collapsing under the weight of the world.
Ponyboy makes an effort to sit up straighter, but he can’t quite get his head to clear up. His body still feels foreign as he moves, like he’s a ghost watching his own corpse dance around.
“Pony? You back with us?” It’s Sodapop who asks, and his arms are at his sides stiffly, like he meant to comfort him again but restrained himself after his episode.
He doesn’t know. Ponyboy still can’t find his voice again, so he just nods mutely.
“Gave us a scare, kiddo,” It’s Darry that speaks next; stress lines creasing his forehead. Darry almost looks as shaken as he did back in the hospital.
“M sorry,” Ponyboy says through a yawn, his eyelids going heavy. “What ‘appened?”
“Shoot, honey, we ain’t sure. Looked like you were spacing out,” Sodapop explains gently, “Dar tried talkin’ to you but you weren’t responding, just kept staring off into nothing- we got real worried. Kept muttering under your breath too.”
Ponyboy’s stomach swoops, suddenly awake. “What? What’d I say?”
Sodapop and Darry share an odd look that doesn’t help the nausea stirring in his gut.
Darry clears his throat and quietly says, “You just kept repeating ‘no’ over and over.”
Ponyboy lets out a breath. That was fine– it was vague enough that they didn’t get any important details. “Oh.” But he swallows, knowing what he was saying that word for.
He still feels– Ponyboy doesn’t know what he feels, but his complicated feelings are put on the backburner as his exhaustion creates a fog over any of them, making it slightly less stressful.
“We can talk about that in the morning, maybe?” Darry asks after a minute. He sounds so hopeful that Ponyboy can’t bring himself to say no. “It’s awfully late, and I think we’re all tired.”
“‘Kay.” Pony accepts this easily. His head feels fuzzy as he leans onto Sodapop’s shoulder, and that must be enough reassurance for him because he immediately reciprocates by wrapping an arm around Ponyboy’s frame once more.
“You can stay home tomorrow, if you need to– I’ll make a call.” Darry offers. It’s nice because he’s always going on about the importance of education, but in that same thought Ponyboy would feel bad for skipping.
“Mm,” He says vaguely in reply. Then there’s a chaste kiss pressed to his temple.
Ponyboy isn’t sure who does it, but it sure does feel nice as he lets his eyes flutter shut. It was nice to pretend for a little while.
“We love you, Pones.” Is the last thing that he hears Sodapop say as he slowly drifts off to sleep.
And for once, his dreams are not plagued by dead boys or the smell of smoke. Instead, he dreams of nothing at all.
But he feels it anyways, the comforting warmth of his brother’s body pressed against his. The insistent breath of Sodapop’s snoring, the ticking of Darry’s watch.
In the morning, he will wake to the feeling of warmth, the smell of chocolate cake, and the glow of Christmas tree lights. And it will be real, tangible. The happiest he has felt in months. He chases it; lets the realness of his new dream cover up the death and grief, and the pitch blackness.
He still wasn’t okay, not even close. But maybe, just maybe, that poem was wrong. Maybe Gold could stay a little longer.
Ponyboy would be okay with that.