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“Good hustle, Curtis,” coach claps him on the back as he jogs off the field and he grins, pushing dark, sweat soaked hair out of his eyes.
They’re up by a touchdown and one field goal- that he’s responsible for- and with possession and just two minutes left in the fourth quarter they’re reasonably safe, though the game isn’t over until it’s over.
His teammates pat him on the back and compliment his kick as he guzzles back water, and it’s not hollow per se, but even after two years it still feels skin deep. He’ll never be one of them, never be rich, never be quite good enough, popular enough, socy enough, no matter how good his kicks or how well he runs plays. They accept him, maybe some even like him, but they’ll never want him, not really. It doesn’t even sting anymore.
The people who do really care about him watch from the bleachers. Mom and dad are there, dad talking with his hands like usual and mom laughing at him like she always does, too in love to ever scold him for anything. They wave at him across the field when he catches their eye and it almost feels right. Almost .
The gang is around too, though less obvious in their support of him. Two-bit and Dally are pelting a group of freshmen with popcorn, while Steve, Johnny, and Soda are all smoking near the gap in the fence. They’ll be gone as soon as the final whistle blows, and he really can’t blame him. The end of the match is always the hardest for him too.
33..32…31…
The clock ticks down steadily, their team and the visiting school fighting back and forth without either team gaining any substantial yards and then the whistle blows and they’ve won.
Like every game they've ever won, the victory feels worse than losing.
His teammates cheer and thump him on the back while the fans flood onto the field and the coach gives a short congratulatory speech before telling them he’ll see them at practice tomorrow.
Then it’s perfectly, blessedly over. Except it isn’t, is it? It never is, not really.
“You coming to the afterparty, man?” Jared Strong, one of the nicer guys on the team and also one of the biggest, asks, “Damien’s hosting and his parents are outta town.”
“Nah,” he shakes his head. Rarely does he go to parties with the team, even though he usually gets an invite. He has no love for pretending to be something he isn’t. Not anymore at least, “I got other plans. Thanks though.”
“Have fun,” Jared nods politely, his helmet dangling in one hand, pale hair stuck to his face, “I guess I’ll see you at practice tomorrow?”
“For sure. See you Jared.”
“Bye Pony.”
He watches as Jared rejoins the rest of the team, shining brighter than the rest of them even in his stained and sweaty jersey. Jordan’s captain of the team, nicer than the rest of them, obviously more skilled even though he never brags about it.
Jared reminds him of Darry, and it’s hard not to hate him for it.
It’s been two years, but he can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever really recover from it, or if the hole Darry left in the world is going to be a permanent fixture rendering his life a theatre production he stars in as Ponyboy Curtis with the demands of Doing What Darry Couldn’t Finish.
He wishes he could be bitter about it, but it just feels like a weird sort of penance. It’s not like he killed Darry- no Paul Holden and his alcoholic buddies and their too fast cars had done that- but there’s an odd sort of peace tied in with the pain and the guilt of trying to make sure Darry’s legacy is never forgotten. He’ll never be football captain or boy of the year, but he can play the game Darry loved and go to college and get out of this town once and for all. Is it really his dream? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care because it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Darry would know but he isn’t here, he will never be here again and it’s never going to be okay because a piece of Ponyboy died the same night the police came to their door and told them about the accident and what use is there of living when he isn’t really alive? He can live Darry’s dream for him, because he no longer knows how to build dreams of his own.
Mom and Dad are both beaming when he makes his way over to them, and they’re both still living but they’re different now too, just like all of them are, and it shows in the way mom’s eyes are still bright but now they only ever shine with tears, and dad’s laugh is still loud but never so carefree as it used to be.
“Great job Little Colt,” Dad ruffles his hair, and mom gives him a quick hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He allows it only because he knows Darry never used to. She needs the reminder sometimes, Pony thinks, that things are different, even though it’s something they all never forget.
He manages a faint grin but he’s tired of his performance, of pretending to be whole around the team, and he can see in their eyes they can see it.
“Thanks. Let’s go home.”
Dad throws an arm around his shoulders but says nothing, something Pony is grateful for. He’s lucky to have parents who understand him so well, because most people don’t much like his silence even though sometimes talking is just so much work.
The gang is waiting for them in the parking lot, clustered around dad’s truck and Steve’s car which are parked right next to each other. None of them are usually subdued- two years has given them all enough time to develop a new normal- but there’s a weight hanging over all of them that football games bring out. They’re all performers now, but all of them seem better at it then he is.
Well. All of them except Soda.
Two-bit can joke again, better than he used to, and Dally is tougher and meaner than ever. Steve’s anger has been honed to a sharp edge, but he’s grown better about using it, his fights with the socs more frequent and violent, but his outbursts at the gang far fewer. Losing Darry had put things into perspective for all of them. Even Johnny was different, though Pony suspects Johnny might have changed so he still fit with him rather than because of losing Darry. Not that Darry hadn’t loved Johnny and Johnny hadn’t loved him, but in the past two years Ponyboy has come to realize that Johnny spends a lot more energy taking care of him than his younger, more stupid self had ever been able to realize.
They all surround him when Dad drops the steadying arm around his shoulders to pull out his keys. Johnny hands him a cigarette without him having to ask, and he inhales half desperately, ignoring mom’s disapproving look and trying not to roll his eyes. He knows she’d hoped he’d wait until he was at least fifteen to start smoking, but If she can ignore Soda’s recent antics she can surely ignore his newly acquired habit.
Speaking of Soda, he’s currently reeling pickled and clearly far past the point of attempting to hide it. He’s paler these days than he used to be, and skinnier too, no matter how much mom is always hounding him to eat, and Pony thinks maybe Soda’s the most ruined of all of them, or at least the only one of them that’ll never recover, not really. Right now he’s living like he’s trying to follow Darry to his death, and the anger Pony feels has more to do with the sorrow that comes with the fact that in losing his eldest brother he lost the human part of his other brother too.
Steve’s holding Soda upright, his arm under Soda’s shoulders while Soda slurs out a never evening stream of consciousness that none of them can understand, that stupid fucking flask he never goes anywhere without sticking out of his jacket pocket. Pony takes one look at dad’s tightly drawn face and locks eyes with Steve, both of them coming to a silent agreement, one he would’ve thought inconceivable before. Nowadays though, he and Steve Randle get along just fine.
He ducks under Soda’s other side, helping take the rest of his body weight, even though Soda’s got so slight as of late it’s hardly even needed, and helps Steve guide him to sit in the back of his car. He’s so drunk he hardly seems to notice, still babbling incoherently.
“Thanks,” Steve huffs, and he looks tired, nearly as tired as Pony feels. He nods, and Steve nods back then goes to promise mom and dad that he’s sober enough to drive them all home. Mom and dad never believe any of them anymore, not without looking into their eyes and smelling their breath. Pony can't even blame them. They’d lost one son to a careless man’s drunk driving. Clearly, they couldn’t risk another.
Johnny climbs in next to him then, smiling softly, and Two crowds in after him. Dally takes the passenger side and then Steve’s back, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Dally turns on the radio and rolls down the window while he lights up a cigarette, but even the Rolling Stones aren’t loud enough to drown out Soda’s talk, as much as Ponyboy wishes they could.
It’s strange and wrong that they all fit in Steve’s car, a gang of six that’s meant to be seven, and also hardly a gang at all.
Ponyboy rests his head on Johnny's shoulder next to him, and tries to ignore everything going on around him. It’s something he’s grown rather good at as of late.
Last week was the two year anniversary and everything has changed and nothing has changed, none of them are getting better, and Soda is still just getting worse.
Ponyboy sighs. They say three time’s the charm, right? Maybe three years will be enough. Enough that he will be able to look inward at the hole in his heart and it won’t look like a gaping wound. Maybe it will ache like a bruise instead of burning every hour like a knife wound. Maybe three years will be enough for him to be able to say Darry’s name without having to force it past clenched teeth. Maybe if he makes it to three years Soda will decide life is worth living again. Maybe he won’t.
Maybe three years will do what two years haven't. Maybe three years will be what it takes for them all to start to heal.
There’s nothing he can do but find out.