Work Text:
Around 2pm, when July in Oklahoma is at her most unforgiving and kids try to scramble eggs on the burning sidewalk, the lights around me distort. I groan, knowing precisely what's in store for me. Exactly on cue, my right hand starts tingling as I hammer down the bundle of roofing. The migraines had gotten better, sort of, when Ponyboy and I hashed it out last year and promised to try and get along for Soda's sake. I laid off him as much as I could, and he'd starting coming to me to talk about stuff in the way he only used to with Soda. He was still a moody teenager, cagey and defensive. But he'd probably say I was pretty cagey myself. So we tried. And I'd gotten a raise, just enough to slow the endless march of dread that I used to feel anytime a bill came in the mail or groceries got low. I guess the decrease in daily stress and shouting meant fewer triggers, but they would still blindside me from time to time.
Today, neither brotherly bonding nor increased financial stability was going to stop the torture creeping up on me. With no other choice, I keep pounding roofing into the top of a home I could never afford to live in. I try and rely on the rhythm I've learned as focus slips away. Up and down the ladder, swing hard and precise, watch my footing. I still feel barely functional, and I know I'm going slower than usual. As I work, the lights and tingling give way to an icepick through my temple. Just as the building pain is becoming overpowering the foreman calls us down for the night and I squint at the blacktop as I walk to the truck.
I manage the drive home, inhaling slowly through my nose and thanking God that Soda left his dumb aviator sunglasses in the truck last time he took it for a spin. They dial the pain back just enough that I can focus reasonably on the road despite the glare against the windshield from the sun's position low in the sky. Pulling into the driveway, I drop the sunglasses back into the cupholder and stagger into the house. Pony's sat at the kitchen table with his textbook open, copying something down. The combination of the smell of meatloaf in the oven and the bright artificial lights illuminating Ponyboy's homework nearly send me to my knees. I swallow, trying to quell the nausea. I'm worried I'll heave if I open my mouth to greet Pony, so I just drop my tool belt and drag myself to my room, falling into bed with my boots still on.
A few minutes later, Pony lets himself into my room. I don't open my eyes, but I hear him drag my curtains shut and flip on the fan before he yanks my boots off my feet. Something cool and damp settles across my eyes before the door creaks closed behind him. I drift to sleep, hopeful this one is easy to sleep off. I'm hardly ever that lucky, but I'm on the books for a double tomorrow, hoping to be able to buy Pony a letterman jacket and some nice track shoes. Some of the Soc sprinters have started wearing the fancy ones with spikes, and I know Ponyboy wants a pair even though he hasn't mentioned it. Plus, Soda needs some decent new jeans that aren't half black with oil from the DX.
I wake a couple hours later when Ponyboy comes in with a fresh cold rag and a couple aspirin. He sets the pills and a glass of water on the counter, and switches out the rag over my eyes. "Thanks, kiddo." I say, and I hear him jump about a foot in the air.
"Christ! Darry, I thought you were asleep."
"Nah." I say. "Just woke up. Feel a little better."
"Oh." He says. "That's good. Seemed like a bad one when you got home." As much as I used to get on him about not using his head, Pony is awfully observant when he wants to be. Thoughtful, too, even though he tries to act tuff. I don't know how many teenage greasers would pull the blinds and freeze a washcloth for their older siblings.
Ponyboy climbs into the empty side of my bed, like he's started doing when he has something on his mind that he can't say out loud in the florescent lighting of the kitchen. I don't see him through the damp rag over my eyes, but the dip of the bed is evidence enough. I don't really understand why he picked up this pattern, maybe because him and Soda started talking in bed after Soda moved in with him for the nightmares. I used to listen to them murmuring through the walls at night, feeling like the kid getting picked last in gym. Now, I can practically hear the wheels turning in Pony's head.
"After Mom and Dad, I was so mad at you for going to work. I think it was only two days after the funeral. You just carried on with life. Or, made a new one I guess. This wasn't your life. Not supposed to be, anyway." Ponyboy pauses. "I barely even had dragged myself out of bed to eat breakfast in the kitchen, and you just seemed fine. I thought you didn't care."
I hum at that, not sure where he's going. Ponyboy has a tendency to monologue on his way to a point. "I remember you would come home, shower, make dinner, clean for the social worker, and who knows what else. You still do, but I mean soon enough after the accident that I could've counted the hours since we buried them. When all Soda and I could do was cry, you were sweating it out on some Soc's roof. I'm just sorry that we let you carry that all by yourself. All I could be was mad at you. I was such a little shit."
"Still are." I say, but my voice is thick.
"I mean it, Darry." I feel the mattress shift as Ponyboy rolls over.
"I know you do, baby. Don't be sorry, we were all just trying to keep going our own way."
"I am, though. Sorry." Pony rests his head against my shoulder, and I wonder if this is how Soda feels every night. Trusted, loved. My head still feels like it's got a drill going into it but laying there in the dark, washcloth over my eyes and Ponyboy's breathing next to me, the pressure in my head eases just enough.
"Stop thinkin' so much, Dar. I just needed to tell you. Go back to sleep." Pony mumbles into his shoulder. And I do.