Chapter Text
A U.S. draft card is undoubtedly the single ugliest thing Ponyboy Curtis has ever seen in his eighteen years of life. The slanted typewriter characters make his name look like a curse and not like the title his father had bestowed upon him with a giddy smile. The paper is this thick, awfully dry textured square that wears off at the edges, despite living inside the depths of his wallet since its issuance. As the months pass, the card is starting to yellow at the corners, dark, uneven splotches of a nauseating discoloration scattered sporadically around the perimeter. Ponyboy always liked the golden orange-yellow of the sunset, but it's a God-awful look on the length of the paper. He hasn't glanced at the thing since the last time he cleaned out his wallet and, as he tucked it into the back pocket, thanked his lucky stars that he'd never have to see it again.
When the letter came, Ponyboy discovered a sight uglier than what was written along his draft card. One look at the big, bold words at the top spelling out: ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION, had his hands shaking so hard that the page was starting to blur. The envelope it came in was a torn-up mess on the floor. Ponyboy hadn't bothered himself with looking at the sender before opening it. He was so accustomed to getting letters from the gang that mail from Tulsa wasn't hard to come by. Two-Bit liked to challenge himself with seeing just how many stamps he could snag from the DX's counter before Steve could catch him. Darry liked to write him about his new job at the assembly line; it was a lot easier on his back than roofing ever was, and he even managed to keep a small administrative position at his old company, meaning that him and Sodapop were no longer scraping the barrel just the keep the lights on every week. That gave Soda the opportunity to sneak a bit of extra change into the envelope of everything he sent, especially on the weeks where he picked up some overtime at the gas station. Ponyboy always called him up right after hearing the coins jingle around in his hands, insisting he ain't need any of Sodapop's hard earned money, but Soda would just tsk and holler, "Is it so wrong of me to spoil my kid brother?!"
The message in his hands wasn't from his brothers, though, biological or not. It was addressed from the president himself, which only made Ponyboy roll his eyes so hard it hurt. Dick Nixon- a name he suited perfectly- didn't give a damn about what happened to the kids he was shipping out on those big boats to 'Nam. As long as he slept at night, tucked warm in his own bed and blankets somewhere inside a big white house he didn't have to clean, served a big platter at a breakfast table he never had to set, Nixon would keep sending men out by the hundred-thousands for the next decade.
Ol' Dick was ordering him to report to a base in Fort Worth, Texas in a short three weeks. The lump in Ponyboy's throat grew; he'd be spending his nineteenth birthday waking up on a shitty, thin cot in a hall of angry boys, basking in the knowledge that they'd be loaded on a ship across the sea within the next month, and dead shortly after that. Darry can't plan another funeral, Ponyboy thinks, even if he's got the money to afford a bunch of flowers now. He's only 24 and he's already carried the brunt of four burials on the base of his shoulders. He can't handle another without cracking right down the middle, and Ponyboy refuses to be the burden that breaks his brother in half.
The door to his dorm room swings open with a sharp click. Ponyboy jolts so suddenly that the letter's edge slices a thick paper cut into the pad of his thumb. He hisses, sucking the digit between his lips. His tongue slides against the slit in his skin, licking away the beads of blood as they bubble to the surface.
His roommate is a freshman, too, even though he's Sodapop's age, and he majors in chemistry. They both came to university before the fall semester was set to start, aiming to get an early couple of credits before the rest of the kids flooded in. David Nelson's from Alabama, though, which is glaringly obvious through his thick southern drawl and the pair of worn farm boots he wears every damn day. He raises an eyebrow as he kicks them off beside the door. "What's got your knickers all twisted?" he scoffs, rolling his eye. "You get a 'B' in creative writing 'gain?"
Ponyboy can't even manage feigning a smile. His gut is twisted in thorny vines, his mind racing in circles faster than himself at a States track meet. Dave steps away from the door, the taunting amusement in his face melting into a thick layer of concern. "Curtis?"
"I got drafted," Pony blurts before he can stop himself. His hands snap forward like two mechanical arms, elbows locked completely straight, despite the violent tremors that given himself away. Dave's eyes widen as he crosses the room and snatches the letter into his own calloused fingers. "They're sendin' me 'way. Dave, look. They're- Dave, they're gonna-"
"They're not sending you 'way, they're fuckin' killin' you. Christ, Ponyboy," Dave rambles, as though his emotional outburst will make him feel any better. His eyes rake up and down the letter repeatedly as though he'll find some real loophole, like a batch of text at the bottom that says it's all one big joke will manifest if he squints hard enough. "We can- we can shred it. Pretend you never got this anyway-"
Ponyboy huffs. His hand, damp with sweat and nerves, runs through the knotted hair atop his head, still a shaggy mix of auburn-brown and bleach blonde, because he keeps dying the tips when he gets awful sad. "You want me to go to jail?!" he hollers.
"It's either that or die in the damn jungle! Your fuckin' choice, Curtis!" Dave leans back and sticks his hand on his chin. His thumb runs back and forth across his stubble. "This shit ain't fair. You're a kid. They're killin' kids. Fucked up fuckin' country, we are, sending fuckin' kids off to war we ain’t meant to fight-"
Ponyboy leaves the letter tight in Dave's hands and collapses face-first onto his mattress. His roommates angry rambling becomes nothing more than background music accompanying his hot tears soaking into the pillow.
The bus ride from his university back to Tulsa takes nearly two and a half hours. Ponyboy kept his temple pressed close to the window, wincing every time a pothole sent his head slamming into the glass. Over the bout of the past two weeks, Ponyboy has slowly deconstructed his entire life. Now, it is nothing more than the ghost of who he is. The Dean of Students looked at him with this heavy face weighed down by the frown duh into his cheeks when he informed him of his intentions to drop out. He added Pony's name onto a handwritten list atop his desk of boys who would no longer see the graces of education as a result of government intervention. "If you come back," the man said, a firm hand planted on Pony's shoulder, "there will be a place for you here."
With his eyes slipped shut, Ponyboy ignores that familiar lump built high in his throat. He replays the words and pretends that the man had said 'when,' rather than 'if.'
He rented a small storage locker in this cinderblock building next to his campus and pre-paid for an entire year and a half, then scrawled down his house's phone number to call once the funds run out. It's pricey, but it's manageable, ever since he got that job at the library. The hours pass quickly between restocking books and flipping through paperwork. Before he returned his keys to the housing office, Ponyboy had shoved everything he couldn't pawn off to Dave inside the unit, aside from two duffle bags he packed so full that the zippers threaten to pop right open.
On the bus, one sits tucked behind his ankles beneath his seat, while the other is bundled up in his arms like a big teddy bear. The first one is what he intends on taking to the base with him, stuffed full of undergarments, a few t-shirts, two shoddy pairs of pants, and a couple of books he wouldn't dare live without. Going to war doesn't mean he can incomplete a book for the first time in his life, no matter how much he wishes the author would quit mischaracterizing her own creations. The second bag is full of Darry and Soda's hand-me-downs, folded neatly atop one another, along with an envelope full of his savings and the money that was meant to go towards his next ear of college. He sticks two handwritten letters on the top before he closes the zipper. He figures if he leaves a parting gift, it may lessen the blow.
Darry knows something is wrong; that much is certain. Ponyboy had waited until last night to call home and tell his oldest brother that he'd be heading home for the weekend. He's not entirely sure what gave his worry away, whether it had been the thick layer of emotion in his voice, or the fact that Ponyboy was already heading home despite only being at college for a few weeks now. "I'm fine, Dar," Ponyboy had insisted, scrubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. He angled the phone away as he sniffled. "I just miss y'all."
"Okay, baby," Darry responded, unable to conceal the concern in his voice. "Door's always open for you. I'll pick ya' up from the bus stop, okay? I'll call in sick 'n I'll bring ya' home."
Tulsa's bus stop is nothing more than a rickety overhang balancing on the rotting legs of four two-by-fours. The bench beneath the shelter was too small to fit more than three school children practically sat atop each other, and the adults fresh off their shifts waiting for the next bus out of town were glaring at the kids like they'd push them into the dirt if it was socially acceptable.
He finds Darry within an instant. His older brother is parked on the side of the street a few feet ahead of the bus, leaning against the bed of his truck with his arms crossed over his chest and his foot resting right beside the license plate. He looks remarkably less tired than the past few years had made him; for a long time after their parents' deaths, Darry's most recognizable feature was the permanent bags sewn in beneath his eyes. Now, his face has a bright excitement tinged in the apples of his cheeks and he looks like the 24-year-old man he truly is. His brows furrow together slightly at the two different duffle bags clutched tight in his palms, but Darry shakes it away and jogs forward.
"Hiya, Ponyboy," Darry says. He launches his arms around his brother's shoulders with a happy giggle. The strength from his roofing days hasn't even begun to fail; Ponyboy swears he feels his back crack beneath the force of his embrace. He pulls away with this bright smile that Ponyboy hasn't realized just how much he missed until it's right in his face. He keeps a hand clasped tight on Pony's shoulder as he pulls away, ruffling his other hand within his ungreased strands. "Glory, kiddo, you just keep gettin' taller, don't you? Steve 'll be awfully mad, you've got at least 3 inches on him."
"He deserves it. I been the baby for too long. It's his turn to be teased," he grumbles. It's hard to maintain his faux anger when his brother's looking at him with such care and attention.
Darry reaches forward and scoops one of his bags into his own hands. "Come on, darlin'. Pepsi's itchin' for you to get home. I swear, he was bouncin' off the walls all morn' once I told him you were comin' home for the weekend," he explains. He tosses the duffle into the bed of the truck and waits for Ponyboy to do the same. He smacks his hand right above the taillight and points to the passenger seat, which Ponyboy takes as a direction. He clicks his seatbelt in and Darry peels out onto the road with a grin. The radio plays quietly in the background as Darry taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. "You know, I'm real' happy you came home."
Ponyboy looks up in surprise. "Really?" he asks. His gaze bounces back and forth between Darry's bursting excitement and the open road, the air just above the pavement visibly radiating with heat. He bites the corner of his mouth between his molars. "I ain't been gone for all that long," Ponyboy reminds.
"Maybe," Darry agrees, flipping his blinker on as they turn down a side street. "But I don't think I'll ever get used to your bein' gone, even when I'm old 'n wrinkling 'n you got kids of your own." His tongue flicks out and wets his lips; it's one of Darry's only tells for nervousness. His stoic face doesn't let any bouts of emotion through his features, so Ponyboy learned quickly on the other ways to pick up on the other signs. "You're always gonna' be a kid to me, Pony. My kid, even, so don't think you goin' 'way for a few weeks won't make be miss you."
That lump in his throat, the one he can't seem to outrun, worms its way back into his esophagus. Ponyboy fixes his eyes on the passing buildings and revels in the fact that saying goodbye is going to harder than he thought.
The gang has a dinner together on Friday night. It still doesn't feel like a full living room with just the five of them, but five years out from the last time he saw Johnny and Dally, the reminder of their absences is only a dull ache and no longer prevents him from having any fun. Sodapop won't leave his side, a tight arm wrung around his shoulders constantly to the point where Steve tells Ponyboy that he can't come home anymore if it means Soda won't talk to anyone else.
Getting to the train station creates the need for an elaborate, fool-proof plan, which isn't Ponyboy's greatest aptitude. The only other time he had succeeded in slipping away from his brothers' grasps unknowingly had led to the worst week of his life, something that his mind still won't seem to let go of. He can't walk to the station; it would take him and hour or two to get there and, even though he'd leave before the sun could rise, the heat would already be bubbled up in anger. Then again, even if it was a cool fall morning, Pony's learned better than to walk around the streets of Tulsa alone in the dark.
He can't drive, either, because that would evolve recruiting Darry or Sodapop or, quite frankly, jacking the truck for the drive. If he had a way to ensure they could get the keys back, he wouldn't mind it as much, but it seems almost too cruel to rip himself from their lives and jot at the bottom of their letters, "By the way, your truck's at the train station, and you're gonna' have to walk there and get the keys from the ticket booth. Sorry." Two-Bit's out of the question, too, because he's somewhere between four and seven beers in- Ponyboy lost count after he had tore open a new case- and he's pretty certain his friend won't get enough sleep between now and sunrise to safely drive them through Tulsa.
When Steve peels out onto the porch, Ponyboy sees his opening. He stalls for a couple of minutes, long enough for Steve to get halfway through a cigarette and force him to stick around for the sake of not wasting a stick. Then, he quietly slips away from the conversation. Steve's sitting on the porch swing with one leg crossed over the other, ankle swinging back and forth.
He and Steve don't talk much. It's not from a place of distaste and grudges like it used to be when they were younger and far more emotional. After Johnny and Dally died, Ponyboy made it his mission to stop taking his gang for granted and set out to talk to him more. Two weeks after their deaths, when Pony was still months away from properly clawing his way from the claws of grief, Sodapop had broken down in tears to his best friend about how scared he was to lose his kid brother, too. Steve Randle had taken two minutes to think about what life without the youngest Curtis would actually be like, and, since that moment, hadn't treated the kid like a nuisance again.
They have a mutual understanding. It reminds Ponyboy of what he and Johnny had. Steve doesn't understand him like Johnny Cade did, but the two of them are perfectly content with sharing short conversations and dead-end questions and not bothering to keep talking just to fill up the air. When he was still in high school, Ponyboy would swing by the DX just to sit behind the counter and read, even when Sodapop wasn't on shift; Steve never minded. He just lifted a Pepsi from the cooler and let him be.
"Hey," Ponyboy says, sliding out onto the porch beside Steve. His friend doesn't answer with much more than a hum, but he reaches down and fishes another stick out of his pack and holds it above his flame until it catches. He waves the fire out before slipping it into Pony's hand. "Thanks," he mutters and presses the cigarette between his lips. "You told Two-Bit you have a shift tomorrow morning?"
Steve hums. "Six-forty-five," he reminds. Smoke pours out slowly from his mouth as he leans back in the porch swing, crossing his ankles before him. "When are you outta' here?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Ponyboy kicks himself off the wall and collapses into the seat beside Steve. He leans his elbow into the arm of the swing, wrapping his fingers around the rusting chain hanging from the roof. "Will ya' drop me off at the train station before you go in?"
Steve's brows furrow together. His upper lip peels back as he peers over his shoulder. "Train? Thought you took the bus from here to the city," he mutters.
"Maybe I wanna' try something different," he mutters. Darry would've seen right through his facade, and maybe Sodapop on a good day, but Ponyboy's always been better at lying than anyone else in the gang, and Steve doesn't know him as well as his own brothers do. He wouldn't be abe to spot his lie if it was a beam of lightning in the middle of a storm. "My birthday's comin' up, remember? I've decided for my gift this year, I wanna' go see a new city. I'm sick and tired of Tulsa 'n Norman back and forth. I don't wanna' bother my brothers with gettin' up so early. You up for it?" Ponyboy asks.
Humming, Steve taps his stick on the edge of the swing. Ash sprinkles down onto the porch; Steve crushes it beneath his heel and slides it across the planks. "Be out here at five-thirty, sharp, or you're not getting in my car," he agrees. Ponyboy murmurs out a 'thank you,' but he doesn't move. The last bits of the sunset are scrawled just above the tree line. Pony leans back into the seat and watches the gold fade to black.
As Ponyboy tiptoes around the house, narrowing his eyes in the dark shadows of the hallway, he feels lucky that neither of his brothers have woken up yet.
He has his bags squared away in only a few minutes. The duffle containing all of his brothers' hand-me-downs is set square atop the coffee table; that way, he knows Darry or Soda will see it before realizing that Ponyboy's gone. Atop the zipper, he piles both their letters. He tried to keep them vague, but biding enough closure for the chance that he doesn't make it home. Just before stepping out of the house, Ponyboy nabs the frame off the end table, set up right beneath the lamp and angled towards the couch. It's a picture they took right before Pony left for college with the last film that Two-Bit had.
Ponyboy peels the back off and takes the photo out, folding it neatly into a small, neat square that'll fit into his pocket. His brothers will hate him for it, surely, but Pony can't blame himself. If he's going to die almost nine thousand miles from his family, he might as well get to see them before he croaks.
Steve's car is slightly on the uncomfortable side of warm when he inevitably slides into the passenger seat. Sodapop mentioned something about his air conditioning kicking the bucket a few weeks ago, causing Steve's windows to live rolled down into the door, but Ponyboy can't imagine that it serves as much of a relief in the Tulsa heat. Now, he's got the panes opened just a crack from the top. The cool breeze just barely brushing the top of Pony's forehead.
"So, why are we really goin' to the train station anyway?" Steve grumbles around a toothpick. A wicked yawn tears through his mouth. Steve throws his head back against the headrest, looking out towards the road with lidded eyes that prove he hadn't gotten anywhere close to enough rest last night. "I know you ain’t travelin’, ‘cause you’re leavin’ with less bags than ya’ came with. An’ I know they don't have a train out to Norman, so you gotta' be headin' somewhere else. You visitin' a broad, or somethin'?"
"Or somethin'," Ponyboy mutters. He tugs his arms around his chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of his sides. His stomach hurts from a mix of hunger and dread; Steve's unbridled ignorance doesn't help. Pony tightens his grip around himself in a futile attempt to stop shaking. "Gettin' a ticket to Texas," he admits.
"Texas?!" Steve hollers, head shooting back up from the seat. His spine is stick-straight as his wide eyes bounce back and forth between the road and the passenger seat, but there are no clear answers in Ponyboy's head hung down towards his lap. "Two-Bit already tried to look for ya' there once, 'n I'm not sure he's itchin' to do that 'gain." Steve's eyes bounce around the inside of the truck, tracing up and down Pony's body. It's not until his eyes lock onto where Pony's gaze is focused that he notices the two papers sticking out of the side pocket. Ponyboy can tell the exact moment Steve recognizes what they are, identical to his own draft card, because the man sucks in a quick breath and demands, "No."
Ponyboy's head snaps up. "'No?' What the hell are you talkin' 'bout?"
Steve's hand fumbles on its way to the clutch as he skirts the car into the left lane. His head shoots over his shoulder to his blind spot. Steve throws on the left blinker and shakes his head. "No, I'm gonna- I'm bringin' you home. I ain't doin' this-" Steve presses on the brakes, his jaw trembling. "You didn't tell your brothers, did you?! You stupid fuckin' kid, I ain't- I'm not doin' this-"
"Steve," Ponyboy growls. He reaches out and lays his hand over Steve's, squeezing his hand like a claw around the man's wrist. "You and I both know that if you turn this car around, they'll march their asses down here an' arrest me for draft dodgin'." The word 'draft' tugs this quiet, wounded sound from Steve's throat. Ponyboy's not sure which one of them is trembling, or if the true answer is both of them, but it feels like a damn earthquake is vibrating through the car. He slips his grip away from Steve's hand and looks out the window. "Just get me to the station."
The rest of the ride is built of this tense, unbreakable silence. It feels all-too similar to the afternoon of Johnny and Dally's funeral. Johnny's parents hadn't bothered to do much more aside from throw his body in the cheapest plot the cemetery could offer, with a headstone that just read "J. CADE" in all capital letters. There wasn't another soul in Tulsa willing to organize a grave for Dallas Winston, so Darry pulled enough double shifts to afford a casket, and Buck Merril took care of a matching headstone that read 'D. WINSTON." Dally would've hated it.
Their funerals were quiet affairs. No one but the gang was there for Johnny. Tim Shepard and Buck came by on their own accords. Tim spat at Dallas's headstone, kicked the fresh dirt, and left without another word, while Buck poured the entire contents of a beer bottle atop his grave and tossed an old horseshoe Dally kept hung up on his wall down beside his name. Afterwards, the gang piled up into Darry's truck and rode back home. Two and Darry threw together shoddy, dry sandwiches. Silence clung to the wall and Ponyboy felt nauseous with every single bite. It just reminded him of warm baloney and fire.
It's the type of silence that tells him Steve Randle is lost in an emotion that he's simply unable to convert into taunts and angry grumbles. Steve's been dealt a hard hand, between his heavy-handed father and the pain that comes with being a greaser, so Ponyboy Curtis is more than aware that it takes a miracle to shock him enough for his lips to stick together.
The moment Steve throws the car into park, Pony's thrown himself out into the parking lot, slamming the door so hard he's scared he bent the hinges. His hand is wrung so tightly around the handles of his bag that his fingernails dig craters into his palms, pricking blood out beneath the enamel. Steve's door shuts only moments after the engine dies down. He's marching with so much anger in his body that his footsteps echo in Pony's ears. "I can't believe you, Ponyboy," Steve grumbles. "You're just gonna' disappear, huh? You ain't bothered enough to say goodbye to the guys that raised ya'?!"
Ponyboy keeps his jaw clenched tight. As Steve jogs up to his side, Pony tilts his head away, eyes flickering away from his face. "Christ, kid," Steve snarls, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is gonna' kill Sodapop. You realize that? He's probably up by now, hootin' and hollerin'. Darry's probably halfway to the bus stop lookin' to chase ya' down," he rambles.
"Well, he ain't gon' find me," Pony mumbles. He huffs, slamming his feet into the ground. "Look, Steve," Ponyboy pauses. He stops in place and squares his shoulders, looking down at Steve with this sad look in his eyes. "I'm- the paperwork ain't gonna' change, so I'm lettin' you know now that I made ya' my next of kin."
Steve blinks. The rage in his face grows so much that Ponyboy can nearly see the plumes of smoke pouring from his ears. "You did what?!"
"I can't..." his voice trails, breaking on the sheer attempt of speaking. He remembers being in the living room when the cops came to the door with the news of their parents. Sodapop had melted into the floor in a puddle of wracking sobs. Darry was completely still, hand gripping the door handle as a cop tried to walk him over to the recliner to sit down. Ponyboy shakes his head. "I can't make Darry- Darry or Soda- I can't make them get that news again. They couldn't handle that," he explains.
"You think I can?" Steve shouts, spit flying from his lips. He tries to brush his hair back, but it's already molded in layers of thick grease, and sort-of just flattens with all the pressure of his palm. "You think any of us are ready to watch another brother die? You think I'll jump for joy and throw a party?! You've got a damn sick, twisted fuckin' idea of fun, kid. I didn't think college would make you a goddamn idiot. Fuck."
Ponyboy swallows thickly. He glances over at the clock above the ticket booth. The ride to Fort Worth has less than ten minutes until it pulls out of the station. He sighs. "I can't stand here 'n argue with ya'. I gotta' catch this train, or I won't make it in time," he explains. His mouth is drier than the heat that lingers in the air. "I didn't mean to make you angry," he says, but what he really means is, I don't want this to be your last memory of me. I don't want the last moments before I die to be us hollerin' at each other. "I just didn't want you to be surprised when- if you get that call. Now, you won't be. Bye, Steve."
He turns on his heel and starts marching towards the ticket booth, digging a hand into his pocket and fishing out a bundle of coins in the front of his pants. A tight grip wraps around Pony's wrist, yanking his backwards until he collides with the wall that is Steve's chest. His brother's arms are wound tight around his back. He can't remember the last time he's hugged Steve, if it's ever even happened before. Even when he left for college, all Steve had done was ruffle his hair and told him to "be good." Steve's breaths are ragged in his ears as he mutters, "War ain't easy."
Sniffling, Ponyboy wraps his arms stiffly around Steve's back. "Yeah," he agrees.
Steve's calloused palms scratch against the nape of his neck. "Come home," he begs, his voice shaking harder than his limbs. Slowly, the tension starts to melt from Ponyboy's body as he realizes the reality: this could be the last hug he ever gets. Steve's not too bad at it, either, and the fear that's eluding through his hands is more comforting than terrifying. He's glad to not be the only one who's scared. Steve huffs and shakes his head as much as he can against Pony's head. "You gotta' make it back, kid."
Eight dollars later, Ponyboy's watching the conductor punch a hole in the end of his ticket. He shoves his duffle onto the shelf above his seat and sinks into the cushions. He got a seat in the smoking car, so he sticks a cigarette between his lips and cups his hand around the end until it catches light. His eyes cast up through the windows and into the parking lot. Steve is standing at the front of his car, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed. If the sun was a bit brighter, maybe he'd be able to see the red splotchiness of his cheeks. As the train kicks into gear, Ponyboy waves with a forced smile. The blur of his tears makes the one Steve returns nearly invisible, and his brother stands there, watching the train pull off into the distance.