Archive of Our Own ^beta

Pony didn't like preschool, but people always said that Pony didn’t like much of anything when he was little. Whenever his parents took a trip down memory lane, they would always laugh about how much of a handful he was. Pony would be the first to call himself a bad kid back then.

The routine was the same every day. His parents would wake him up in the morning, tell him it was time to start getting ready, and their war would begin again.

"Ponyboy," His mom said, grabbing his shoulder gently and shaking him. "It's time to get up sweetie." There was the slightest bit of hope in her voice, like today would be the day to break the cycle. Pony made a discontented noise and grabbed his blanket, pulling it up and over his head. His mother's face fell, the irritation building up again. Today would not be that day.

"Ponyboy, you have to get up." She tried again, her voice taking on a sharper edge. She knew the battle that was about to ensue like the back of her hand.

"No!" Pony yelled, his voice muffled by the comforter that was still pulled over his head.

"I wasn't asking." His mother snapped. "You have to go to school."

"I'm not going!"

His mother ran an exhausted hand over her face before grabbing the comforter with both hands and ripping it off of her son. Pony screeched, warm body now exposed to the cold of the rest of his room.

"You go brush your teeth right now young man!"

"No!" Pony grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his head, covering both of his ears. "I won't go! I won't go!"

"Ponyboy Michael Curtis!" The yelling was beginning to garner the attention of the rest of the house. Sodapop appeared in the doorway, blond hair sticking up in all directions because he could never bear to sit still long enough for their mother to brush it out in the morning. Unlike this one, that was a battle Mr. and Mrs. Curtis had long given up on.

"Mama, I can't find my other shoe." Sodapop said, not yet old enough to grasp that now wasn't a good time. Mrs. Curtis drew in a harsh breath, still staring at her youngest son.

"One moment Soda." She said through gritted teeth. "Ponyboy! I'm not going to ask you again!"

"I'm not going!" Pony screeched again, shrill and piercing. "I'm not going!"

Mrs. Curtis grabbed both of his small wrists, pulling until he was forced to drop the pillow onto the bed. Pony screamed loud enough that it made Soda run away from the door and further into the house. Pony kicked and wailed as his mother dragged him from his bed to the bathroom, planting him in front of the sink. She let go of one wrist to free her hand to grab Ponyboy's red toothbrush from the cup, rinsing it under the faucet. Pony tried to rip himself away from her grip, still screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Ponyboy!" His father yelled from the living room, "Listen to your mother right now before I go in there and make you!"

His father's booming voice was enough to make Pony still long enough to brush his teeth. His mother stood between him and the bathroom door, arms crossed, watching him intently for any sign he was about to bolt. Once, and only once, he had managed to slip from their grasp long enough to get out the front door and down the street before they could catch him.

Pony spit his toothpaste into the sink, slamming the toothbrush onto the counter without rinsing it off. He refused to look up at his mother and refused to move from the place he'd planted his feet. His mother sighed from beside him, steeling herself for the rest of the morning.

"C’mon Ponyboy." Pony didn't move. "It's time to get dressed, come on."

"No."

"I'm not going to say it again, Ponyboy, it's time to get dressed."

"No!" Pony crossed his arms angrily. His mother grabbed his hand and began to drag him back to where they'd come from. "No!" He screamed again, gripping the edge of the sink with his free hand. His mother no longer tried to fight him verbally, continuing to silently drag him into his bedroom.

As soon as she let go to try and grab a new shirt from his nightstand, Pony bolted, sprinting out of the room as fast as his legs would take him.

"Goddamnit Pony!" Pony ran into the living room but got no farther, being met with his father. He picked the boy up and slung him over his shoulder, bringing him back to the bedroom while Pony slammed his fists into his back and wailed.

"We can't keep having this fight every morning!" His father scolded, slamming the bedroom door behind him and placing him onto the bed. Pony's face was beet red from the screaming, only pausing to take quick angry breaths in between. Getting him changed was a two person ordeal that took far longer than it needed to.

"You have to go to school, Ponyboy!" His mother scolded as her husband left to go make lunches for the children and pack their bags. Pony remained sprawled out on his bed, refusing to get up despite her best efforts.

"I hate it! I won't go!"

"Mama," Soda tried again from the door. Mrs. Curtis let out a frustrated but inaudible noise, snapping her head toward her other son. Before she could respond, Darry appeared at the door, hair done nicely and shirt tucked in, holding Soda's other shoe. Mrs. Curtis let out a sigh, relief relaxing her shoulders.

"I found it for ya, let's leave mama alone for now." He said kindly, kneeling down to help his brother put it on and tie the laces.

"Never mind mama!" Soda said happily. "Darry found it!"

Mrs. Curtis allowed the smallest smile to creep onto her face. "Thank you Darrel."

Darry looked up and smiled brightly, but before he could respond, Pony started to wail from the bed again. He sighed, standing up and running his hands through Soda's hair, trying in vain to tame the mess.

Mr. Curtis walked into the room again, clenching his jaw as he lifted his son off the bed again.

"No! No! NO!" Pony screeched, swinging his legs violently as his mother tried and failed to get his shoes on without getting kicked. "No! I won't go! I won't go!"

By the time they managed to wrangle all three kids into the car, Pony was bright red with tears running down his face and Soda's shoe had somehow once again ended up in Darry's hands. Once he was strapped into the car seat, Pony gave up on screaming, resolving himself to angry silence.

Mr. and Mrs. Curtis slid into the front seats feeling like the morning had aged them another 30 years, starting the car in silence.

Pony didn't have the intelligence nor the language to explain why he hated preschool so much. All that he knew was that he hated it. It was bright and noisy and everything always smelled faintly of vomit and yogurt. He spent much of the day pouting in the corner, fingers in his ears trying to block out the noise of the other kids.

Pony didn’t like playing with the other kids. Their voices were loud and their hands were sticky and even when he made an effort to try and join them (usually when the teachers had enough of him and forced him to go out and play), it was always stiff and unnatural. Like he was putting on a play but had never been given the script. The other kids would always sneer at him and ignore him. Some of the older, meaner boys got a kick out of throwing toys at him and yelling at him until he covered his sensitive ears and cried.

In the periods where Pony wasn't curled up in the corner or trying against his will to play with his peers who hated him, he spent most of his time with the teachers, following them around like a lost puppy. The older boys wouldn’t dare pick on him with their protection. The teachers didn't particularly like him either, but Pony was too young and stupid to pick up on it.

The protection of the teachers didn’t make the noise and lights and sensations go away, and most days, Pony came home exhausted and more cranky than he had left. When his parents asked him how his day was in that high pitched tone they always seemed to take with him, the words would get caught in his throat. He wanted to talk, but it was as if someone had severed his vocal chords entirely. He would only manage to produce a few pathetic noises before frantically ripping his too tight shoes off and rushing to his big brothers’ room.

He'd slam the door behind him, curling into a ball on the soft carpet and sitting in the silence. His brothers shared a room, leaving him alone in the repurposed nursery. He always found his big brothers' room comforting, and the silence always made him feel better after his terrible days.

That routine persisted daily until Pony reached second grade, when he finally deemed himself too grown up to behave that way anymore. That did not mean he enjoyed school any more, but to his parents, he had finally grown out of that exhausting phase of his development.

Pony quickly grew from a loud unbearable toddler to a quiet child. He hardly said a word in school, always having his nose in a book or in whatever picture he was drawing that day. He didn't bother with his classmates. They were loud and annoying, and they didn't like him any more than he liked them. His grades were always perfect, and the academics came easy to him. His parent teacher conferences always ended in the same statement.

"Ponyboy is a pleasure to have in class, but he has a lot of trouble making friends."

His father would sit him down on the couch afterwards, kneeling in front of him and placing a comforting hand on his knee.

"Are you struggling to make friends, Kiddo?" He'd ask, his voice gentle and kind. Pony had never met a man as kind as his father.

"I guess," Pony would murmur, refusing to look his father in the eyes. He never looked anyone in the eyes despite his mother's best efforts.

His father would pause for a moment, giving Pony a moment to speak for himself. Pony never took the opening. "Why is that?"

"The other kids don't like me. It's okay though, I don't like them."

"How do you know they don't like you? Have people been picking on you?"

Yes, but that was a given. "They all look at me funny. Ignore me."

His father would reach a hand up and brush his light brown hair out of his eyes, his face showing nothing but concern for his youngest son. "Have you tried talking to any of them? Asking to be friends?"

"No." Pony would reply bluntly. He didn't see a reason to.

"Maybe if you talked to them they'd be your friend." His father would reason, and Pony would shake his head. He loved his dad, but he didn't get it. "I just get worried about you because you don't ever talk to anybody. It's good to have some friends."

"I have Soda and Darry." Pony would mumble, he didn't need any more than that. His father would sigh then, stand up to his full height and place a kiss onto the top of his head.

"Just let me know if it ever bothers you, okay?"

"Okay." He'd respond without meaning it. Of course it bothered him, but what was he meant to do about it? It wasn't his fault the other kids seemed to avoid him like he was diseased.

They never did that to Soda or Darry. Soda seemed to become friends with everyone he ever came across. It came to him as naturally as breathing. His birthdays were always huge events with so many kids in the house that they couldn't all fit in the living room. Pony always found it exhausting, but Soda got his energy from the interaction.

Darry wasn't the level of social butterfly that his brother was, but he always had a fairly sized group of friends around him. Pony noticed that it never seemed to be the same people for long, but Darry was never alone, so he must have been doing something right. Something that Pony wasn't.

His only friend that wasn't Soda or Darry was Two-Bit Mathews. Really, he was Darry's friend, but he seemed to like Pony well enough, and it wasn't like he was in any position to be picky with who he gave the title to. Two-Bit, who Pony only learned had another name six months into knowing the guy, was four years older than him, but he always treated him like an equal. He was the only one of Darry's friends who ever treated him as more than "Darrel's kid brother".

Every time he'd come around, he always wanted to know what Pony was drawing.

"Dude, it's crazy to me that you can just do that." He told Pony once during the summer between second and third grade. Two-Bit was coming up on fourteen and puberty was hitting his voice hard, every sentence being punctuated with a harsh crack. He leaned over Pony's shoulder at the kitchen table, watching him sketch a landscape with the drawing pencils he'd gotten for his eighth birthday a week or so prior.

"Do what?" Pony asked, not looking up from the paper. One thing he liked about Two-Bit was that he never expected him to look him in the eyes.

"Like, draw pictures and shit-"

"Language." Mrs. Curtis interrupted from where she was washing dishes in the sink, sternly but not meanly. Two-Bit looked up at her briefly.

"Sorry, won't happen again." He replied with that dopey smile of his that said it absolutely would. "It's crazy to me that you can just make pictures out of nothing. I can't do that."

Pony's heart bloomed with pride. "I'm sure you can."

"Nah dude, I can't even draw a passable stick figure, much less everything you do."

He smiled, soaking in the praise for a moment. "Thanks man-" Pony looked up to find that Two-Bit was gone, running off to the front yard to play football with Darry and Soda. Pony's smile only faltered a little. Two-Bit was Darry's friend after all, not his. He was far from obligated to stick around and talk to him.

Pony tried not to think about it often, but some nights after his mom had tucked him in and turned off the lights, he would wonder why things were the way they were. What was it about him that made him so inherently unlikeable? What was it that seemed to tell everybody around him that he was something to be avoided?

It was like there was a brand on his forehead warning everyone that he was different, that he was wrong. Everybody seemed to know it intrinsically, and those who didn't caught on quickly. There was something wrong with this boy, and he was to be avoided. He couldn't recall ever doing anything wrong. Maybe he'd slipped up at some point in front of them all, and had forgotten? Flapped his hands in front of all his peers even after the millionth reminder from his mom to stop? Maybe he'd simply said the wrong thing once, something so unforgivable that everybody in the world who knew of Ponyboy Curtis knew to stay far, far away.

He couldn't remember any such instances, but no other explanation made sense in his mind. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea of everyone hating him just because they could. That didn't make sense. That wasn't right. In all the cartoons and movies he watched, in the books he read, the people who were hated were the bad guys. They did something to earn that hatred. Something evil and unforgivable that meant they deserved it. People weren't hated for no reason. That didn't make sense. It must have been something Pony did. He must have been the bad guy, somehow.

He tried copying the other kids. God, he tried. He studied the way the people around him behaved themselves and tried his absolute hardest to imitate them. Sometimes, that worked well enough. Every once in a while, it even managed to land him an invite to some birthday party or event. But eventually, and it always happened eventually, he would slip up once again. Say the wrong thing. Miss one too many jokes. And then it was back to square one. He could never keep friends around for long. No matter what, it always seemed like Pony was just incapable of getting it right.

It was in fourth grade when Pony made his first real friend on his own, one that didn't blow him off a month later. Johnny Cade was in the grade above but looked younger than most of Pony's classmates. Pony found him sitting on the curb at recess, a dark and swollen black eye half covered by his hair, which was too long to stay out of his face. Pony had seen him a few times before, but it was always when he was getting picked on by the same boys who always gave Pony a hard time. This was the first time he'd ever seen him alone. Pony couldn't help but notice just how sad he looked.

Pony approached silently and slowly, only slightly afraid that this boy was gonna jump up and bite him if he approached too fast. He didn't look up until Pony sat down next to him, leaving a fair amount of distance between the two of them. He looked up at him with wide brown eyes. Pony looked down at his worn out sneakers. He hated getting new shoes, he hated having to readjust.

"My name's Ponyboy." He murmured. The sentence felt unfamiliar in his mouth. He didn't introduce himself to many people these days, now that he'd befriended and subsequently screwed everything up with everybody in his small fourth grade class.

"'M name is Johnny." He replied, voice barely above a whisper. "Haven't seen you around before."

"I usually hide under the playground." Pony admitted. "What grade are you in?"

"Fifth."

"You don't look like it." Pony said bluntly. Johnny stared at him silently for a moment.

"Yeah, I know." Johnny said, almost defeated sounding. It was then Pony got an inkling that what he said might have been rude. Johnny didn't seem to mind all that much. The two of them sat in companionable silence until the bell rang.

The next day, they both sat in the same spot. They spoke very little, but they stuck together the whole time. It became their routine very quickly, and a few weeks later, Pony was confident enough to call him a friend.

One day at recess, about a month after they first met, Pony brought a book with him to their spot on the curb. They sat in their silence for a little bit before Johnny spoke.

"What're you reading?"

Pony perked up like he always did when someone asked about his books. It didn't happen often. "It's The Chronicles of Narnia! It's about these kids who move in with this Professor and find Narnia in the wardrobe. That's a world cursed to an eternal winter, and they have to fight against the evil White Witch. It's really good, I love it so far-"

Pony cut himself off, realizing too late, as always, that he was rambling. His teachers always told him he needed to stop doing that. He looked up at his friend, forcing himself to look him in the eyes. Maybe that'd make Johnny forgive him. "I'm sorry, I'll be quiet." He looked down at the ground once again, face flushing. Maybe this was why he never managed to keep friends.

Johnny looked genuinely confused. "Why are you sorry?"

Pony furrowed his brows. "I'm rambling. I'm sorry."

"I wanna hear about it," Johnny's quiet voice carried the slightest bit more confidence than it usually did.

"You do?"

"Of course I do. You're my friend."

Pony didn't think he'd ever felt that happy in all nine years of his life.

Pony and Johnny were attached at the hip from that moment on. Whenever Pony would bring Johnny around the house, his parents would beam, over the moon that Pony had finally made a friend of his own. Mr. and Mrs. Curtis loved Johnny Cade like a fourth son. Pony often joked that his parents loved Johnny more than they loved him. He fit right into their house, and right into Pony's life.

Despite Johnny's presence making everything easier, school was still terribly hard on Pony. The kids only seemed to get meaner every year, and now Johnny was in middle school, away and unable to help Pony during the day.

Pony's first true fight happened in fifth grade.

The day had been particularly hard. They had a group project on something Pony couldn't recall over the ringing in his ears. Pony always hated group work. No matter who he was paired with, they always seemed to hate him for breathing in their presence. He should've been used to it by now. But everything was just so loud, and the lights were so bright. Why did it have to be so damn loud?

At recess the boys who he had been grouped with earlier threw him to the ground, making him skin his knees and palms on the asphalt. There were three of them. One of them got a good kick to his ribs before he managed to drag himself up.

"Stop it," Pony grunted out, pushing himself to his knees.

"Oh no, Ponyboy's telling us to stop guys!" One of the boys, the seeming ringleader of the group, said. "What're you gonna do about it, pansy?"

Pony wiped at his eyes, trying to hide the tears from the other boys. Their laughing only became louder at the sight.

"What, you gonna go cry to your brother?" Another boy teased, "What was his name? Sodapop? Wonder if he's as much of a bitch as his kid brother."

"Guess there's only one way to find out." The group laughed as Pony pulled himself to his feet.

"Don't talk about my brother!" Pony was raising his voice now. He never did that.

"What're you gonna do about it? Ask us nicely to stop?" The ring leader was staring Pony down, the challenge clear in his eyes. The group laughed again. They sounded like a pack of irate hyenas. "Wonder if that greaser brother of yours can take a fight three on one, Ponyboy. Guess we better find out-"

Pony had never really hit somebody before. He'd only ever seen it done in movies at that point. Darry had taught him once, but that had been into a pillow, and it was truly only the basic "don't tuck your thumb under your fingers, punch through not at" talk. Pony had never asked why Darry felt the need to give him that lesson.

He reared his fist back and punched the stupid ring leader square in the mouth. It hurt his fist more than he thought it would, but watching that bully rear back in shock and pain made it all worth it. Blood began to fill the boy's mouth, and Pony looked down at his still closed fist to find a chunk of his tooth lodged into his knuckle.

"What the hell!" The boy he'd punched yelled, and that was the other two's cue to lunge. Pony took two good hits to the face before he crumbled to the floor, and took a good four more before the teachers finally got over to break it up.

At some point between then and sitting in his parents car, the tooth was pulled out and his knuckles were bandaged, and he was given an ice pack for his head. His father sat in the driver's seat while Pony hunched over in the passenger's seat.

"Why'd you get in a fight, Pony?" His dad asked. He sounded gentler than Pony had expected. He'd been prepared to be yelled at. Somehow that made the fury that was left behind bubble up more. The noise of his dad starting the car ripped through Pony's sensitive ears and his aching head.

"They threatened Soda." Pony forced out. It took everything in his power not to yell at his dad. He knew he didn't deserve it, but god, he was in pain, his ears were ringing, everything was too bright and too loud, his clothes were too tight on his skin, and he just wanted everything to stop.

"You know violence is never the answer, son-"

"Shut up." Pony snapped. He really didn't mean to. "I already got that talk."

His father pursed his lips as he drove. "You don't get to speak to me that way just because you're upset."

Pony placed his head in his hands. "Can you please just be quiet? My head hurts."

His father was silent the rest of the car ride. Pony was sure he was in for a grounding in an hour or so, but for now, he was just grateful for the moment to himself.

It was nearly the end of the day when the fight happened, and by the time Pony and his father finished talking to the principal and the other kids' parents, Soda and Darry had already gotten home. Pony wasn't looking forward to facing them.

As soon as he entered the house, Soda was up in his face.

"Jeez Pony, they got you good didn't they?" Soda held Pony's face in his hands, and his touch burned like a hot skillet. Pony ripped himself away.

"I'm fine." He said through gritted teeth. He couldn't do this right now. Not when the kitchen light was blaring into his eyes and the TV was on too loud and the skin on his face hurt like hell-

"Let me see, Pony. I wanna be sure you're okay."

"I told you I'm fine."

Soda grabbed Pony's now wrapped up hand. Pony's entire body tensed. "Ma said the guy's tooth got lodged in your hand-"

"Just shut up!" Pony yelled, surprising even himself with the outburst. "Can't you leave me alone for five damn minutes?! I got into a fight, the guy didn't kill me!"

Soda took a step back, the hurt clear on his face. Soda's face had always been so much more expressive than his brothers'. In any other circumstance, Pony would already be apologizing, but he couldn't think. He needed everything to stop. God, he needed everything to-

"Ponyboy." Darry said, standing by the front door. "C'mere please."

"Don't you guys ever shut up!" Pony yelled. The blood was rushing in his ears. It was all too much, it was all too much-

Darry grabbed him by the sleeve, careful to not actually touch his arm, and pulled him outside. It was beginning to warm with springtime, but the air outside was still cool and crisp. Pony struggled against Darry's grip, but Darry had always been stronger. Nowadays, he played JV football and had started to put on muscle.

Darry dragged him out all the way to the sidewalk.

"What the hell do you want?" Pony snapped. He vaguely knew that he was being mean, but maybe if he made everyone angry enough, they'd leave him the hell alone.

"You're overwhelmed." Darry said, matter-of-fact.

Even more irritation rose in Pony's gut. "Wow, you're painfully observant."

"Whenever I'm overwhelmed, I run." Darry said, placing a firm hand on Pony's back as he began to jog down the sidewalk, forcing Pony to follow suit. "It helps get it all out. I always feel better afterwards."

"I don't like running." Pony protested, but when Darry sped up, he did the same.

"How do you know? You've never tried."

Pony scoffed. "Of course I've run before. I just don't like it."

"Just try it." Darry looked at him, ice blue eyes softer than they usually were these days. "If you don't like it after this time, I'll never make you do it again."

Pony glared at him for a moment before setting his gaze in front of him. Darry brought them all around the neighborhood at a steady pace, one that was just beyond what was comfortable. They paused once they came back around to their house.

"Do you feel any better?" Darry said, having barely broken a sweat. Pony fought to catch his breath.

"No." He snapped. Darry pushed him forward and began to run again.

"Another lap then."

Pony groaned, but followed. His head hurt too much at that moment to argue.

By the third lap, Pony was wheezing, bent over with his hands on his knees.

"Stand up straight. Ain't no air down there." Darry scolded, though not unkindly. Pony shot him a glare. "I think you need another lap, Kiddo."

"Fuck you." Pony wheezed, knowing that his mother would wash his mouth out with soap twenty times over if she heard all he'd said today, but they kept going anyway.

They ran two more laps after that. After a total of five, Darry paused them both again.

"You feeling better now?" He said between harsh breaths.

Pony hesitated, ready to tell Darry this wasn't working, that he was an idiot, when he realized… he actually did feel better. It was as if the exertion had sapped away the overwhelm, sent it into the earth with the pounding of his feet. His legs hurt now, and his lungs, and he'd sweat through his shirt, but he felt better.

"...Yeah, actually." Pony admitted, sitting down on the sidewalk and pushing his hair out of his face. "I guess I do."

Darry grinned. "Runnin' always cleared my head. Made things easier to handle."

"I shouldn't have snapped at Soda." Pony admitted. "He was just trying to help."

"Yeah, you shouldn't've." Darry held his hand out for Pony to take. Pony took it, letting his older brother pull him to his feet. "But here's a secret I've learned over the years: if you give him some of ma's chocolate cake, he usually forgives you."

Pony laughed. He thought it would've taken him at least a few days before he could laugh again after the day he'd had. He leaned against Darry as they walked back into the house.

When they walked in, Soda and Two-Bit were sitting on the couch in front of the TV watching Mickey Mouse. Only Two-Bit turned around when the door opened.

"Hey Superman, you were supposed to be here an hour ago for football. The other guys are gonna yell at us." Darry laughed, patting Pony on the back and sending him in the direction of the kitchen.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure they know it's your fault." Two-Bit made an indignant noise, followed by the crash of what Pony assumed was Darry getting tackled. Pony walked over to the freezer, taking out the cake his mom had made yesterday. He cut two slices, carrying them out to the living room. By the time he got out there, Two-Bit and Darry had left, leaving the coat rack and half the bookshelf on the floor in their wake. Soda sat alone on the couch, still watching his cartoons.

Pony sat down next to him, silently handing one of the plates he was holding to his brother. Soda looked up at him, his first acknowledgement of him since Pony had come home from his run.

"I'm sorry Soda." Pony mumbled. "I shouldn't've snapped at ya. Wasn't fair."

Soda smiled, taking the fork Pony offered, since Pony was apparently the only one other than his mother and Darry who was opposed to eating cake with their hands. "It's alright. First fight's always tough. Lord knows I snapped at Darry my first time."

Pony smiled back at him. "We cool?"

"We're cool."

From then on, every time Pony got overwhelmed, every time the world got too much, he'd get Darry and run until the feeling went away. It worked like a charm every time, and over the months he did it, he got damn good at the running part of it. Some days, it was the only thing that kept him sane. Things were better for a while. Pony would even dare to say they were good. He had Johnny and Two-Bit, he had his brothers, and he had his runs with Darry when everything got to be too much.

Once that summer had ended, when Pony started middle school and Darry junior year, something shifted. Suddenly, Pony couldn't have paid Darry to go run with him. Every time he asked, it was like he was asking Darry for a million dollars. Pony hated being treated like he was unreasonable, like he was an idiot, and Darry couldn't stop looking at him that way. Pony very quickly stopped asking.

Running alone wasn't the same, but it still helped, and he needed it more than ever. Middle school was even worse than elementary was. The bullying, which had once been almost solely verbal teasing, had become physical faster than Pony could catch on. He'd come home with his body covered in bruises more days than he didn't, and Darry was never home to see it. Soda tried his best, but he'd never given as good advice as Darry did. Soda had a tendency to just believe him when Pony said he could handle it all.

His parents would ask him in concerned tones where the bruises were coming from.

"Are people picking on you at school, Sweetie?" His mother asked, taking both of his hands into hers. Pony would sit there in silence. Why did people always feel the need to ask him questions they knew the answer to? Mrs. Curtis stared down at her son's bruised knuckles. "...Well, if you ignore it, they'll stop eventually. They just want a reaction out of you. You need to stop giving them one."

Pony knew as well as anybody that that wasn't true. But he'd just nod, and ask to go to the park with Johnny. His mother always said yes. It was easier than continuing that line of conversation.

Darry and their parents got into it more times than they didn't. Pony hardly paid attention to what they were fighting about--why would he? It wasn't his problem, and he was more focused on shielding his sensitive ears from all the yelling--but he knew that they hated Darry's friends. Hated that Darry was always staying out late. Hated that he was ignoring his family. Darry would always yell at them to shut up, that they didn't know anything. Those fights always ended in slammed doors and a tense silence in the house.

Pony hated being home those days. Home was supposed to be an escape from the yelling and overwhelm in school, but now it had become simply an extension of it. Soda didn't spend much time at home either, going out and causing trouble with Steve Randle. Pony spent most days with Johnny, at the movies or in the park. They never talked about Darry.

In Darry's wake, Pony would make a new friend (at least he liked to think of Dally as one, most days). Dally had moved from New York with no parents to be found, scars littering his face and arms and the meanest right hook Pony had ever seen.

As Pony got older, he witnessed more fights. His brothers would never let him into one of them, tried to keep him away from the greaser gangs they hung around, but for every effort they made to keep him away, someone else made one to pull him in. "Every action has its equal opposite reaction." Pony remembered learning about that in science class. It reminded him of his situation.

His brothers were greasers, and as far as most of the socs were concerned, that meant Pony was one too. Never mind that he was ten years old and barely understood what those words even meant. Never mind that Pony still hated fighting. When he and Dally met, it was when Dally had scared off a group of socs trying to jump him with a switchblade.

Pony was grateful for that, but he was also scared of Dally when he first met him. It would've been weirder if he wasn't, Pony decided. Dally had gotten awfully close to Johnny awfully fast, and that put Pony and Dally in close proximity more often than not. As far as Pony knew, Dally simply tolerated him as the kid who followed his real friend around.

The three of them had gone to the drive-in together, much to Darry's dismay. He and Pony hardly spoke more than a few sentences to each other at a time, but most of the times they did, Darry used the opportunity to remind Pony how much he hated the kid. The only thing he hated more than Dallas was whenever Pony hung around with him. Pony didn't think he had any room to be judging him when Darry's friends tried to jump Two-Bit and Steve a week prior. A fight had broken out in the rows behind them, causing the whole place to erupt into screaming. Pony still hated fighting. Dally always said it was an acquired taste. Pony wondered how long it would take to acquire.

Dally turned around in his seat and cheered, taking a loud sip from his cup of soda. Pony flinched, covering his ears. Everything was too loud, dammit. This couldn't happen here, not now, not in this company. Everybody was screaming, throwing things and cheering. Pony was suddenly very aware of the clothes he was wearing, and the fact they felt like sandpaper on his skin.

Despite his best efforts, he could feel the familiar buzz of overwhelm in his head. Johnny placed a hand on his shoulder, and Pony flinched hard. Johnny pulled away like he'd been burned, looked up at Pony apologetically.

Pony stood up suddenly, finally pulling Dally's attention away from the fight.

"I'm gonna get some air." He choked out. Dally raised an eyebrow.

"We're outside."

"That doesn't stop me from getting air, does it?" Pony didn't normally sass Dally, but he wasn't having it right now. Everything was already too much. He stumbled to the side of the concession stand, covering his face with his hands as he leaned against the wall. Humiliatingly, tears began to run down his face before he could stop them.

It took about two minutes before Dally appeared beside him like some kind of especially violent spirit.

"Why'd you run off?" Dally asked, his voice gruff and harsh as always. His brows furrowed when he saw the tears slowly rolling down Pony's cheeks. "Didn't take you as a wuss."

"Got a bit loud in there is all." Pony mumbled. This was embarrassing. He wished Darry or Soda were here, they'd know what to do. He scolded himself for wanting Darry. Darry didn't even want him. "Needed a break."

Dally took out the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and pulled out two, placing one in Pony's hand without asking.

"I don't smoke." Pony murmured, staring down at the cigarette in his hand. He hardly even knew how to smoke one of these. He'd never tried before. Dally scoffed as he pulled the silver lighter out of his other pocket.

"It's a gift. Don't be rude and reject a gift." Dally lit his cigarette and took a long drag before handing the lighter to Pony. Pony stared at it for a second before fumbling to make it light. He tried to copy what Dally had done, but his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't get the thing to catch.

Dally rolled his eyes and took both from Pony's hands, lighting it for him before handing the cigarette back and tucking the lighter back into his pocket. Pony stared at it for a moment, watching the smoke rise from it. Dally raised an eyebrow at him.

"Don't waste it now. These things ain't cheap."

"Don't you steal 'em?”

Dally gave his shoulder a harsh shove but didn't say anything else. Pony took a deep breath and took a drag the way he'd seen Dally do a second before. The smoke filled his lungs quickly and harshly, and suddenly he was coughing like he never had before. His eyes watered as his lungs tried to expel the smoke. Dally awkwardly patted him on the back, refusing to look at the boy as he took another hit of his own cigarette.

By the time Pony managed to stop coughing, he was lightheaded. But there was something under it. He felt more focused, more real than he had a second ago. Like breathing in cold fresh air. Suddenly the noise wasn't as big of a deal anymore.

"You like it?" Dally asked, sounding vaguely bored.

"Not really." Pony took another hit, coughed again. Dally chuckled.

Darry was grounded that night, so he was the first to smell the smoke on Pony when he got home. He narrowed his eyes, grabbing Pony's shirt and smelling it.

"Have you been smoking?" Darry asked, almost sounding shocked as he did. Pony rolled his eyes against his better judgement, glad that his parents had long since gone to bed. Wasn't Darry grounded because he'd been caught with weed? Why the hell did he care?

"No." He spat as convincingly as he could. "We were at the drive-in, everybody around was." The lie tasted almost as bitter in his mouth as the nicotine. Darry stared at him for a moment before sighing.

"Don't start doing it. You're far too young."

Pony knew that. But he thought back to how quickly it had pulled him out of that overwhelming haze, much quicker than running had, and he didn't particularly care. Who was Darry to tell him what he was or wasn't too young for anyway? Their parents were right down the hall. Pony just nodded before immediately getting into the shower to wash the smell out of his hair.

Dally kept offering him and Johnny cigarettes every time they hung out. Johnny didn't usually take them, but Pony always did. It always made him feel better, and shamefully, it made him feel kind of cool getting gifted them from Dally. Deep down, he looked up to Dally, even if he'd take that feeling to the grave.

Darry never commented on it again, too wrapped up in his own world to bother. He was putting their poor parents through hell, leaving them stressed and exhausted at the end of the day. Their parents never had the time to notice the smoke on their youngest son's breath, not when they were picking their oldest up from the police station for the third time in three months. Darry had never been a bad kid before. They didn't know what to do with it. They didn't have the time to keep checking on Pony. Pony wasn't even sure where Soda was.

A few weeks later Dally would hand a new, unopened pack of Kools to Pony.

"So you don't have to bum them off me all the time." Dally explained, handing over a cheap plastic Zippo lighter along with it. Pony stared down at it blankly.

"...Thanks, I guess."

"Yeah, whatever."

Smoking quickly overtook running as Pony's first thought when everything was too much. It was so much easier, and it worked so much faster. Fights got more and more frequent in Pony's life. Pony had friends now, he supposed, quite a few in fact. Two-Bit had become more of a friend as Darry pulled away from even him, tagging along more often. Soda and Steve also began making more appearances. But even protected by his group of friends, Pony still couldn't escape the parts of him that were wrong. They could back him up in every single fight he got into, but there was nothing they could do about his brain.

He could smoke away the overwhelm, but it wouldn't fix what was wrong with him. He could run and run and run, but he could never run away from his own mind. The things that were wrong with him would always be wrong with him. Pony didn't dwell on it like did when he was young, but it was always there. A faint background noise he could occasionally ignore but never turn off.

On his worst days, he would ponder whether he could figure out what part of his brain was messed up and cut it out. Didn't they do that? Take a needle and poke around in there until the problem fixed itself or the person died? He remembered a story his mother told once, about a childhood friend she had who died that way. He was sure he could figure out how to do that to himself. Take Dally's switch to the exact part that caused all his problems and get rid of it. Cauterize the wound with his zippo.

It was a stupid thought. Unreasonable and frankly a little bit insane. That didn't stop him from thinking it.

On days he didn't feel quite that bad but still like shit, he would just wonder what he did to deserve this. What could he have possibly done to earn some phantom scarlet letter that told everyone to stay away? What could he have possibly done to deserve to live a life of overwhelm and pain?

Reading always made it easier. It was always easier when he could get lost in someone else's head and problems, analyze the words and metaphors and figure out everything the author meant to say. He always excelled in English, loved writing essays in class. He loved to ramble to anybody who would listen about his books and his words and his authors. It made him feel better.

Soda listened to him rant. He always did, even if he didn't get anything Pony was saying. He never told Pony off for talking too much. He never judged him like the other people he tried to share his love with did. Soda was a good brother, and Pony was smart enough now to know that dealing with him couldn’t have been easy for him.

Pony didn't even bother with Darry anymore. It wasn't like he was around to even try. Two-Bit got bored too easily to listen properly even when he tried, but to his credit he did try at least half of the time. Both Dally and Steve told Pony to piss off whenever he started rambling.

Johnny liked to listen. He would always smile and listen intently to Pony's rambling. He seemed to be one of the only people to understand that Pony was handing him his love. That his words and stories were gift wrapped pieces of his heart. He held Pony's ramblings close to his chest and cherished them. He never asked for more, but he never asked for less.

Nowadays, people mostly picked on him for being a greaser rather than just being a freak. But they still knew something was wrong with him. Even among the other greasers, he was still different. He couldn't escape the part of him that was wrong. Couldn't escape the feeling. Every time Pony said or did something out of line, he felt everyone's eyes burning holes into him. He heard the awful things they said about him. He heard every ugly word and euphemism that came out of their mouths. And when he couldn't hear it, he felt it. He felt it in the way people ignored him when he spoke. He felt it in the way they looked at him with that specific face that was a mix of pity and disgust.

Pony hated being looked at that way. He hated it more than anything. He couldn't ever seem to escape it.

People’s judgment was what kept Pony reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. Cigarettes took the edge off quicker than anything else did. Inhaling the smoke would dull the pain of the lights and the sounds better than hitting himself in the head or flapping his hands. It was easier than running. He didn't have to put everything on pause for more than a few minutes to calm down this way.

The feeling was constant. He couldn't ever escape the noise in the back of his head that told him he was fundamentally wrong. He couldn't escape the knowledge that he was a freak, that there was something about him that was different from everyone around him and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get rid of it.

Even when people weren't making fun of him, even when they were kind to him, Pony carried that judgment in the empty space in his chest. He felt it press against his lungs. It made it impossible for him to breathe. Even in the safest places he could imagine, Pony would never shake that weight. In a room with nobody but Sodapop and Johnny Cade, the two people he trusted with his entire life, Pony would still worry about doing the wrong thing.

Pony didn't remember the day his parents died. Soda said that he didn't cry, that he just stared off into space in the way he always did when too many loud people showed up at the drive-in. The way that replaced the loud, screaming shut downs over the years. Apparently he threw up. Pony wouldn't know.

Pony felt like someone had ripped his heart out of his chest and left him there alone to put it back in. He smoked more than he ever had. Darry always got onto him for it, but what the fuck would he know? Darry didn't get it. Nobody ever sneered at Darry the way they sneered at Pony. Nobody ever called Darry 'stupid' or 'slow'. Nobody hated Darry for the crime of existing. Not like they hated Pony for it.

In the back of his mind, Pony remembered the times he and Darry would run together. He remembered the silent but complete understanding of when the world was too much to bear. He remembered the way Darry would bite his nails and run his hands through his hair when the gang got too loud. He remembered all the ways Darry did understand, and it only served to make him more bitter. He hated being like Darry. He hated even more that they were similar and Darry still judged him anyway.

He could handle Soda and Two-Bit's ignorance. He could even handle Dally and Steve's harsh words and insults. The one thing he couldn't handle was Darry judging him.

Somehow, some way, the world kept spinning. Time kept going, no matter how much it felt like the world had ended. Darry was a regular fixture in Pony's life once again, practically exiled from his group of soc friends after having to drop the idea of college and take care of the family. It felt like too little far too late.

That was when the nightmares started, because obviously the thing Pony needed the most was another thing to be wrong with his head.

He'd wail in his sleep, the sound reminiscent of the little boy fighting tooth and nail to not go to school. Darry always got there first, his football conditioning not yet having faded from his muscles. Most of the time when Pony was screaming, he had not yet woken up, instead twisting and kicking and getting tangled in the sheets, trapped in a hell only he could see. Darry would grab him by the shoulders and try to shake him awake by the time Soda got to the door.

"Ponyboy, c'mon Ponyboy, you're okay. You gotta wake up." Darry would say, voice gentler than it ever had been in the past few years. Sometimes Pony would wake up quickly, sometimes it took longer. It didn't make much of a difference. Whenever it was, Pony would shoot awake, gasping for air like it was a finite thing. The entire world would blur together, the line between dream and physical becoming a fuzzy, unimportant thing. A mere technicality. Darry pulled his trembling form to his chest, hands tangled in his grown out hair.

"Shh, you're alright, you're okay." Darry would whisper, barely audible over the sobbing, while Soda crawled into the bed next to them and hugged Pony from behind. "Just a dream Kiddo, it's gonna be okay."

Pony would sob wordlessly for hours. On better nights, he'd tire himself out enough that he'd fall asleep there. On worse nights, Pony wouldn't be seeing sleep again that evening. The nights he couldn't get back to sleep, Soda would ask what he was dreaming about. Pony would always respond the same way.

"I don't know. I don't remember."

Sleep was a rare thing in the Curtis house for a very long time after that.

The lack of sleep wore on Pony the hardest. He was the one who always woke up screaming, afterall. He was just so tired. The world only got more overwhelming with every passing day. He would swear that everything got louder and brighter with every passing minute. He was on edge all of the time.

He was blowing through cigarettes as fast as he went through oxygen. On his worst days, he would go through multiple packs, hands shaking, ears ringing, desperate for anything to make it all stop. He hardly spoke anymore. Hardly looked at people. He was just so goddamn tired.

He joined track once his freshman year started, remembering faintly through the haze of grief and pain that running used to help get rid of the feeling. Darry had been over the moon. It was the first time he had smiled, genuinely smiled, in weeks.

He gave Pony a harsh clap on the back like he used to do to his football buddies. It nearly sent Pony toppling over on shaking legs. "Going out for track will do you good. Maybe you'll make some friends out there."

Pony pulled away, glaring up at his brother. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Woah there," Darry put his hands up placatingly. "I'm just sayin'. My teammates were some of my best friends in high school."

The bitterness and anger Pony tried to keep down began to bubble up in his throat. How dare he compare Pony to him, suggest that he would betray the gang like he had. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying and failing to get a hold on the words he needed to explain why that had offended him so much. The words slipped away from him. Instead he scoffed and turned on his heel toward the door. "I need a smoke."

"How many have you had today?" Darry asked as Pony twisted the door handle. Pony shot him one last glare and walked out.

Fortunately, that blunder had not been enough to stop Pony from trying out. Somehow, the smoking had not completely fried his lungs to the point he couldn't run anymore, and he remained quite good at it.

He was just okay at sprinting, nothing spectacular, but he had a knack for long distance running. Distances that would send his teammates sprawling on the ground felt like nothing to him. After tryouts concluded, the coach pulled him aside and asked how he'd feel running the 1600 and 2400.

"You're real good at the longer distances," He said, nodding proudly. "With some coaching, I'll bet you could even break some of our school records."

Pony smiled slightly. "Yeah, that sounds good."

And the coach was right, Pony was damn good at it. He left his teammates in the dust in any distance above 400 meters. It felt good to be a part of something that wasn't the gang (don't get him wrong, he loved his friends, but it wasn't the same feeling). With the afternoon practices, it became easier to sleep. A few weeks in, Pony even managed to sleep until morning without waking up screaming. He hadn't thought he'd ever be able to do that again.

It felt great to run. It felt great to have somewhere to be that wasn't their too empty home, the one that was haunted by what their parents had left behind. Pony hated to admit it, even to himself, but Darry had been right. Going out for track did him some good.

There was one thing Darry had been wrong about though. Pony did not make friends during practices or meets. His teammates were primarily socs, and even the ones who weren't avoided him like he was diseased. The feeling of being different, the one that had seemed so insignificant in the face of the train crash that uprooted his whole life, came back with full force.

He tried to make conversation with them, congratulated them on good workouts and new personal records, but they would just stare at him silently. Some looked like they pitied him. Some looked disgusted that Pony would dare to approach them. They'd scoff and walk away without responding, like being in Pony's vicinity would make them catch whatever was wrong with him.

Pony didn't get it. He did everything right in practice. Shit, he was great at track. All of his coaches said so, even some of his less nasty teammates admitted it. So why did they still hate him? He knew for sure that he hadn't said anything weird or offputting. Every time he said something, he was copying what his teammates said to each other. It always worked for them. Why wasn't it working for him?

Pony placed at every meet he went to. Darry was always so happy whenever he came home with another medal, hugged him tight and pressed kisses into his hair.

"I'm so proud of you Pony." He'd say. Pony didn't think he'd ever heard those words come out of Darry's mouth. "I'm sorry I can't make it out to your meets more often. I promise I'll make it out to one before the end of the season. I promise you."

Pony wasn't counting on it, but shamefully, the pride always made him light up. He wanted Darry to be proud of him almost as much as he hated him.

Soda would look at the medal with bright eyes. He'd always been athletic, but he never went out for any sports before he dropped out. He'd ruffle Pony's hair and grin.

"Taking after your big brother, ain't you?" Pony hated that comparison, hated any comparison that involved him and Darry, but he loved Sodapop too much to say anything. "I'm glad you're putting yourself out there, Pony. It's good for you."

Pony had thought that his teammates would warm up to him as he won more medals. He was a good asset to the team. He was great at all of his events. He was helping them, making their team look good. And yet, they still glared and sneered at him. Still turned to each other whenever Pony spoke and snickered. Pony didn't get it. What on earth could he still be doing wrong?

They were at the district meet, trying to qualify for state with all of their events. The day was also special because Darry had decided he would fulfill his promise today. He'd called off sick, something he never did, just so he could make it. When Pony had questioned him, he said:

"You're more important today. We can make the money back." He smiled. "I promised you I'd come, didn't I?"

Somehow, that statement made Pony feel sick.

But he had no time to dwell on it, today was the day he needed to be focused the most. He had to make the state meet today. He repeated it in his head like a mantra while he stretched and warmed up. In the back of his mind, there was a whisper that he needed to impress Darry today. He forced the thought away. He didn't give a damn about what Darry thought. Of course he didn't.

The meet had been loud and overwhelming from the moment it started, as they always were. Today was worse however. There were more people here than any other meet, all yelling and laughing and being obnoxious. The starting gun nearly startled him into next week every time it went off for another event, the crowd cheering flooding his senses.

But it was okay. This feeling only lasted until his event. Whenever he ran, the overwhelm would go away. It always did. Like every time he'd run with Darry--he couldn't think about him right now, he'd psych himself out before his race even began--the pounding of his feet would take that feeling with it. The buzz of fear and pain would dissipate completely by the end of it.

The starting gun made him jump halfway across the field. The ringing in his ears got worse with every second he stood there. That was for the event before his. His breaths came in fast and shallow, his brain nothing but mush. He ran his shaking hands through his hair. It was okay. He was okay. He was almost there. It would be okay.

The crowd was cheering as the first racers crossed the finish line. God, why did they have to be so loud? Why did everything have to be so loud? He brought his hands to his ears before he could think about it, desperate for anything to make it stop. He was vaguely aware of the officials telling everyone in the 1600 to get on the starting line, vaguely aware of his feet taking him there without his input. It was okay. It would be okay.

"On your mark." The official yelled over the crowd. The sound barely made it to his ears. He was one strong gust of wind away from blowing over. God, why was everything so goddamn loud-

The pop of the gun was nearly enough to bring Pony to tears. He started running on pure instinct, somehow making a strong start from muscle memory alone. He tried to remember what his coach had told him to do today. Couldn't remember over the buzzing in his head. He thought he might have gotten ahead. Maybe he was just that far back. It didn't matter. One foot in front of the other.

It truly was a wonder he managed to stay in his lane at all. His knees felt weak inside his legs, but his strides were long and confident. It should be helping by now. Why wasn't it helping? The crowd cheered as he finished his first lap. Or was it his second? Third? He wasn't keeping track. He kept going, ahead of the crowd. His hands shook as he pumped his arms. Why wasn't it helping? Every step somehow seemed to make the overwhelm worse. Made the buzzing stronger. The ringing louder.

The race passed in a blur. Why wasn't it helping? It always helped. He crossed the finish line on what could've been his second or twentieth lap for how much it mattered to Pony. The crowd was still cheering. He thought he might have heard Darry over the yelling. He didn't care. His legs hurt. His ears were still ringing. He felt like he was going to keel over right there and vomit. Why hadn't it helped?

Pony stumbled off of the red track on trembling legs that could barely keep him up. He thought he might have ended up under the bleachers. The tears blurring his vision made it hard to tell. It was darker here. That was nice. But it was so much louder. Why was everything so damn loud?

He crumpled to the floor with his hands pressed against his ears, fat tears rushing down his flushed cheeks. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Couldn't think past the yelling and the stomping and the hatred on his teammates' faces and how angry he was-

Someone was putting a hand on his shoulder. It burned. Pony ripped himself away, crying out in a small, embarrassing way that made him curl further into himself.

"Ponyboy-" The rest of the words were drowned out by more cheering, more noise that burned Pony's brain like his ancient zippo lighter. He needed a smoke. God, he needed a smoke. He reached into his pockets instinctively, finding nothing. Right, they weren't allowed at meets. Shit.

"Ponyboy." The person said again, firmer this time. Pony flinched, finally looking up at who it was.

Darry stared down at him, his face almost looking scared, if Pony didn't know any better. He crouched down on the ground, hands held up in that placating gesture he always made. Pony choked on his tears, producing a horrible, pathetic noise from his throat.

"Pony, Baby, you gotta breathe." Darry reminded. Pony didn't think he'd ever heard Darry sound that gentle. "Try to breathe."

Pony's chest hurt. Everything hurt. Everything was loud loud loud and it hurt. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of it all.

"Ponyboy. Deep breaths. You're gonna make yourself sick."

Wasn't he already sick, though? Sick in the head, at least. There'd always been something wrong with him. No matter how hard he tried over the years, he had never been able to shake it. There was something about him that was broken. Some mismatched wires somewhere deep rooted that made him wrong. He felt alien. Like an intruder everywhere he went. There was something broken about this boy, something sick, and everybody knew it.

Darry never had that issue. Neither did Soda. They were normal. So what was wrong with him? What made him so unforgivable that he was to be avoided and exiled? It certainly wasn't something he had done. Or maybe it was. Maybe this was some divine punishment.

Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe Ponyboy really did just get that unlucky. That explanation was almost worse.

Darry pulled him to his chest, making shushing noises periodically. Why was Darry still here? Didn't he have better places to be? Better people to be around? People who weren't broken and sick and alien and wrong-

"You're okay, Ponyboy. You're gonna be okay."

That wasn't true though, was it? It never would be. Not until he could fix what was wrong with him. Cut it out with a kitchen knife or a switch blade or his lighter. It wasn't okay. There was something fundamental about Ponyboy that meant it never would be.

"What's wrong with me?" Pony forced out, voice choking and cracking on every word. His entire body shuddered with the force of his sobs.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with you, Pony." Darry was lying. He had to be lying. He had to know he was lying. He had to know. He'd seen it in every stage of Pony's development. Dealt with it for years upon years.

"What is wrong with me?" Pony repeated. He was so tired. Everything hurt. His chest ached with the sheer force of his crying.

Darry paused. Pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. "I don't know, Baby. I just don't know."

Of course he didn't know. Nobody knew. They couldn't see it, couldn't point it out if asked. They could just feel it. Sense it in every breath Pony took. Feel it in every word he spoke. There was something wrong with him and everybody knew it but nobody knew what it was and goddamnit he was sick of it.

"I'm so sorry." Pony sobbed. He didn't know what he was apologizing for. Everything, he guessed. For breaking down the one time Darry could make it. For being too much. For being broken and sick and disgusting. For always making it Darry's problem. For being what he was.

Pony didn't even know what he was.

He supposed it didn't matter.