Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

St. Teresa of Calcutta/Mother Teresa:

“There is more hunger in the world for love and appreciation than for bread.”

(And he goes to bed starving.)

---

The kitchen light hummed overhead, flickering now and then like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay awake. Ponyboy’s pencil had stopped moving five minutes ago, his last sentence trailing off mid-thought. Something about metaphors—he couldn’t remember. His cheek was pressed against the lined paper, the words already smudged where his breath hit them.

The cold was crawling in.

It always did at night, curling beneath doorways and creeping up tile floors. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. His body had gone slack in that way that said “too tired, too long,” and sleep had taken him fast, without permission.

The rest of the house had settled hours ago.

Soda was passed out on the couch, mouth open, one arm dangling off the edge like he’d melted there. Darry had dozed off in the armchair, newspaper crumpled in his lap, the lamp still on beside him, casting soft gold shadows across the wall. Steve had crashed in the spare room, smelling like whiskey and cheap smoke, boots kicked off but jacket still on.

The house was still.

And the blanket—his blanket—sat in the corner of the room. Folded neatly. Waiting, like it always did.

It was the same one Ponyboy had used earlier that week when he found Soda curled up without anything over him. He’d gently laid it over his brother’s shoulders, tugged it beneath his chin like Ma used to, brushed the hair from his forehead. The same one he’d pulled around Darry’s legs when the man finally passed out from work and stress and too many hours. The same one he’d draped over Steve just last weekend, when the older boy had come in late and shivering but didn’t ask for anything.

It was a habit now. A quiet, ritual kind of love.

And yet, no one moved tonight.

They passed him on their way to bed—Soda with a half-asleep grin, muttering something like “night, kid,” without looking. Darry walked past him too, rubbing at his eyes, not even glancing toward the table. Steve didn’t say anything at all.

And Ponyboy slept. Hunched over cold wood, limbs awkward and bent, notebook beneath his face, breathing steady and quiet. A boy curled into himself like a question no one remembered to answer.

The blanket never moved from its place.

Hours later, the sun began to push pale fingers through the window blinds. Ponyboy stirred, blinking slow. His back ached, his neck throbbed. He blinked again, realizing where he was. The kitchen. Still dressed. Still alone.

The blanket caught his eye from across the room—still folded, still untouched.

And for the first time in a while, something in his chest didn’t ache so much as it… shifted. Like maybe it had been asleep too, and was finally starting to wake up.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood, stiff and chilled, picked up his notebook, and walked to his room without a word.

The blanket stayed where it was.

They didn’t mean to forget.
But forgetting still hurts.

Chapter Text

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.”
— C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

The room smelled like sweat and blood and the sweet-sour tang of cheap alcohol soaked into old carpet. Smoke from Darry’s cigarette curled near the ceiling, lazy and pale. The gang was quiet tonight—too quiet for the way Dally had come in, fists scraped and knuckles swelling, a split lip dark and wet under the kitchen light.

Johnny had followed him in, quieter still. There was dirt on his cheek, blood crusting over a cut at his temple. His shirt was torn. Nobody asked what happened. They didn’t need to.

Dally dropped onto the couch, the cushions groaning under him. Johnny hovered for a moment, then sat beside him, close enough their knees brushed. Dally didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look. Just raised a hand—rough, red-knuckled—and dragged it through Johnny’s dark hair, ruffling it absentmindedly like it was habit.

A small thing. Thoughtless, maybe.

But across the room, Ponyboy felt something crack.

He was curled in the old armchair, legs drawn up, arms looped around his knees. His fingers were cold. He could feel the fabric of his jeans rough against his palms, could hear the faint buzz of the fridge in the next room, the steady tick of the wall clock above the door. But everything else blurred.

He watched Dally’s hand linger in Johnny’s hair for a second too long, then fall away like it never mattered. Like it didn’t mean anything.

It wasn’t even that Dally was gentle—he wasn’t. Not with anybody. But the way his fingers touched Johnny, fast and familiar, without thinking—it was something. A closeness Ponyboy didn’t know how to name.

His own skin felt too tight, like he was wearing the wrong body. He buried his face in his arms and breathed deep. The room smelled like them—sweat and leather and Marlboros and something softer clinging to Johnny’s flannel. It was warm, too warm. His chest ached.

He didn’t say a word.

The night dragged. One by one, the others left or passed out. Soda and Steve crashed in the room down the hall, muttering sleep-slurred jokes through the wall. Darry was out late, working overtime. Two-Bit had bailed after the game. Only Dally, Johnny, and Ponyboy were left in the small, silent house.

Johnny had curled up on the floor by the couch, wrapped in an old blanket, his breath soft and slow. Dally sat above him, head tilted back, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Ponyboy could see the ember glow bright, fade, flare again. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, gray ribbons dissolving into shadow.

He was still in the chair. Still watching.

The silence stretched, thick and close. Ponyboy’s throat burned. He wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask what about me. But the words stuck. Heavy things that wouldn’t rise.

Dally didn’t look at him. Not once.

The note was small. Torn from a page of his English notebook. The edges were rough. His handwriting, normally neat, shook slightly.

“I’m sorry for being too much. I won’t bother you anymore.”

He folded it twice. Pressed it flat. His fingers trembled.

Dally’s jacket was thrown over the back of the couch, stiff with rain and blood. Ponyboy slipped the note into the inside pocket. Tucked it deep, like a secret.

He didn’t wait for anyone to find it. Didn’t wait for anything.

He left before the sun came up.

When Dally woke, he was alone on the couch. The light from the window was pale, gray with morning. His back ached. The cigarette had burned out on the ashtray edge.

Johnny was gone. Just a rumpled blanket on the floor and the faint scent of shampoo.

He stretched, stood slow, grimaced as his knuckles flared with dull pain. Reached for his jacket.

His hand paused.

There was something inside. Not money. Not smokes. Paper.

He pulled it out, unfolding with careful fingers.

Read it once. Then again.

The words were short. Final. Quiet in a way that twisted something deep in his gut.

He stared at them for a long time.

Ponyboy walked all the way to the park before the weight in his chest got too heavy. The air was cold, and the sky was overcast, white and aching with light that never turned golden. Birds sang, high and thin. Leaves rustled. His shoes scuffed gravel as he slowed near the swings.

He sat down hard. His jeans were damp from the dew. He didn’t care.

His arms wrapped around himself. His chin pressed to his knees. He stared at the ground.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t move.

Just breathed.

It was nearly noon when he heard footsteps behind him. Sharp. Familiar. Heavy.

He didn’t look up.

Dally didn’t say a word. Just stood behind the swing for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Like his whole body was something unfamiliar.

Then he knelt.

His boots crunched the dirt. His coat shifted as he crouched down in front of Ponyboy, face shadowed by the dull light. His hands didn’t reach. They stayed at his sides. Still.

“You ain’t too much,” he said, voice low. Rough like gravel, like whiskey, like something broken trying to be careful.

Ponyboy didn’t answer. Didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the ground, lashes damp.

Dally breathed in. Out.

“You ain’t never been too much, kid.”

A beat.

Then another.

Then—slow, hesitant—he raised one hand and reached forward. His fingers brushed Ponyboy’s arm. Barely there. Testing.

Ponyboy flinched.

But he didn’t pull away.

Dally’s hand hovered. Then dropped. Rested light against Ponyboy’s elbow. The contact was warm. Shaky.

“You patch us up,” Dally said. “You hold us together. You—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

“I ain’t good with sayin’ it. But I see it. I do.”

Ponyboy looked up.

His eyes were glassy. Green-gold in the light. So open it hurt to look at him.

“Then why don’t you ever…?” he whispered, voice breaking halfway through.

Dally blinked.

“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

His hand lifted, slow and clumsy, and found Ponyboy’s hair. Not rough. Not like with Johnny.

Gentle.

Uncertain.

He let it rest there, fingertips warm against Ponyboy’s scalp.

“Now I know,” he said.

And they sat there, silence blooming again—but this time, not empty.

Just full. Quiet. Honest.

Healing.

Chapter Text

“It is not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit.”
— J. R. R. Tolkien

It started with the laughter.
Low, careless, mean in the way people only get when they think kindness is sleeping.

The old couch groaned under the weight of their bodies—Steve’s boots scuffing against the floor, Two-Bit’s soda fizzing as he laughed too hard. Soda was there too, snorting and trying not to choke on whatever leftover sandwich he'd stolen from the fridge. Even Darry, sharp and rarely amused, gave a short, humorless chuckle.

And Ponyboy lay still in the dark hallway, curled up on the old mattress they pulled out when space ran thin. The blanket scratched at his neck. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. He’d gone to bed early, like always. They thought he was asleep.

“He’s too sensitive,” Steve said, voice thick with annoyance. “You can’t even tease him without him gettin’ all weird about it.”

“Yeah,” Two-Bit chimed in, the smirk clear in his tone. “It’s like talkin’ to glass—looks fine ‘til you breathe too hard and it cracks.”

Soda didn’t say anything right away. Just sipped from his bottle, something heavy and unsure in the silence he left behind.

“Needs thicker skin,” Darry finally muttered. “World ain’t gonna baby him.”

It wasn’t the first time. Pony’d heard versions of it before, slipped through closed doors or muttered in the kitchen when they thought he was lost in a book. But tonight, something broke different.

Maybe it was the way Soda didn’t defend him. Maybe it was that Darry didn’t even sound mad—just tired. Maybe it was the way it came all at once, like an avalanche of everything unsaid.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. The taste of iron bloomed. The room was cold. Still.

He curled tighter in the blanket, legs drawn to his chest, spine pressed against the wall. The air wouldn’t move—thick like wet wool. Each breath hurt in his throat, trying to slip past something lodged and sharp. Words. Cries. He wasn’t sure.

He didn’t cry. Not really. Just stared at the wall, eyes wide and dry, until morning slunk in through the windows like guilt.

The next day, he was up before them.

The sun hadn’t finished rising, just a weak wash of light smeared across the kitchen floor. Pony stood by the sink, eyes fixed on the drip-drip-drip of the faucet. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“Hey,” Soda yawned, shuffling in with a lazy smile. “You makin’ breakfast or just hypnotized by the plumbing?”

Pony blinked, too slow. Then smiled. It didn’t fit.

“I’ll make eggs.”

Soda blinked back at him. “You okay?”

Pony’s smile widened, just a little too bright. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

But the eggs were burnt. He didn’t fold the laundry. Didn’t remind Darry to take a break. Didn’t fuss at Steve for swearing or laugh at Two-Bit’s jokes. He didn’t do anything wrong, not really. But everything was off—like a mirror warped just enough to unsettle.

By nightfall, the house felt colder. Quieter.

“Pony?” Soda asked, later, voice too careful. “You sure nothin’s buggin’ you?”

Ponyboy looked up from his book, smile easy and flat. “Nope. I’m good.”

They didn’t believe him. But they didn’t press either.

It lasted a week. Maybe more.

By then, Darry noticed the way Pony moved—tight and efficient. No wasted steps. No lingering in doorways to say goodnight. No tired jokes, no quiet hums while folding towels. He cleaned his plate and disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut like a verdict.

He was polite. Distant. Dull, like a knife that used to cut but couldn’t anymore.

“He’s mad at us,” Two-Bit said, kicking at the leg of the couch. “Probably just bein’ dramatic.”

“He ain’t mad,” Soda said quietly. “He’s just... gone somewhere. And I dunno how to get him back.”

They thought maybe he was just growing up. That maybe he’d finally gotten tired of being their baby brother, their conscience, their bright-eyed little shadow. Maybe they’d leaned too hard on him. Maybe they’d said too much.

They didn’t know he’d heard.

They didn’t know the moment he’d stopped feeling like theirs.

Ponyboy sat in the backyard that night, alone. The stars didn’t shine so much as shiver. The grass was damp, soaking through his jeans, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. The air was too quiet, thick with the scent of rust from the fence and the distant tang of burnt oil from the neighbor’s garage.

Something in him was closing. Quietly. Without fuss. Like a store locking its doors after everyone’s gone home.

He thought of all the things he’d given—little things. Folding shirts, bandaging scraped knuckles, making Darry laugh when he thought he’d forgotten how. All the warmth he’d offered without ever asking if there was anything left for himself.

And now he knew.

He wasn’t needed.

He was too much and not enough, both at once.

He pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands, curled them against his chest. The cold settled in his bones, not the kind that could be chased away with coffee or blankets. The kind that came from being known, just enough to hurt you, and still misunderstood.

Inside, Soda turned off the porch light. Didn’t realize he was out there.

Didn’t think to look.

They started to miss him before they understood what they’d lost.

The house felt bigger. Emptier. Steve cursed without a scolding, and it didn’t feel like a win. Darry worked late without a reminder to eat. Two-Bit’s jokes hit dead air.

No one folded the laundry. No one set the table.

No one smiled just because.

And Pony? He smiled when spoken to, nodded when needed, did his chores and nothing more.

They kept waiting for him to come back. For the warmth to return. For the softness in his voice, the worry in his eyes, the stupid little reminders.

But the silence stretched.

And the unraveling never stopped.

—
He wasn’t supposed to hear that.

But he did.

And something in him never quite recovered.

Chapter Text

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”

-J. R. R. Tolkien

The house breathed around them, but not like it used to. More like it was holding its breath, waiting for the breaking.

Darry stood in the kitchen, the air too thick to move. His hands were curled tight at his sides, the muscles knotting under his skin. He could feel the cold crawling in his bones—the kind of cold that no jacket could keep out. The faint metallic sting of iron taste in his mouth, the memory of something raw and bleeding just beneath the surface.

He glanced at the empty chair at the table. His fingers twitched. The absence was a weight he couldn’t shift, pressing down until the air seemed to crush the breath from his lungs.

He wanted to say something. To call Ponyboy’s name. But the words lodged in his throat, sharp as broken glass. So he didn’t.

The silence wrapped tighter, and Darry could feel it pressing into the back of his neck, the small hairs rising like the quiet before a storm.

Soda shuffled through the living room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His breath was shallow, uneven—like he was trying not to let the cold find the cracks in his skin. He moved with a restless energy, pacing, stopping, running a hand through his hair too hard, pulling at the roots as if the pain might draw Ponyboy back.

His voice was quieter these days, soft and brittle. When he spoke, it was like the words came out of his mouth reluctant and raw.

“Did you see him today?”

Steve, leaning back against the cracked window frame, didn’t answer right away. He stared out at the street, where the night held its own kind of silence—thick, unyielding. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough.

“Not really. He’s here, but he’s not.”

Two-Bit laughed once, a sharp bark that cracked too fast and faded. The noise echoed hollow, like a chair scraping across the floor in an empty room. He sat slouched on the couch, fingers twitching, eyes flicking to Ponyboy’s empty bed.

“He’s ghostin’ us,” Two-Bit muttered. “Like we’re the ones he’s runnin’ from.”

No one disagreed.

Darry ran a hand over his face, the scratch of rough skin like sandpaper against his cheek. The weight of what wasn’t said crushed down like a fist in his chest. He swallowed hard. The burn in his throat was thick, choking.

At night, he lay awake in the dark, the sheets tangled around him like chains. His body was tense, muscles coiled and tired. The absence of Ponyboy’s soft breathing beside him was a hollow ache, sharp and constant.

Soda’s laughter had lost its light. When he tried to smile, it didn’t reach his eyes. His shoulders sagged under the weight of a guilt that settled like dust in his bones. He’d caught himself more than once staring at Ponyboy’s door, mouth open, words caught and broken.

Steve’s scowl deepened, but the sharp edge dulled. His swearing was less frequent, softer, more like a whispered curse he didn’t want to say out loud. The space between him and Ponyboy stretched, cold and silent.

Two-Bit’s jokes had become sharper, meaner, desperate. The easy humor that used to hold them together was cracking, splintering under the strain of what they couldn’t fix. He laughed too loud, talked too fast, but the sound died in the stillness.

Ponyboy’s absence was a presence all its own—a cold, hard thing that filled every corner and crept into their bones.

One night, Darry found himself standing outside Ponyboy’s room, hands shaking. The door was closed, silent. He wanted to knock, to push through, to break the wall of quiet. But his voice was caught, thin and fragile.

He pressed his palm flat against the wood, the cool surface solid beneath his fingers. For a moment, the world shrank to just that—skin to door, the steady beat of his heart in the suffocating dark.

But no answer came.

Inside, Ponyboy lay still, eyes wide open to the dark, staring at nothing and everything all at once.

The air was thick and stale. The scent of old sweat, cold blankets, and forgotten dreams hung heavy. His throat tightened, a silent scream trapped in his chest.

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Back in the living room, Soda paced, the floorboards creaking under his feet. He stopped, hands clenching into fists, nails biting into his palms until the pain was sharp enough to feel something other than loss.

“I don’t know how to get him back,” he whispered, voice breaking in the empty room.

Two-Bit was there, shoulders hunched, eyes glassy. “Maybe he ain’t comin’ back.”

Steve stood by the window, jaw clenched so tight it ached. “Maybe he never was here to begin with.”

The words weren’t spoken, but they hung heavy between them, filling the silence with cold shadows.

Days stretched like thin ice, cracking and groaning underfoot. The house breathed out sorrow in creaks and sighs.

No one called Ponyboy’s name.

No one asked if he was hungry or tired or wanted to talk.

They waited.

And waited.

Until the waiting became its own kind of punishment.

One morning, Darry sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cold mug, the steam long gone. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles carved deep beneath them.

He stared at the empty chair, a broken rhythm beating in his chest.

He thought about the last time Ponyboy smiled for real, the way it had lit up the room. The way it made even the worst days bearable. The way it was gone now, like smoke slipping through his fingers.

The silence was a wound that never healed.

Soda came in, voice barely above a whisper.

“Darry... we can’t keep living like this.”

Darry shook his head, eyes empty.

“We don’t have a choice.”

And somewhere, far away, behind closed doors and locked hearts, Ponyboy was falling. Falling into a dark that didn’t care if he screamed.

The house waits.

The air waits.

The broken pieces of a family wait, too—too afraid, too tired to speak the words that might shatter them all.

And the silence keeps coming.

No healing.

No hope.

Just the slow, quiet unraveling.

Chapter Text

“Let your tears flow, but do not let them drown your soul.”

—St. Augustine

---

The house felt off. Not loud or violent. Just… thinner. Like the walls themselves held their breath, waiting for something to break.

Darry

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, fingers laced and shaking. Not from cold—the house was stifling—but from something deeper. A muscle memory of failure. The air felt wrong. Like it had curdled in his lungs. Stale. Unmoving. Each breath tasted metallic, thick with the ghost of blood and bitterness.

The silence pressed against his skull. He wanted to shout. To do something. But his body had gone rigid, locked in some silent penance. His eyes fixed on the pillow—creased, indented, still shaped like a boy who no longer trusted him.

He hadn’t meant to yell. Not that way. Not then.

Why can’t I fix this?

The words carved themselves behind his teeth, but never passed his lips. He just sat there, unmoving, a shadow hunched over an empty bed, waiting for a forgiveness that would never come.

Sodapop

Soda’s boots dragged across the porch, soles whispering against the worn wood. He hadn’t slept—not really. Not since that night. He’d tried laughing, tried talking like nothing had shifted. But his throat was dry, cracked, like paper rubbed raw.

The night air was cold, biting. He fumbled with a cigarette, fingers numb. The lighter clicked too many times before it caught. The flame danced weakly, and he leaned into it, desperate for warmth, for anything.

He stared into the dark window of Pony’s room, smoke curling past his lips. He could still hear the last thing he said—too sharp, too loud. He’d meant it as a joke. It hadn’t landed.

I should’ve noticed. I should’ve known.

The guilt was a weight between his ribs, an anchor tied to his heart.

He pressed his forehead to the cold railing, closing his eyes.

Ponyboy had always been the quiet one. The soft one.

Now the house echoed with the absence of that softness—and Soda didn’t know how to survive without it.

Steve

Steve sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest like a kid again. His fists were bruised. He’d punched the doorframe, the bathroom tile, the wall—anything that might make the ache go somewhere else.

It hadn’t worked.

He kept hearing Pony’s voice in his head, the quiet one from weeks ago. “You think I’m just some dumb kid, huh?” Not angry. Not defensive. Just... resigned.

Steve hadn’t answered. Just laughed. Shoved his shoulder. Let it slide.

Now the silence was acidic. The walls of the house seemed to lean inward, groaning with pressure, with all the things left unsaid.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and whispered into the empty hallway, “You’re not dumb, Pony. You were never dumb.”

But the hallway didn’t answer. Just breathed cold over his skin.

Two-Bit

The bottle rolled from his hand, glass clinking against the floor, but he didn’t move to pick it up. Two-Bit sat slumped on the couch, eyes blank, mouth dry. The TV blinked in the corner—no sound, just flickering light, like a heartbeat going dim.

He laughed, once. Just to see if he still could.

It cracked in his throat like something breaking. Too loud. Too wrong.

“Guess he got tired of waiting for us to see him,” he muttered, voice raspy.

There’d been a moment—barely a second—when Pony had looked at him like he wanted to speak. Really speak. And Two-Bit had waved him off, told him to quit mopin’ and grab a beer.

Now all he could see was the look in Pony’s eyes when he turned away.

He stared at the ceiling. Didn’t blink.

“I was supposed to be the funny one,” he said to no one. “But you laughed less and less, kid.”

Dally

He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. The motionless thing didn’t suit him. Dally paced the sidewalk out front, boots scuffing gravel, breath coming sharp and fast like he’d run a mile with smoke in his chest.

Ponyboy had needed gentleness. Dally had given him fists and fire. He didn’t know how to be soft—had never been taught. But now, looking back, it seemed so obvious.

That quiet flinch when Dally raised his voice.

That way Pony had curled in on himself when Dally tossed him the jacket too hard.

Goddamn it.

He dragged a hand down his face, nails scraping skin.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see Pony sitting on the curb that night, knuckles white, lips pressed together, holding something back.

Dally hadn’t asked what. Had just told him to “man up.”

And now?

Now there was nothing to fix.

He stubbed his cigarette out against the sole of his boot and kicked at nothing.

“I should’ve known. I should’ve...” He didn’t finish.

He never did.

Johnny

The corner was cold. Dust gathered in the baseboards like ash, and Johnny sat pressed into it like he wanted to disappear.

He hadn’t spoken much since that night. Didn’t feel like he deserved to.

Ponyboy had been his light. His calm. His steady thing in a world that spun too fast. But Johnny had stayed quiet when the yelling started, when Pony’s voice cracked, when his shoulders curled inward like a shield.

He thought just being there was enough.

He’d been wrong.

The silence between them now wasn’t distance—it was a wound. And it bled every time someone said his name too gently.

Johnny looked down at his hands—scraped, shaking, small. They had never been enough.

“I was supposed to protect him,” he said aloud. It sounded like a confession.

He didn’t expect forgiveness.

He just wanted to feel cold. To match the hollow.

The house was a tomb now. Not of death, but of failure.

The air wouldn’t move. The lights wouldn’t warm. The laughter, once so loud, had turned to echoes too faded to hold.

And somewhere between the floorboards and the forgotten apologies, Ponyboy’s absence grew teeth.

None of them said his name.

But they all heard it in evey silence.

And none of them knew how to fill the void he left behind.

So they didn’t.

They just sat there.

Bleeding quiet.

Chapter Text

"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Ponyboy’s hands trembled as he lifted the teapot, the weight heavier than it should have been. The steam rose between them, but it didn’t warm anything. It only blurred the edges, like everything in his world was slipping, turning uncertain, like the heat inside his chest was draining away piece by piece. He could feel it—something empty settling deep, hollowing him out like an echo chasing its own shadow.

He told himself it was nothing. Just tired. Just morning. But tired wasn’t a word for what pressed down on his ribs, slow and merciless, and morning never came bright enough to break through this kind of dark.

Dally’s voice—sharp, sneering, but not really angry—cut through the quiet like a blade. “You trying to be everyone’s mom or somethin’? Knock it off.”

Ponyboy wanted to snap back, to say he wasn’t trying to be anything. But the words tangled in his throat, caught in the dust and old hurt that filled the space between them. The thing he wanted most was to be seen—really seen—not as some kid who needed fixing, but as the fractured mess he was.

Instead, he lowered his eyes, focusing on the chipped rim of the cup, the way it caught the dull kitchen light and didn’t shine. It was easier to look at something broken than to meet the eyes that only saw what they wanted.

Two-Bit’s laugh was too loud, too eager to fill the silence. It scraped against Ponyboy’s skin like a rough cloth, making him flinch inside. He knew what it meant—trying to pretend nothing was wrong, that the cracks in all of them weren’t bleeding. But the joke was hollow, and so was the laugh.

Ponyboy’s throat stung, dry and tight, like he was swallowing shards. He tried to breathe through it—tried to steady the shaking in his hands—but the weight of not being enough, of always being that kid they thought he was, pressed down harder.

Dally’s eyes flicked over him again, sharp and hard, but in the edges there was something tired, like he was watching a slow unraveling that no one wanted to stop. “You think this makes you stronger? Playin’ the caretaker?”

No. Ponyboy thought. It doesn’t make me stronger. It just makes the silence louder.

His voice caught before he could speak. He wanted to say that he wasn’t their mom, or their little brother anymore, but that all he was had been worn thin by years of needing more than they could give. But the words crumpled, brittle, under the weight of their unspoken truths.

Two-Bit’s glance was uneasy, his usual bravado cracked. He shifted, scratching the back of his neck, pretending to look away but never quite leaving. He wanted to say something—something real—but the silence was a wall thicker than brick.

Ponyboy wanted them to reach for him, to pull him back from the edge, but he also knew that the ones who should have caught him had been too busy falling apart themselves. It wasn’t just loneliness—it was the ache of knowing the people who should’ve kept him safe couldn’t.

His hands wrapped tighter around the cup, knuckles white, and he tasted the bitterness of the tea, but it was nothing compared to the taste of everything else left unsaid. The smell of iron hung in the air, sharp and raw, like old wounds opening again.

Dally’s voice dropped, almost softer now, but it carried an edge of something dangerous—resentment, guilt, exhaustion. “You’re tryin’ to grow up, but you don’t even know what that means.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his throat closing tight. He didn’t know what it meant. Did anyone? The idea of growing up felt like falling, like losing the last fragile pieces of himself to a world that had no use for the soft parts he guarded like a secret.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he whispered. The words cracked like dry earth underfoot, brittle and painful.

But the room didn’t answer. The silence folded back in, thick and cold, and Ponyboy felt it—how small he was in this space, how much of himself was already gone, buried under layers of expectation and failure.

Two-Bit’s eyes flicked away, his bravado gone, replaced with something raw and scared. “Maybe you don’t have to be.”

But that was the thing—he did. Because no one else would carry the weight for him, and no one would see the cracks if he didn’t hold them up.

The silence stretched, full of all the words they’d never say, all the ways they failed each other. The air wouldn’t move. It pressed down on his skin, heavy and suffocating, carrying the scent of rust and old blood and things broken beyond repair.

Ponyboy’s breath caught in his throat, sharp and quick, like a trapped animal clawing for air that wouldn’t come.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But the noise was already inside him, echoing in the empty spaces they all tried to pretend didn’t exist.

And no one reached out. No one pulled him back.

Because sometimes, the fall isn’t sudden. It’s the slow unraveling, thread by thread, until there’s nothing left but silence and cold.

Chapter Text

"I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair."
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

---

 

Dally

Dally stood just inside the doorway, jaw clenched tight like he was trying to hold something back—a storm, a memory, a desperation he never let show. He hated mornings like this: quiet, fragile, the kind that made everything feel exposed, like raw nerves stretched too thin.

He watched Ponyboy with eyes that had seen too much, and yet somehow never enough. The kid was trying—God, he was trying—but it wasn’t the kind of trying that mattered. Not here, not with them.

Don’t be soft. Don’t break, Dally told himself. But inside, something twisted tight and dark. Because he knew the truth nobody said aloud: Ponyboy was breaking, and they were all too tired to catch him.

He wanted to tell the kid to stop pretending, stop playing at being the grown-up. To let the walls fall. But what would that do? It would just leave them with another mess—another wound no one had the tools to heal.

Dally’s voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking, but underneath it was something brittle, like ice cracking.

“You think you’re gonna fix us with tea?” he spat, but it wasn’t really anger. It was exhaustion. “You’re wasting yourself.”

The words left a bitter taste. Because he knew he was right.

But maybe the worst part was how much he wished Ponyboy would scream back. Curse him. Cry. Show some fire.

Instead, there was just that quiet. That quiet that whispered that the kid was already too far gone, already drowning in silence no one else could hear.

Two-Bit

Two-Bit shifted on his feet, the familiar swagger gone limp, like a mask too heavy to hold. He laughed—too loud, too forced—the sound cracking and splintering in the stale air.

It was easier to joke, to fill the room with noise than to face the sinking weight inside. Because if he looked too close at Ponyboy—at what they all were losing—it might break him too.

This ain’t how it was supposed to be. The thought was a sting. Ponyboy was supposed to be the kid they protected, the one who’d keep them together. Not this ghost hovering in the corners, too tired to fight or cry.

Two-Bit wanted to say something—something that meant more than his usual wisecracks—but the words jammed behind his teeth, sharp and jagged, like broken glass.

He watched Ponyboy’s hands shake, the way he avoided their eyes, and felt a slow sinking in his chest—a guilt that burned hot and heavy. Because he’d been part of the ones who let this happen. Part of the ones who made the silence louder by not fighting it.

He tried to look away, to let the silence swallow the room again, but it stuck to him, thick and choking.

“Maybe you don’t have to be the grown-up,” he said, voice rough and uneven.

And in that moment, the crack showed—a glimpse of the scared kid inside him, the one who wanted to fix things but didn’t know how.

But Ponyboy didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Two-Bit swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the unsaid between them, heavier than any punch he’d thrown or joke he’d made.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted to grab the kid and say, It’s okay. I’m here. But the words wouldn’t come. So instead, he just stood there, quiet and broken in a way nobody would ever see.

Chapter Text

"Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape. Not every bend is the end."

— C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

It was just a mug.

Old. Chipped near the rim. Faded peach flowers curling along the porcelain like dried-out vines. The handle had a crack that ran halfway down the curve. You had to hold it careful, cradle it with both hands like something breathing and breakable.

Ponyboy kept it tucked behind the flour jar, hidden between a rusted biscuit tin and the bottle of vinegar no one ever used. Darry never noticed—he wasn’t one for tea, anyway. Soda had seen it once, gave it a weird look, but said nothing.

And the gang… the gang only ever saw it when Pony brought it out in the evenings, when the house was quiet and the air sank cold against the tile, and he needed to feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with sweaters or blankets.

He’d boil the water slow. Let the steam fog up the cracked kitchen window. Pull out the last of the chamomile bags—cheap kind, near flavorless now—and breathe in deep like the ghost of her was still folded inside the paper sachets.

The mug had been hers. Their mother’s.
Ponyboy remembered how her hands looked around it.

Thin fingers. Soft knuckles. A quiet warmth that wrapped itself around you just by being near.

He never told the others. Never said why he always drank it that way—hunched over the table, elbows in, both hands curled around the ceramic like prayer. They teased him enough already.

“Drinking tea like some girl,” Steve snorted once, and Two-Bit laughed so loud he choked on a grape soda.

Ponyboy didn’t answer. He just sipped.
Warmth bloomed against the back of his throat.

Better than fighting.

That night, the air in the house was sharp.
Mid-October. Wind pushing dry leaves against the front porch like something trying to crawl in. The screen door creaked every time a gust hit it.

Ponyboy moved quiet in the kitchen.
Bare feet on cold linoleum. The kettle hissed low on the stove, and the mug sat waiting on the counter, faintly dusted in flour from where he’d brushed aside the jar to reach it. His thumb traced the chip. A nervous habit. He did it every time.

The door burst open. Boots stomping. Loud voices spilling in.

“Jesus, it’s freezing out there!” Steve barked. “Why’s it so cold in here? What are you, a lizard or somethin’, Pony?”

Two-Bit was behind him, laughing like it was all so funny. Darry must’ve been upstairs—no one told them to shut up. Soda wasn’t home yet.

Ponyboy didn’t answer. Just kept his eyes on the kettle, fingers steady. Steam began curling like breath around the spout.

Steve clomped over, dumped his jacket on the chair, stretched long like he owned the whole place.

“What’s that?” he asked, glancing at the counter.

Pony shifted, shielding the mug a little. “Nothin’.”

Steve leaned in. “Wait—that thing? You still drink outta that?”

The kettle clicked off. The silence it left behind was hollow.

Steve reached. Ponyboy’s hand darted out—not to grab him, but the mug. Too late. Steve caught it first, made a face. “Man, this thing looks like it belongs in a nursing home.”

“Put it down,” Ponyboy said. Low. Too low. His voice cracked on the last word.

Steve didn’t hear it. Or didn’t care. He tossed the mug in the air like a baseball.

“Careful—”

It slipped.

Ceramic hit tile.

Crack.
Shatter.

The sound wasn’t even loud. Just… sharp.
Then it was quiet.

Like the house had been holding its breath.

Ponyboy stared.
The mug was in three big pieces and a dozen tiny shards, the flowers fractured like broken veins.

The chamomile sachet fell from his hand. Hit the floor like dead weight.

No one moved.

Even Two-Bit’s grin faltered.
Steve blinked. “Aw, hell. Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to.”

Ponyboy didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
Just sank to his knees.

The floor was cold. Dusty. The broken mug bit into his palms as he gathered the pieces with shaking fingers. He didn’t cry. But his eyes shone glassy and too wide.

He picked up the biggest fragment—still curved, still warm from his hand—and held it like it could be whole again if he just looked long enough.

Steve shifted. “Didn’t know it mattered, alright? Jesus.”

And for a second—just a flicker—
Even Dally, leaning against the doorway with a cigarette half-lit, looked like he’d bitten into something rotten. His eyes cut away. His jaw clenched.

But no one said sorry again.
No one knelt beside him.

Ponyboy stood up slowly. His legs ached from the tile.

He opened the drawer, pulled out a rag. Didn’t look at any of them. Wiped the counter. The floor. The bits too small to save.

He didn’t speak.

He wrapped the big pieces in the rag and pressed them into the trash under yesterday’s paper and some eggshells.

Steve muttered something. Laughed like it didn’t matter. Two-Bit kicked the table leg. Dally flicked ash into the floor.

Ponyboy stood there, alone in the kitchen that smelled like overboiled water and dust.
His hands were dry. Cold. His fingernails dirty from the tile grout.

The kettle still sat full.
No mug to pour into.
No hands to guide his.

The screen door creaked again.
Soda’s voice echoed from the porch, cheerful. “Hey, I brought donuts—!”

No answer.

Ponyboy turned, walked past them all without a word. His shoulders were drawn in tight. Head ducked.

He shut the bathroom door behind him.

And didn’t come out until the house was quiet again.