Work Text:
“What you are is God’s gift to you, what you become is your gift to God.”
— Hans Urs von Balthasar
The morning light bled slowly into the room, a thin ribbon of pale gold slipping through the curtains. Dust motes floated in the air, caught in that first stream of sunshine, but Sodapop didn’t notice. His chest already felt tight when his eyes opened—tight and hot, like he’d swallowed a fistful of gravel and it had settled somewhere behind his ribs.
There wasn’t any reason for it. Sometimes there never was. He just woke up that way: restless, angry, like he had too much blood in his veins and nowhere to put it. His jaw ached from clenching in his sleep, and the back of his neck burned where the pillow had pressed too hard.
The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that rang in his ears and made him want to throw the blanket off, stomp down the hall, do anything to break it. He almost did. Almost.
But then he looked down.
Ponyboy.
His little brother was tucked right up against him, head nestled on Sodapop’s chest like it was the most natural place in the world. Pony’s hair—soft, flyaway, and smelling faintly of soap and old sunshine—tickled Soda’s chin. He breathed steady, slow, his lips parted just enough to let the smallest whisper of air slip free. His hand, half-curled, rested against Soda’s shirt, and the weight of it—light as it was—anchored him.
Soda’s anger cracked, just a little.
He pulled in a breath through his nose, catching that faint scent of cedar from the dresser drawer where Pony had kept his shirts, mixed with the warm, sleepy smell that clung to him. His skin was warm against Soda’s side, his whole body loose and trusting in the way only Ponyboy could be.
That trust hurt, somehow.
Hurt and healed in the same breath.
The storm inside Soda didn’t vanish, not right away. His fists still itched, his jaw still ached. But the rise and fall of Pony’s chest against him—steady, steady, steady—was a rhythm he could match. Soda let his eyes slip shut, pressed his palm gently against the back of Pony’s head, feeling the soft tangle of hair between his fingers.
He’d never tell anyone how much he needed this. Not Darry, who already carried enough weight for the three of them, and not Steve, who’d just laugh or crack a joke. No, this was his. His secret. The way Ponyboy made the noise in his head go quiet.
A sigh worked its way out of him. He held his brother closer, curling an arm protectively around him until Pony shifted slightly in his sleep, nuzzling closer like he belonged there. Soda’s chest clenched so tight it almost hurt.
God, how could someone be this good?
Pony’s lashes fluttered once, brushing against Soda’s shirt, but he didn’t wake. He only sighed softly and burrowed in deeper, as if he’d decided without thinking that Soda’s arms were the safest place in the whole world.
Soda swallowed hard, the restlessness beginning to ebb. His breathing slowed to match Pony’s. The house could stay quiet. The world could stay outside for all he cared. Right now, all that mattered was this little heartbeat pressed up against his own.
Later, when the sun had risen higher and the house began to stir—the sound of Darry’s footsteps heavy on the kitchen floor, the faint creak of pipes as water ran through the walls—Soda still hadn’t moved.
Ponyboy shifted again, finally blinking awake, his eyes unfocused and bleary in the half-light. He gave a little yawn that ended in a squeak, rubbing at his face with one hand before letting it drop against Soda’s chest again.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
“Hey, kiddo,” Soda said softly. His throat felt tight. He smoothed Pony’s hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering just a little.
Ponyboy blinked up at him, confusion slipping across his face for a moment. He frowned, then relaxed again, too drowsy to question much. “You okay?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
Soda forced a crooked grin, the kind that usually came easy but felt heavier this morning. “’Course I am. Just don’t feel like movin’ yet.”
Pony seemed satisfied with that. He gave another small sigh and dropped his head back against Soda’s chest. His trust was absolute, unquestioning.
Soda felt it like a weight in his gut, but a good weight—the kind that tethered him to the earth instead of dragging him down.
His arm tightened around Pony instinctively, protective, almost greedy. He didn’t want to share this with anyone. Not the world, not even Darry. Especially not today, when the air still buzzed faintly with the remnants of anger he couldn’t explain.
But in the circle of his arms, with Pony safe and warm, that anger had nowhere left to go. It leaked out of him slowly, replaced by something gentler. Something that made him want to keep holding on forever.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Soda whispered, mostly to himself.
Ponyboy made a little noise, already drifting again, but Soda didn’t mind. He kissed the top of his brother’s head lightly, like sealing a promise no one else had to hear.
By the time Darry called their names from the kitchen—his voice firm, impatient in the way it always got when breakfast cooled too long—Soda still hadn’t let go.
He could’ve. Should’ve. But the truth was, the day could wait. The world could wait.
Not Ponyboy. Not this.
Because when everything else pressed down too heavy, when the silence turned too loud and his chest felt like it might cave in—this was what brought him back. This soft, steady heartbeat. This trust he hadn’t earned but would die to protect.
Soda closed his eyes one last time, feeling the warmth of Pony’s breath against him.
Yeah. The world could wait.