Chapter Text
Pony hadn’t thought much of it at first. Johnny sometimes drifted, spending a night or two at Dally’s or just disappearing to the lot when he needed quiet. It wasn’t unusual. So when three days passed without Johnny knocking at the Curtis front door or showing up at the DX, Pony told himself it was fine. Johnny needed space sometimes. That was just who he was.
But by the third day, Pony couldn’t shake the edge in his stomach — that restless twist that made him reread the same line in his book without taking in a word. He tried to tell himself Johnny was fine, probably just tagging along with Dallas somewhere. Johnny always came back. He always did.
That afternoon, Pony was at the DX leaning against the counter, flipping through a battered magazine while Soda worked a pump outside. The bell over the door jingled and in breezed Two-Bit, whistling off-key and grinning like always. He slapped a quarter down for a Coke and leaned his elbow against Pony’s shoulder.
“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Curtis. You look like you been sittin’ on bad news for a week,” Two-Bit said, popping the cap off his bottle.
Pony rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Two-Bit said cheerfully. He took a long swig and then wagged the bottle neck in Pony’s direction. “You hear about Johnny and Dally the other night?”
That made Pony’s head snap up. “What about ‘em?”
Two-Bit raised his brows like he was surprised Pony didn’t already know. “Ran into a couple of Socs near the drive-in lot. Dally spooked ‘em off, but not before one of ‘em got a good swing in. Johnny didn’t look too banged up, though. Just shook up some, I think. He’ll be alright.”
Pony’s stomach dropped. His fingers tightened around the edge of the magazine until the pages crumpled. “When?”
“Couple nights ago,” Two-Bit said, shrugging. “Ain’t nothin’ new. You know how it goes.”
Pony didn’t answer right away. He was still stuck on the fact that it had been three nights since he’d last seen Johnny — three nights where Johnny hadn’t said a word, hadn’t come by, hadn’t let him know anything at all. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “And you’re sure he’s alright?”
Two-Bit gave him a funny look, like he couldn’t figure why Pony was wound up. “Yeah. You know Johnny — tougher than he looks. Don’t go worryin’ yourself sick over it.” He clapped Pony on the shoulder, easy as always, and sauntered back toward the door, whistling again.
Pony stood frozen behind the counter, the words echoing in his head. Tougher than he looks. That wasn’t the point. Johnny didn’t have to be tougher than he looked. He shouldn’t have to. And the fact that he hadn’t come around, hadn’t told Pony himself, burned worse than the worry did.
When Soda came back in, wiping his hands on a rag, Pony was still standing there with the wrinkled magazine in his grip, staring straight ahead. Soda tilted his head. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Pony muttered too fast, shoving the magazine back onto the pile.
Soda’s brows drew together, but he didn’t push. Pony knew he was lucky for that — Soda usually never let anything slide. But now his chest felt tight with something between dread and hurt, and all he wanted was to get home, to his room, where he could shut the door and think.
All evening he kept expecting Johnny to knock, to slide in quiet as he always did, like nothing had happened. But the knock never came. Pony lay awake staring at the ceiling, the shadows of tree branches swaying across it, and all he could picture was Johnny’s face with another bruise he hadn’t seen, hiding somewhere he thought Pony wouldn’t look.
By the time the third night gave way to the fourth morning, Pony’s worry had started to sour into something sharper. Not anger exactly — more like hurt wearing anger’s mask. If Johnny thought he could just disappear, get himself beat up, and leave Pony to hear about it from Two-Bit of all people… well, Johnny had another thing coming.