The Times, They Are A-Changin'
.
.
Ponyboy's stuck between the block lettered clock on his (Soda's) nightstand, burning face melting into the worn and torn pillow that's not his on the only twin sized bed in their creaky old house. He thinks, between gasping inhales of stale cigarette laced air and fading gasoline stench, he thinks maybe this is okay—this idea of falling and falling and unwinding beneath Heaven's accented dream, of blurring his and Soda's night time faeries into these pastel sheets, stained and hole-y, stinking of blood and oil and seaweed tasting tears.
Ponyboy doesn't like winter nights, where it's too cold by himself, where not even a bundle of blankets piled high, high, high can save his toes from the monster of hypothermia. And Ponyboy doesn't like summer nights, where he has no one but himself and his own withering thoughts to stay up with until the crack of dawn, to speak to nonstop and share stupid words and stupid butterfly pecks. Ponyboy especially hates mornings, all year mornings; where he wakes up to himself and himself alone, has no one to pounce on because "breakfast is ready, wake up Soda!" where the only thing he sees is an empty space, an open window, a stupid, yellowing piece of paper with his name scrawled messily across the folded front.
I hate you, Ponyboy thinks. He wants to think, because somewhere, deep down, he does hate Sodapop, but not really. He hates Soda for choosing Vietnam over him, and he hates himself for that, because he knows Sodapop didn't have a choice, and if he really did, he'd've chosen Pony over any stinkin' war—anytime, any day, any year. It's selfish and stupid but he knows he's right because he knows Sodapop, knows him like the back of his hand, and Soda knows Ponyboy, and that's why Soda left Pony that goddamned letter, all oil stained and ripped edges and gasoline smells. The goddamned letter he's read over and over and over, one too many times, where he could recite the words like if he's reciting his own name, over and over and over...
I love you, Ponyboy thinks. He says it to himself, I love you I love you I love you. He wants to think Soda knows—knew, damn it—because he didn't have a chance to say it like he really meant it. That time in the airport, that was the way Darry and everyone else loved Soda, how they saw Pony's love for the middle brother, too. But the moments in between, those nights with cuddles and kisses and fluttering warmth, voices hushed and filled to the brim with happy, the moments that could fill the spaces between seconds like the piece to a missing jigsaw puzzle...the moments of morning dish-washing, afternoon dish-washing, nighttime dish-washing...shared beds and sometimes, when no one else is (was) around, shared showers...with I love you's from him, and none back from h i m, because Pony—god he hates himself. He hates himself for being so damn afraid...afraid of what? Just so, so afraid.
I'm sorry, Ponyboy thinks. He clutches the wearing paper to his chest the night of...the night since...the date of that night, two years ago, and he swears. He doesn't cry, hasn't since Darry caught him back when he was still foolish enough to act like Soda's absence from their lives for good—damn it, for good—affected him so much.
He swears, he swears and bites his bottom lip hard enough to keep back the hiccups and heaves, hard enough to taste metallic and copper and sweet caramel and...and jasmine, maybe. But he's never tasted jasmine, 's never drank jasmine tea, so he doesn't know...? But he swears into the paper, swears into his bleeding lip (and if Darry notices the next morning, he says nothing) swears into the pastel sheets that still wear Sodapop, however fading as it may be...and Ponyboy thinks that maybe it's because he smells like Sodapop, has since he took over Soda's job at the DX, and that's why...no, no. No? Maybe, probably.
But Ponyboy swears, he swears to a lot of things, mostly to Soda (for leaving him), some to Steve (for not taking care of him), a tiny, minuscule bit to the goddamn government, the goddamn president (both, for sending Soda (and Steve, he supposes) away from them all, away from home, for only bringing one back.l.), and a heart's beat to himself (for...he isn't really sure). It doesn't help, but it's better than the idiotic, seaweed taste of too warm tears.
And, okay, so he likes the tang that coats his tongue, fueling the dazzling curses, sprouting new words he's never even heard of...likes it a lot. And he doesn't get much sleep, hasn't since...since. But if Darry notices, he doesn't say anything. He hasn't said much since...since.
.
.