I wrote this very late at night/very early in the morning, so if it's unrealistic or has typos or whatever, oh well.
XXX = changing POV
XxX = same POV, just later
I sit down, feeling light-headed, seeing spots swim in front of my eyes as I stare down at the letter. This isn't happening. It can't be. I can hear my heart pounding like a bass drum in long, slow thumps, and I think I'm going to black out. Someone tell me this is a joke. Please tell me this isn't real. But the words on the page stay the same, no matter how many times I close my eyes and shake my head, praying there's something wrong with my vision. They don't change, no matter how much I silently beg them to. I can't wrap my head around this. I don't want to wrap my head around this. Soda's dead.
The sun's finished setting and the living room's dark by the time I finally realize I have to tell Ponyboy. Oh glory…Ponyboy. He won't be able to take it. How am I supposed to tell him? My feet propel me upstairs to his room without my consent. He's working on an assignment for one of his classes, sitting at his desk with his back to me.
"Ponyboy." I don't recognize my own voice.
He glances over his shoulder at me before going back to his notebook. "Hey, Darry."
"I gotta talk to you."
He must hear something in my voice, because when he turns in his seat to look at me, there's an expression of slight concern on his face. "What is it?" he asks, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, facing him. I never realized how young seventeen was until Ponyboy turned seventeen a few weeks ago. He's so small - not just his frame, but his whole demeanor, and I wish I could do something to protect him from all the cruelties of the world.
My voice is quiet when I say, "We got a letter."
"From who?" Gosh, he looks so hopeful, like he thinks maybe Soda sent another letter. Something inside me breaks as I look at his face. I can't tell him...but I have to.
I don't even realize I'm touching him until I see my hand at the side of his face, my thumb running along his cheekbone. His eyebrows knit together in confusion and he turns his head away just slightly, his eyes saying plainly, What are you doing?
"Soda's gone, Pony," I say softly.
XXX
My stomach turns to ice. My heart stops. I feel like the whole world stops. "What?"
He keeps running his thumb across my cheek, as if hoping the repetitive motion will calm me. "They sent a letter," he says in the same soft, almost expressionless voice he's been using. "He's gone."
Soda'sdeadhe'sgoneSodapop'sdead. I yank away from Darry, the thoughts whirling around in my head so fast I can't think through them. He's dead. "No." I'm talking, but I have no control over myself. It's like my brain shut down trying to register what Darry said and my body's on autopilot. "No," I repeat, shaking my head, backing away from him.
"Ponyboy," he says, and suddenly there's so much emotion in his voice, in that one word.
I can feel the blood draining from my face, can feel myself shaking, and I suddenly dart to the bathroom, yanking up the toilet sat and kneeling in front of it, leaning over the porcelain bowl. I stare at my dark reflection, my stomach turning on itself, my mind still trying to take in what Darry told me. Soda's gone. He can't be gone, I think in a panic. This isn't real. He can't be gone.
I feel Darry's hand on my back, moving up and down my spine, trying to soothe me, but all I can think is, Sodapop…
My stomach gives a violent lurch and I almost gag. Soda… I can't think. I can barely breathe. I don't know how much time passes as I sit there, my whole frame quivering as I try to regain control of myself. My stomach finally calms down and I slump with my back against the bathtub, bringing my knees up and pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes. Soda's never coming back. My chest feels like someone has it in their fist and is squeezing it as hard as they can.
"Pony…" Darry's fingers brush my shoulder, but I pull away. "Don't." If you touch me, I'll break.
XXX
I don't know what to do. I want to pull him close and hold him as tight as I can until everything's alright again, but he won't let me touch him. I want to say something to comfort him, but what can you say to someone who's just had the person they love most ripped out of their life? I end up not saying or doing anything, just sitting there with him. It's as much for me as it is for him - I need someone right now. I don't want to be alone.
XXX
I jerk awake suddenly and see Darry sitting across the room, leaned against the wall, asleep. I'm slightly surprised that he stayed here with me this long - it must have been hours since we came in…why did we come in? I'm too tired to remember. Should I wake Darry up? I decide to let him sleep and finally stagger to my feet, exhausted, before stumbling to my room and falling into bed.
XxX
Someone jostling me pulls me halfway from sleep. A blanket is pulled over me and someone's calloused fingers graze my forehead as they push my hair back. "S'da…" I mumble, and a voice says quietly, "Go on back to sleep, Pony."
Darry's voice. Suddenly I remember: Soda. I'm suddenly wide awake, though I keep my eyes shut tightly. A sharp pain starts growing in my chest, and when I hear Darry's footsteps start towards the door, it suddenly bursts and a sob escapes my lips before I can stop it. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, but I can feel tears escaping out the corners. I sense rather than see Darry next to me again, and when he says, "Pony?", I lose what little control I had over my emotions.
XXX
He sounds like he's dying, and it makes the ache in my chest ten times stronger. "It's okay," I say, and then I could kick myself. Of course it's not okay. It's not going to be okay. I swallow the lump in my throat, reaching down a hand to wipe away the tear tracks on his face, and he turns his head to lean into the touch, his breathing coming in short sobs. I keep my hand there, and his breathing slowly evens out, hitching every now and then. I wait until it stays regular for a few minutes before moving my hand, running it through his hair. He stares at the wall, eyes red, then looks up at me, suddenly asking, "Are you okay?" in a thick voice.
The question startles me, and my hand falters for a second as I feel my eyes sting. "No," I say quietly. "I'm not."
He sits up, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, and I tense up slightly before loosening, feeling the ache in my chest subside, if only slightly. My eyes droop shut as I rest my forehead against his shoulder. He stays silent; we both know there's nothing to say. But sometimes you don't need to say anything. Sometimes just having someone there is enough.
I shut my eyes tighter before whispering, "Thanks, Pony." And I mean it. Because I suddenly realize I need him just as much as he needs me.
He doesn't answer, and in a minute or two when his grip slackens, I can tell he's asleep. The corner of my mouth lifts in a half-hearted smile as I set him back in bed, covering him with a blanket before climbing in the other side, tossing an arm across his neck like Soda's done for him so many times, and drift to sleep.
Reading back over that, it's pretty bad. Darry doesn't seem sad about Soda at all. Maybe he's not... [insert bad-guy music here] And Pony seems way younger than seventeen...oh well!