Bathroom Tiles
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I don't own The Outsiders. Never have and sadly, never will. This is all just for my own enjoyment.
Summary: A surprise visit from his brother brings up a surge of painful memories, but also reminds Ponyboy you're never too old to need help sometimes.
~ Winter, 1971 ~
Your stomach revolts. You gag, but nothing comes out. Exhausted, you lay your burning forehead against the base of the toilet. It's cool, and for a second you think you could fall asleep, but the unsettling feeling in your stomach reminds you where you are and why you're there.
You sit up, leaning against the tub to support yourself. You finally have a second to breath, and you almost forget about the fact that your sick as a dog. But a knock on the door stabs at your already pounding head, and you remember you aren't alone tonight.
You barely make it to the door without puking. Your legs, strong from years of running, have been turned to shaky jello and everything makes your stomach roll so hard it feels like a gymnastics competition going on in your digestive system. You pull the door open, leaning against it's cool wooden frame for support once it's wide enough, and your brother stares at you with an all too familiar worried expression.
"You drunk, Pony?" He drawls, and you wish that statement was true. Freshman year of college was the only year you ever participated in parties, spending the weekends getting stupid drunk with friends, but after getting a C minus in calculus and facing the humiliation of getting chewed out by your bother as an eighteen years old, you decided that life wasn't for you. But the memories still stick with you of laying over the toilet, hungover and nauseous, but no matter how much you drank nothing compared to how sick you feel right now.
"No, Soda," you respond weakly. It's barely a whisper. Anything louder would have aggravated your headache.
He sets down his bags, eyeing you as it does it as if you'll disappear from his sight if he doesn't. He reminds you so much do Darry it hurts.
You cross the small room and return to where you've set up camp in the bathroom. You take a sip from your now warm water, but immediately you regret your decision and you find yourself leaning over the toilet, gagging. Once your done you look up to find Sodapop sitting down behind you, two wet washcloths in one hand and a thermometer in the other.
"Looks like we aren't gonna go out and pick up chicks after all," he says simply.
Sodapop
He smiles at my joke, but it's strained. He looks utterly miserable; his cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are glassy and unfocused, like simply sitting there took all the energy out of him.
I hand him the thermometer, knowing it would be much easier than trying to force it into his mouth myself. He was stubborn, and even when he was little, when he was sick, he would become even more stubborn and convinced he could take care of himself. Most of the time he couldn't, but that didn't stop his attitude one bit.
As the thermometer sits under his tongue, I hand him the wash clothes; one for his face, one for his forehead. He takes them without making eye contact, and I separately wish for him to look at me.
"How long you been sick for?"
"Day or so," he responds tiredly, and I can't help but notice how thin he is. That can't be from just a day of no eating.
"You're too thin, kiddo," I comment, hoping maybe, just maybe he'll let me in. He's barely spoken to me since Darry, and I know he's shutting me out, that's just how he deals, but with him being a few hours away instead of a hallway away I can't help but worry.
"Tracks really tough this year...I can only eat so much, jus' burn it all off at practice."
It's a lie and even though his half intelligible slurring around the thermometer in his mouth I can tell he's lying. But I give in and just ask him if he wants to go to bed. He responds with a barely audible yes, and I wrap his arms around my shoulder as we walk. He hands me the thermometer after his head hits the pillow, and before I can even comments on the glowing 102 that it reads, he's fast asleep.
When you wake up your room is dark and your mind is fuzzy. You squint, trying to make out your environment in the dark, but everything is slightly blurry.
"Darry?" You call out. You wonder what's going on, and why your head pounds, but it isn't Darry who opened your bedroom door. It's Soda.
"Hey, Pone," he greets, but your not satisfied with just one of two brothers.
"Where's Darry?" You ask, but he flinches at the simple question.
"Oh, kiddo," Sodapop sighs softly and suddenly the fogginess from your mind is wiped and everything comes into focus. With a painful jab to your chest you wish you could backpedal and forget just where your brother is.
Before you even realize what's happening, tears are running down your face. Sodapop's by your side in an instant, rubbing your back, but you squeeze your eyes shut as if that will make him disappear. You're a grown adult for crying out loud. You shouldn't be crying and you shouldn't need your big brothers comfort, and you surely shouldn't need him to bring you wash rags and thermometers when you have the flu.
But his soft, soothing back rubs remind you too much of nights he would lie there comforting you after a nightmare. But when you open your eyes Darry isn't standing in the doorframe, hand shoved in his sweat pants pockets, gruff but worried. You wish you could take back those time when you thought ill of him, and you'd give anything for him to be too rough to you while your sick without meaning to, or to yell at you about how you haven't been taking care of yourself.
The rough crying upset your sensitive stomach and before you know it you're clumsily rolling out of bed and you shoot into the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet. Nothing comes out, you haven't eaten anything worth puking in days, but it hurts so bad and you find yourself crying harder because it just hurts. You miss him so much and you're just so sick you don't know what to do so you let yourself cry. Sob. And Soda wraps his arms around you as you cry for the first time since you got that awful letter in the mail months ago.
"I wish he was here," you find yourself shakily spitting out, and you feel Soda nod.
"I know. But he ain't gone. He's coming back."
"Why'd they have to take him? Why'd they have to draft him? Couldn't they just take someone else?"
"I don't know, Pone. It was just in the cards. But he's gonna come back."
You nod, even though it hurts your head, because the lump in your throat is too big to talk around. But as you lean against your big brother you know he's right. It's hard now it you've been through worse. Darry's strong and he'll get through it. He'll make it home. And you can get through this. After all, of Darry can get out of a gook infested jungle, you can get over the flu. With the help of Soda, that is.
Stay Gold,
~ Alee XxX