Reposted for the fourth time, thanks to corrections made my Jenny, who kindly pointed out:
skull, because of your atrociously lacking grammatical talents."
"Would you just stop for a second?" Soda pleaded as Pony shoved clothes into a beat up old duffle. "What happened to Darry?"
Pony shook him off, though, and kept rummaging through his drawers in the hopes of at least finding something clean to take with him when he left. He had to get out of that house. With Soda there, it was impossible to keep his mind clear of all those haunting memories. He was flooded with the emotions that he'd worked so damn hard to ignore.
Ponyboy was shocked to discover it wasn't grief that overwhelmed him, but a devastating fusion of hatred and anger. It escaped from some dormant place in his chest, coursing, and pulsed through every fiber of his body. He struggled to keep himself from wheeling around and knocking the daylights out of Soda. His hands shook as he tried desperately to maintain the bitterly detached façade he'd created for himself.
"What happened to you?" Soda finally screamed, clutching at fistfuls of his shirt. "Why won't you talk to me?"
"Why should I?" Pony growled, meeting Soda's eyes. He tried not to remember when Soda meant everything to him. He tried not to think about what it had done to him--to everyone--when Soda'd left. He refused to remember how much it hurt when he hadn't come home after the war, or the vivid nightmares of Soda's death he'd endured for months on end.
When Soda faltered, trying to come up with a reason to get Pony to talk to him, Pony seized his opportunity to make a move for the door. In a flash, he found his face mashed up against a t-shirt as Soda whipped him around by one arm, and tackled him to the ground. The pair struggled for a moment, but Soda quickly had Pony's skeletal arms pinned to the floor above his head.
"Get off of me!" Pony seethed, struggling to get out of the iron grip, but Soda overpowered him without much effort. Those years in the army had paid off in at least one way. "Let go now, or I swear I'll…"
Pony left his threat unfinished, but Soda held fast. "Just talk to me, goddamnit!" he commanded. "Tell me what the hell happened!"
"Soda!" Pony howled, his voice catching in his throat. He could hardly stand to be touched anymore, let alone held like this by the person who had caused him to become this way; It was almost unbearable.
"Just talk to me, Ponyboy," Soda repeated, his voice suddenly calm;mellifluously smooth and mellow. Pony panicked, afraid that he'd go to
pieces if he didn't regain some distance from his brother. Distance always gave him the upper hand.
"Fine," he gasped, frantically trying to rip his arms out of Soda's vice-like hold. Talking to the guy was better than being crushed to death, he
reasoned. Soda finally released him. He rolled away hastily, relieved to have regained some comfortable distance.
"Well?" Soda prodded gently. "What was it?"
"Fell off a roof," he divulged unceremoniously. He glanced up to take in Soda's reaction, but there was none--just a vacant expression in his eyes.
Pony grit his teeth and hauled himself to his feet. "He was hauling three bundles of roofing up a ladder when it happened," he continued, searching for some sort of response.
"Three?" Soda finally repeated numbly. "He knew better than that."
Pony snorted. "You didn't leave him much of an option, G.I. Joe," he spat. "When you left, there was no way to make ends meet. Darry was trying to get as much roofing done as he could while the sun was still up, and moonlighting at McGarvey's Tavern afterwards. He was run down."
Soda sat back on his heels, his eyes fixed on the floor. Watching him, Ponyboy felt like his heart was going to jump straight out of his chest. He
shifted uncomfortably and tried to clear his throat of the tight feeling that had settled there.
"Look, I gotta get out of here," he mumbled. "Curly's waiting."
Soda looked up slowly. "Curly?" he repeated, looking bewildered, and Pony nodded curtly. "Are you gonna come back Pone?"
For a moment, Ponyboy debated refusing to ever return to him, or the tormenting memories he'd brought with him, but he heard himself speaking before he even realized what he was saying.
"Sure," he promised, kicking open the door. "I'll come back."
