When it happens, you can't say you're surprised.
Embarrassed maybe, but not surprised.
You haven't been sleeping well.
It's most definitely, probably stress. Your classes are coming at you full force, with reading assignments and papers and quizzes. And just around the corner are midterms. The first grade of substance you'll receive in your classes.
You spend endless hours at the library, writing and studying until you've exhausted yourself to the point of calling it quits. Then you return to your dorm room, envious of the soft snores coming from Marty's bed.
He seems so much better adjusted than you. Hell, everybody does.
And even though you're tired - beyond tired– you can never seem to fall asleep.
You toss and turn, fretting over everything that still needs to be done. And then you start thinking about next semester when you'll be balancing class and track and your heart climbs into your throat. You think of Soda and Darry and Two-Bit, and gosh, it's been so long since you've seen them. Since you've had time to call them. You're homesick.
Maybe even for Steve.
Every night, when you do manage to fall asleep, you dream.
You never can remember what you dream about. But you wake up, shoot bolt upright in your bed, breathing heavily and chest vibrating with the rapid beating of your heart. Sweat trickles down your neck and spine, and you pull your legs up to your chest. That's when you feel like giving up.
And every night, Marty's soft snores taunt you from across the room.
Until tonight.
Because tonight is different.
Tonight, your dream is vivid. Scary.
You wake up to everything shaking. "Ponyboy!" Your eyes fly open and Marty is there, hands all over you. "Pony, calm down and breathe, dammit."
You gulp for air, pushing yourself up. Marty helps you into a seated position, eyes wide and searching your face. Your heart feels like it has electrical surges pulsing through it.
The images of their faces are still lingering in front of your eyes.
"W-what?" you choke out stupidly, because you know. You know you were screaming. Your raw throat is clue enough.
Marty takes a step back from you, let's you breathe. "You were dreaming, I think," he says as you pull your legs up to your chest. "Don't know what about, but you were screaming bloody murder, man."
You close your eyes and bury your face into the crevice of your knees. It's been a while since you've had a nightmare that's left you so spooked.
"Sorry for waking you up," you mumble.
"No trouble," Marty insists. "Man, I'm just glad you weren't being stabbed to death or something." He takes a seat on the foot of your bed, which makes you feel even more exposed. "Must've been one hell of a dream, huh? What was it about?"
You lift your head up to look at him.
Marty doesn't know much about your past. You figure he must know that your parents are out of the picture, since it was Darry and Soda who dropped you off at college, but the two of you have never discussed it. He's never asked, and you've never gone out of your way to tell him. It's not something you like talking about anyway.
So how are you supposed to tell him that you just dreamt about their fatal car accident? It's not something that simply rolls off the tongue. It's a painful discussion, and you can't do that now.
So you lie. "I don't remember." But your voice is strangled and Marty sees right through you.
"Pony…"
You shake your head. "I don't want to talk about it," you say to keep him from pressing further. You're horrified that tears have found their way to your cheeks. You need to get out. Go for a walk or something. You don't want Marty to see you like this.
You run your hands through your hair and stand up. You start putting on your shoes.
"Pony, what are you doing?" Marty asks gently. "Don't go anywhere, man."
"I-I need to get out," you tell him, voice cracking all over the place.
"Okay," Marty says. "You need some fresh air. I get that. Just let me go with you, okay?"
You freeze. You want to tell him no. You can't…
"Look, I won't make you talk or nothin'," he assures you, as if reading your mind. "I promise. I just don't think you should be alone right now, Ponyboy."
You know he'll simply follow you anyway, if you tell him no. It's easier for all involved if you just give him your consent. "Okay," you mumble. You finish lacing your shoes and then grab your keys off your desk. You wait anxiously by the door while Marty slips on his own shoes.
"Don't forget your jacket," he says, grabbing it from your desk chair and tossing it at you. He sounds so much like Darry that you stare at him.
"What?" he asks dumbly.
"Nothing," you mutter. "You ready?"
He nods and grabs his own jacket before following you out the door.
Marty holds true to his promise, and doesn't pressure you to talk. He lets you set the pace, actually falls in step a couple of paces behind you.
You walk briskly, hardly noticing the cold, crisp autumn air in the dead of the night. That dream has left you too numb to feel much of anything.
You head for the quad, tears slipping down your face and you wish you could stop them. But you can't. That dream was like the straw that broke the camel's back, and now that you've started…
You want Soda. You've never had a nightmare when he wasn't around. He's always been there, for you to cling on to, to rub soothing circles in your back… It makes the ache in your chest grow stronger, for everyone. For home.
It's not until Marty puts his hand on your shoulder that you realize you've stopped walking. You're in the center of the quad, next to the statue of William Caldwell, the university's first president.
Marty guides you over to a bench, pushes you gently down. He takes the seat next to you, puts a hand on your trembling knee. You wish you'd grabbed your pack of cigarettes.
The two of you sit in silence. You take deep breaths, trying to get a hold of yourself. Marty keeps his hand on your knee. Enough of a presence to be a comfort, but not so much that you feel smothered.
He senses when you've calmed down enough to return to the dorms. He pulls you up, and you walk back together, side-by-side this time.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.
When you step back into your dorm room, you feel the need to say something. Something of great multitude for what Marty did for you tonight. For being there. But you still have a lump in your throat the size of a golf ball, so all you manage is a quiet "thank you," as you settle back under your covers.
Marty turns out the light. "Don't mention it, man." There's a beat of silence. "Get some sleep."
And you do.
