Chapter Six

He had so much to do but found himself unable to escape this moment. They crowded him, speaking in low voices as if anything above a whisper would reduce him to hysterics. But he was different now. Fortified with the reality of a second chance, and yet … still fearful. He sat, restless at the kitchen table, wanting anything to happen, waiting for something to propel him out of there. He wished Darry had stayed.

His heart danced with every little movement of theirs: Soda shifting as he leaned against the counter, lips pursed, eyebrows drawn in, face dim with distress as he gazed out the window—the same expression he'd had in the bathroom. Two-Bit cracking his knuckles and tossing shy glances that could not fix upon his face, Steve swiping at his hair. Dally twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, skin untouched by the unforgiving lick of flames (smooth and healthy-looking and whole). Johnny picking at his nails, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing out evenly and softly (a far cry from their sharp inhalation, far away from a certain death chill that left his speech wandering, then failing, falling faintly, all but vanquished, out of breath, his poor breath… )

A voice within him spoke above the noise of his dancing heart, asking him to move his immobile body into normalcy. The same haunting presence that made his skin prickle and whispered Everything and Anything. The same invisible eyes. It urged him, pushed on him. Remember, it said, and then he remembered. He had promised himself to forget and move on. He'd sworn. But now, as then and before and always, he stood listlessly in his seat, seemingly a tranquil watcher of the scene before him. No one knew of his inner turmoil, of how much he missed this: the mundane.

Suddenly, Dally was offering a cigarette, suddenly lit (fire, and smoke. Smoke that suffocated and rained ash, and a fire that rose and ate away at the walls. Rising and falling, like waves, bringing ruin and rebirth. People were talking. It was the noise of roaring heat, of crashing waves. They were rolling waves murmuring among themselves as they rose and fell.)

Fingers snapped in his face. Pony blinked. Everything focused again but he dared not look around, already knowing he'd meet the eyes of others with his own unanswering eyes.

"Take it," Dally said. Only, Pony didn't, so Dally grabbed his hand, forcing his fingers to properly hold the cigarette. His skin was warm, solid. Real flesh. He calmed slightly with this knowledge, relieved with another confirmation that this was not a dream.

"Thanks," Pony said dumbly.

Hundreds and thousands and millions of eyes watched his every move as he brought the black pit close, feeling a familiar sinister heat that chilled him. It dangled from his useless fingers, close to his lips and unable to be brought closer. He needed to act normal, but he was transfixed by the rising smoke (a smoke that blinded and smothered, and a merciless fire that tore through the church, weakening the foundation and ceiling, and the beam—)

"Sorry," he said, snapping out of it. He cleared his throat, then firmly offered the cigarette back. The exchange reminded him of the same awkwardness with Tim only a couple of days ago (had it been merely days?) He couldn't then. He couldn't now. Too late, it was already too late. His hesitation had spawned worry, had arisen questions he could not answer.

Dally glared at him and swiped it back, turning to pace around the room.

"Sit down, Dal," Steve grumbled, "before you run a hole into the ground."

Dally stopped, muttering to himself before saying, matter-of-factly, "I'm heading over to the Nightly Double tomorrow night."

Hearing those words, Pony froze. Too familiar. But no. This was his chance to fix things.

Steve shrugged and tossed a quick glance at Pony before averting it just as quick. "Me and Soda were gonna take the girls to a game." Soda opened his mouth to protest but relented. Good, Pony thought. Don't worry about me.

Dally looked at the rest of them. Pony readied himself. He was going to change everything, save everyone from themselves.

"How about y'all? Two-Bit? Johnnycake?" Dally paused, but only for a moment. "Pony. Wanna come?"

It was all so easy. No, and they would be spared a terrible fate. No, and they would be safe and sound, forever unknowing of the warping despair and anxiety that stalked him ever since that terrible day. The word took shape, forming on the tip of his tongue, ready to be exhaled into a breath of life, a plea threatening to break through—

"Me and Pony'll come," Johnny said.

His reaction was unconscious, visceral, and he reeled horror, flinching as he'd been slapped. No, no, nonononono.

Johnny had doomed them all. This couldn't be happening … Johnny would have never opened his mouth unless forced to. Pony tried to rationalize it—another imposter trying to ruin his second chance. But it couldn't be. He was the imposter. He had done something, irrevocably changed some fiber of the universe, and it would ruin them again. He would ruin them. It would be all his fault (like Soda had said).

He could still fix things. He would … except it was too late. Dally had nodded in approval, already turning away. Too late.

"What's the matter, Pony?" Two-Bit said. He leaned forward and said something else, but Pony's ears were stuffed with cotton. Two-Bit's voice was hollow-sounding and nonsensical amidst his renewed panic.

Dally turned back around suddenly, eyebrow raised. "What's the matter with what?"

Eyes on him again. Eyes that bore deep, peeking to look at the festering goo inside and recoiling and shaking their heads and condemning him. Soda looked on the verge of running over to where he sat, body taut against the hardness of the counter, eyes fierce and anxious. Johnny blinked, his own eyes trying to convey a message that Pony could no longer decipher.

He wracked his brain. He needed to calm down. Breathe. Too many things were happening at once. How had things happened before? The gears turned in his head as he tried reaching for memories that weren't entirely there. The harrowing details of then had been purged, and now he recollected only faint and vague impressions that would not help him. Darry had something to do with this. They still had a chance; Darry could help save them.

"Darry," Pony said, practically shouting his name before reigning in the giddy fear that settled in his bones and made him impulsive and careless. "Think he'll let me go?"

"It's the weekend," Soda pointed out. Dally grunted in agreement.

"Well, I was plannin' on getting boozed up tomorrow night," Two-Bit said, intervening and evidently trying to lighten the mood. He turned to look at Pony. His green eyes shone brighter. "But I guess I'll just walk over and find y'all."

Another tingle of unease trickled down his spine. Drip, drip, drip. The droplets were loud in his mind, the waves reverberating against the quieting of the room. They were tears from his soul, the sweat of fear dripping down and down and pooling at the bottom of the empty well at his center. It was their breaths synchronizing to the steady beat. They were all alive and breathing and whole, but for how long? Drip ... drip ... drip. It was a timer counting down their seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. A bomb.

His mouth would no longer move to tell Two-Bit to stay far so they would not take him too. The conversation had already dwindled into unsalvageable territory, winding down to uncomfortable silence, and he was forced to leave it at that.

-o-

Only after the house was completely devoid of all those who did not belong did he finally move. He traveled around with purpose, relearning how he fit into this, feeling at times overwhelmed by the abundance of life. A heap of dishes, shirts tossed into secluded corners, opened milk cartons, and unfinished meals. Crumbs and shoes and chairs. Everything out of place—life nonetheless.

At last he settled on the couch, Soda on the opposite end, TV on. His skin prickled again and again and—

If Soda were actually paying attention to anything on the screen, the volume would've been louder.

A sudden pang came over him, and he longed for Valium, even if it had done little to help. Oh, what he would do for Darry's pills. The old ones; the new. It didn't matter—anything to calm him down. (He could not think, knowing what tomorrow could bring. They were one step closer to a certain calamity. Why had Johnny spoken? Why?) He could re-examine the bathroom cabinet and kitchen. Maybe he had missed something that could help him. Did this Darry have any stashed pills?

Soda was blatantly staring. His gaze was beady, ant-like, spawning the sensation of tiny little feet crawling all over and consuming inch by inch and warping and destroying.

"Stop it," Pony snapped. He was antsy. Ha.

Soda didn't look affronted by his tone, and he didn't look away either. "It's just … " he trailed off, gesturing to Pony's face. "You okay?" It was the gauze, of course, sticking out like a sore thumb, and what lay underneath. His weakness was in the spotlight. It stung and throbbed alongside the other aches if he thought about it. But he was fine.

"It's fine."

This Soda is different, Pony reminded himself, yet still felt unnerved to this side of him, alone. This Soda was untainted by a life that would never happen, still caring and close and too attentive. Johnny and Dally were one thing, but this was strange, different, somehow. They were still far away, walking ahead, unreachable but visible. This Soda walked alongside him, and even now, he was conscious of their closeness.

Though he yearned to repair all that once was, Pony could not allow their relationship to jeopardize his second chance. He needed to rip off the bandaid before it fused to his skin. Before it hurt too much.

"I'm heading upstairs for a bit," he said. Soda watched him.

He went.

-o-

His room was a barren shell, scattered with things from a childhood that held a small, receding space beside his heart. He searched and searched. No hidden journal, no scattered pills. His bed cold and unlived in, empty of his scent. There was no trace of his existence, no one to have witnessed his wrongs. Nothing tethering him to this new world.

He looked out his window into the darkness of the night to which he regularly escaped. Out into a different world. And just as he contemplated this convoluted liberation, the creak of floors accompanied soft shuffling footsteps, and then, palpable confusion: "What are you doing in here?"

Pony could imagine Darry standing against the threshold, arms crossed, observing, analyzing, trying to understand but failing. He brushed off Darry's question with his own: "Did Soda tell you?"

"About y'all going to the Nightly Double? Yeah. What are you doing here?"

"I can't go," Pony said, turning around, once again ignoring him.

Darry narrowed his eyes. "Of course you can, it's the weekend."

Don't let me go, Pony begged with his silence. He thought of excuses: I have homework. I don't feel well. I have a concussion. I'm sick. I'm crazy. But Darry had already turned away.

Pony reached out instinctively and caught himself. He recoiled and imprisoned his hand against his chest, and said nothing. He must not cause more problems. Darry already had enough on his mind.

"You'll be fine," Darry continued. "The Socs ain't gonna jump you with the gang around." Darry didn't understand. "And next time, don't go wandering by your lonesome." He motioned with his chin. "C'mon."

It was mayhem, water and sand and atoms all falling and fading and filtrating in his hands. He had wasted an infinite amount of opportunities since his awakening, what was one more?

Pony went, not looking back. It was time to put things to rest. Forget, forget. But the voices were telling him to Remember.

Darry shut the door behind him.

-o-

Soda's steady breathing had long lost its comfort. The room was hot and stifling, the bed cramped. Too acclimated to his self-imposed isolation, Pony could not sleep. Whorls of unease circulated the house and he breathed all the stagnant air in, in, in, unable to stop. Any air would be better than no air at all, better than the suffocating smoke …

Soda's one-sided conversation had only amplified the ever-growing pit within. Unprompted, he had started talking about Sandy—(Pony had forgotten all about her)—intent on still marrying. Pony willed himself to not think. Would anything change if Soda knew sooner? Would it save him the heartache before he got too attached? Action or inaction. What was worse? The thought of escaping into the night and interfering clung to his consciousness—he could not risk accelerating what might come to be. But doing nothing and letting fate work on its own was just as equally terrifying.

Don't think! Don't think! He clamped his eyes shut, covered his ears to shut the murmurs of an unforgivable future. Sleep, he pleaded. Sleep. And then he was fading, and falling, down, down …

The ground beneath him vibrated and trembled and shook, oozing out smoke and waves of molten heat. He scrambled back, stumbling and falling deeper and deeper down. The chaos blinded him. It was an earthquake, a tsunami, a volcano, a hurricane with voices and heat, a frenzy of winds chanting and whooshing and whispering at him to wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!—

His eyes snapped open. Soda peered down at him, breathing hard. They were both breathing hard. Pony shifted away and sat up, now feeling the force of his heart against his chest. Loud and expected, especially in a situation like this. It was fine.

"What?" he said, breathless.

Soda made a face. "You were making noises."

"You had a nightmare," Darry's voice corrected from somewhere in the room. His formless figure solidified as he got closer and sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you remember what it was about?"

No. He never remembered. It was fine. He had stopped wondering what the content of his dreams consisted of long ago. It didn't matter anyway. His eyelids began to droop.

Soda and Darry looked at each other. "Is everything okay, Ponyboy?" Darry continued. He placed a firm and comforting hand on his shoulder.

Pony accepted the gesture only because he felt too sluggish to shrug it off. When would they stop asking him that? They couldn't know the truth no matter how much he wanted to speak of it. Was he alright? No, he said. Or thought. The world was fizzing around the edges and his mouth felt too heavy.

Darry massaged his shoulder in reassurance. "It's okay, Pony. Just go back to sleep, yeah?"

But no, nothing was okay. He wanted to tell them but the presence grasped at his other shoulder, observing. Warning him, shushing him, compelling him into closing his eyes and to sleep. Do what he says, they muttered silently, poking at the hemispheres in his brain. But his brothers wanted to know the truth and here it was: no. It was so easy to say. He had to say it before … before what? No. Had he said it? He needed to stop Johnny. No, no, no. Tears pricked in his eyes. Had he failed again?

Darkness closed his eyes for him and he slept.

A/N: Life happened! I turned 18, committed to college, and am currently in the throes of writing my final research paper but I promise I will not wait *checks calendar* 8 months to update. In fact, I am almost halfway into chapter 7. Side note, I thought about including POVs from the others but will refrain for now. Thoughts?

Also:

- To those interested, I'm 90°angle#3192 on discord.

- To my friends I pray never find this story, an inside joke to recognize me by: Studying for the AP Lit exam forced into roleplaying as Hamlet's BFF