hello! i am back with another installment for you. to be honest, i'm not proud of this chapter, but i figured something was better than nothing. :)

enjoy!

~endless


ruin

I've never been good at hiding emotions. Especially the ones that hurt.

Surprise: the Curtis brother with the charming smile really hates dealing with things.

Around town, around other gangs, Ponyboy is known as that person; that kid who can't keep himself together. The kid who flinches at the sound of a door slamming too hard. The kid that wears his heart on his sleeve.

But Pony ain't ever been in war. He ain't ever had to witness soldiers die, have a gun to his temple, feel the intensity of being alive. He will never have to go through what I have.

If they hadn't been there that day, I could've easily drowned at the bottom of that river. If they hadn't been there that day, I wouldn't even be alive to relive this shit.

But they were.

I could've hidden it better. Done more to conceal it. Taught myself how to less reactive, less threatening, less everything.

But I didn't.


"One at a time."

Soda's eyes flash with annoyance as the doctor moves the stethoscope along his back, asking him to breathe. He sits on a bed with his shirt pulled up, the fabric resting on his neck, but he flinches as the cool metal clashes with his burning skin.

This is the third time I've been here. With Darry working all the time to try and pay down the bills, and Ponyboy still in school, somehow I got stuck on "take Soda everywhere" duty. While I don't mind it - after all, I would do anything for him - I know that he does. He hates the way all four of us look at him, our concern clearer than the sky. His gaze meets mine from across the room as he puts his shirt back over his chest. I grimace at the anger blazing through his dark brown gaze, pain dancing right alongside the anger, but this is routine.

Each time, he grows more resistant. More adamant that he's fine, that he doesn't need to go to the doctor for check-ups. And each time, I have to force myself to be stern, almost parental, and drag his ass out of the house so we can make the hour long drive.

"How are the migraines?" The doctor's question brings me back. She settles on a stool, wheeling herself close to Soda. The closer she gets, the more nervous Soda becomes and the more his eyes bore into mine, as if I can save him. I sit farther back in my chair and raise an eyebrow in a challenge: you gonna lie again? He's been lying for a few months now - saying that he's fine, his one lung isn't malfunctioning, the migraines don't cause the world to spin. If Darry were here, he would be answering for Soda, not holding back the deepest, rawest details.

But I'm not Darry. I'm not Ponyboy, who treats Soda like a porcelain doll. Soda doesn't deserve that, doesn't need that, because it only drives him further along the edge. It only drives him closer to an edge I'm so scared he'll find again.

"They're getting worse." Soda shakes his head, as if dumbfounded at his honesty. Quietly, as if I'm not in the room, he murmurs, "The burning is worse, too" and my heart leaps into my throat. That burning sensation has lasted longer than anything; and in a way, it makes sense, being that he only has one lung. But it's still aggravating - not only to him, but also to us. We can see his desire to move on his own, get up from his bed without help, but goddamn it, his body has fucked him up in more ways than one.

Doc keeps her voice level, but there's genuine fear in her body language. "That's very concerning," she says flatly, but Soda merely shrugs.

"Soda, come on," I mutter, and the doc's gaze falls on mine with interest. "You know it ain't normal."

Soda bristles at my comment. "It hasn't been that bad -"

"Bullshit." I lean forward in the chair and peer at him from wide eyes. "I've seen -"

Soda bares his teeth. "Shut up, Steve." And when I shake my head in defiance, the anger grows deeper. "I know my own body."

The doctor raises her hand for silence. Though her eyes are still on mine, she directs her words at Soda. "Are you coughing up -"

"No." There's ice in Soda's response. I can tell she's trying hard not to roll her eyes, but she glances at her clipboard and moves on.

"How are you handling stress? Exercise?"

"It's just peachy." I can't help but smirk at the cold sarcasm in his voice.

"That may cause the burning to get worse."

Soda gestures to me. "He's my ride everywhere. I can't fucking move on my own, can I?" I flinch at the frustration in his tone, and his doctor's eyes flash with sympathy. My body tenses as he lifts himself off of the bed, his face twisting in pain as he grabs at his head -

And then his eyes are rolling back, his body loosening, and I've never moved so fast to catch him in my entire life. His body collides with mine and I fall onto the ground, the wind leaving my lungs. I stifle a few coughs as I sit up and find him at my feet with Doc bending over him, her fingers pressing against his neck. I crawl forward so that I'm above him, snapping my fingers in front of his face, and it's like all the blood in my veins has drained into the center of the Earth.

Come on come on come on -

Soda's eyes flutter open at the sensation of something against his chest, and I sigh in relief. Darry won't kill me today.

"I'm admitting you," Doc throws her stethoscope around her neck again just as Soda mutters a quick, "'m fine." She shakes her head violently, keeping her eyes on him, but addressing me. "Call his brothers, please." Her hands press against Soda as he tries to sit up. This time, her eyes are furious as she barks, "Now, please."

I fumble in my back pocket for my cell phone. My hands shake as Soda's eyes try to figure out the world around him and the doctor calls for nurses. I'm grateful for knowing Darry's work number by heart, and I shove all of my hope to the wind that he'll be the one to answer.

"Hey," I breathe a sigh of relief as Darry's voice echoes along the walls of a newly built house.

"Dar," my voice is close to breaking, tears blurring my vision. I feel Darry's anxiety as if it's my own.

"What's wrong?"

"Soda's being admitted. He passed out -"

The call dies before I can say more.