cindy

“Shouldn’t that crown be with their King?” Lando blurts out.

Oscar peers at him incredulously. The first time he’s acknowledged, really acknowledged Lando all day, and it’s to gawk at him like he’s some kind of mutant animal. Lando feels his jaw clench. “…Commander Norris. That”–-he kicks at the body–-”is their King.”

Then he turns to the rest of the men as if he didn’t just flip Lando’s world upside down.

“Everyone, I have some…news to announce,” he calls out, voice cracking.

So, that’s how the War ends. A damn coincidence. A freak accident.

Or: Oscar was not meant to be King of Borealia. Not during war, not during peace. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for him--and Lando, the kingdom’s knight commander, has to be the one to deal with it.

“Still writin’ that same application?”

Ponyboy flinches as Soda’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. “There’s a lot of questions to answer, y’know.”

“Just don’t forget about the deadline,” Darry calls out from the living room. “The schools want all the materials by January 1st, so we have to mail–”

“--it five days earlier. I remember, Darry,” Ponyboy snaps. He scowls at the paper in front of him as though a stare intense enough might make it write itself.

“Cool it, Pone.” Soda puts a hand on his shoulder. “You should take a break. That application ain’t gonna run away just ‘cause you leave it alone for a bit.”

“But my sanity sure will,” Ponyboy mutters under his breath. 

“Quit being so dramatic.”

“I can’t stop working now.” The sun is setting outside, flooding their dingy bedroom with an impermanent warmth. Already, Ponyboy is running out of time. “I haven’t written a thing even though I’ve been thinking for so long. I keep on tryna pretend that it’s just another theme for Mr. Syme’s class, but it’s not.” He swallows, shaking his head. It’s my only shot to prove to everyone this dirt road in Oklahoma ain’t all I’m gonna be for the rest of my life. That’s what makes this pressure so much worse.

“Your theme was damn good. Can’t you just submit that?”

“There’s a different word limit for every question. I can’t turn in a whole book,” Ponyboy grumbles. 

“These schools got too many requirements,” Soda frowns. He reaches down to pinch Ponyboy’s cheek, but Pony swiftly dodges his hand. His hand falls back to his side, slightly hurt. “Pony, you’re only torturin’ yourself sittin’ here all day. Put on your jacket, let’s go to Dairy Queen or somethin’.”

“Soda, I already said I can’t.”

“It wasn’t a request. Put on your jacket, Ponyboy Michael Curtis.” Soda’s voice deepens into an uncanny facsimile of Darry, and Ponyboy can’t help but crack a grin. “You haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, that’s why you can’t think of any ideas.”

Now that Soda mentions it, he is feeling a bit hungry. Maybe a burger won’t hurt. “Are you paying?”

Soda rolls his eyes and fishes his paycheck out of his pocket. “Unlike someone, I actually have a job.” 

“Hey, that’s not my fault.” Ponyboy sets his pencil down. “Darry won’t let me anywhere near a job posting.”

“I told you already, Ponyboy.” Darry shouts again. Soda and Pony both cringe–you’d think they’d remember the walls are paper-thin after living in this house their whole lives. “You can get a job in college!”

Pony stiffens instantly. Soda sighs; college this, college that, hell, he can’t remember the last time they had a single conversation without bringing up the c-word in four months. He swings an arm around Pony’s shoulder, pulling him to his feet.

“You wanna try drivin’ this time?”

-

“--he truck! Stop the truck!” Soda screams, trying and failing to wrangle the wheel out of Ponyboy’s hands. “Oh my God, you almost hit that kid!”

“Why did he run in front of us in the first place!” Pony screams back, foot still pressed tight against the brakes. It takes him a few seconds to catch his breath, the same amount of time before a car honks behind him. For the first time in his life, Pony understands why people get road rage. 

“It was a red light, Pony, you were supposed to stop.” Soda’s tone softens, now that the threat of imminent manslaughter has passed. “Didn’t you say Two taught you how to drive?”

“Just a couple times, in the lot,” Pony admits, pulling the truck up to the sidewalk. “And…it didn’t go so well.”

There’s a moment of dreadful silence where all Pony can do is hope Soda doesn’t connect two and two. Unfortunately, he shoots up with a gasp. “Dude, you made that dent in my truck? Two told me it was always there!”

“I didn’t ram into the pole that hard!” Pony interjects. “Your car already has too many dents to count, anyway.”

“And how many of those did you cause?”

“Just the one!”

Soda crosses his arms.

“…Alright, maybe a couple others.”

“A couple?” Soda collapses back into his seat, defeated. He traces the cracks spiderwebbed across the truck’s muddy side window, murmuring: “My poor baby, my Marianne, what have you gone through?” 

“You named your truck Marianne?” There’s a look halfway in between I’m-going-to-tell-Steve-all-about-this-so-you’ll-never-live-it-down and How-am-I-related-to-this-guy-again? on Pony’s face. “Isn’t that also the name of the girl that’s been visiting you everyday at the DX?”

The way Soda’s face turns tomato red would have Pony laughing till next Sunday if not for the all-encompassing relief that follows, overwhelming everything else. It’s been three years since Sandy, two since Soda claimed he’d gotten over it. Can’t bring myself to blame her anymore, he said. We were all just kids, and things were bad all ‘round. I hope she’s doing better, wherever she is. Call him immature, but Pony didn’t buy any of that forgive-and-forget bullshit. A spark had left Soda after Sandy, but now it’s finally, finally coming back. 

“What’s she like?” Pony asks quietly. They’re back on the road, Soda’s gaze chained to the truck accelerator. He wishes Pony would go a little slower, but he isn’t one to talk.

“Real sweet. Smart, too. I don’t get what she sees in me,” Soda snorts. 

“She ‘ought to see the whole world of you.” Pony says, always quick to defend Soda, even against himself. “Are you guys gonna go on a proper date soon? I mean, outside of the DX.”

Soda shakes his head resolutely. “I mean it when I say she’s smart, Pone. Top of her class and everythin’. She’s gonna get outta this place like you, and I can’t be draggin’ her down.” 

Pony falls quiet. You ain’t dragging anyone down, he wants to say. So go on that date, you wuss, and let me know how it goes. Just a few years ago, Pony would have said exactly that and without any hesitation. But now, even though the sky is the same shade of dark, Socs just as mean, and everything mostly the way it used to be, Pony can’t bring himself to say it. Because what has he been doing the last couple months aside from seeing everything in Tulsa as a burden, just as Soda said? If he’d been born anywhere else, Pony would think, these college essays would be easier to write. If he had any other story to tell besides being a hood and nothing more than a hood, shitty sentences from his half-baked first drafts wouldn’t echo in his ears every time he tried to sleep.

Nevertheless, if Soda were to stare at Pony dead in the eyes right now and ask him to stay, to not go to college…Pony would do it. Just for him. But Soda would never do that—wouldn’t even think to, because Soda is nothing if not damn selfless. 

An icy sickness burrows into Pony’s stomach. The whole world is moving on without Soda, he realizes. Pony is part of that world. So, too, is this Marianne. And Soda is just letting it all happen.

“A couple dates wouldn’t hurt, even if she has to go eventually,” Pony mumbles. 

“She deserves something that will last,” Soda responds. You deserve something that will last, Pony thinks, but that also goes unsaid.

The two spend the rest of the drive in silence, but it’s not the comfortable sort they used to be so familiar with. 

-

“Say, Two-Bit, what brings you joy?” Ponyboy’s breaths emerge as small puffs in the dawning dew, reminiscent of the cigarettes he can no longer smoke. Not after everything that happened. 

Unlike Pony, Two-Bit has no such qualms. A cancer stick is wedged firmly in between his index and middle fingers. “Jesus, take me out to dinner before asking deep questions like that.”

“I’m serious.” Pony says. “I need ideas for my essays.”

“It’s always you and that essay these days.”

“Essays, Two-Bit. There’s multiple.”

“Alright, let’s see…” He taps his chin in mock contemplation. “My family for sure, and the whole gang.”

“...I was thinking more like an action or hobby.”

“Oh, you shoulda’ said that sooner!” He perks up. “Shopliftin’, duh.”

“Why do I even bother asking?” Pony groans, standing up. It’s getting too cold out on the porch, and he’s been losing feeling in his toes.

“Hold your horses, horseboy! Don’t go abandonin’ me so soon,” Two-Bit says. “Shopliftin’  might be my only hobby, but you got plenty more than me, don’t cha?”

“If I did, I would already know what to write by now.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Two-Bit raises his hands, ticking a finger off for each thing he lists. “You like to read those books of yours, watch the sunset, and don’t you think I didn’t hear you hummin’ The Beatles when you were hangin’ up the laundry on Monday.”

Pony turns away, his face reddening. “Weren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Nah, Rodney covered for me.” Two-Bit shrugs. “Couldn’t be missing out on the famous Ponyboy Curtis’s private concert now, could I?”

“Keep up your blabbering and I’m going to punch the livin’ daylights outta you,” Ponyboy threatens, but his words have no genuine heat. “Besides, none of those things are real hobbies. They’re just…”

“Things you like to do when you’re free? Man, that kinda sounds like a hobby to me.”

“But they’re still—still not unique! Anyone can read a book and, hell, you hum when you drive, too!” Pony’s fists clench and unclench, unclench and clench. “These colleges are searching for someone that stands out, but I’m just any darn chip off another boring block.”

“Maybe you really ‘ought to say shopliftin’, then,” Two-Bit jokes. He stands up, dusting bits of ash off his worn jeans.

“All those socs at school probably know exactly what to write,” Pony says, slumping down. His anger leaves as quickly as it came, but a worse, paralyzing exhaustion takes its place. “They’re gonna say they ride unicycles while baking cupcakes or play the flute in some renowned symphonic orchestra.”

“I bet no Soc can write about the sunset and Gone With the Wind and humming the same way as you, though.” He pats Pony’s head once, twice. He has to reach a little–Pony’s almost taller than him, at this point. “And trust me, I might hum, but I ain’t do it as bad as you.” 

“As..as bad as me?” Pony repeats slowly. He blinks even slower, as if the words were still processing in his head. “You better watch out, Mathews–” 

-during the pouring rain scene w/ the choreographed fight some of the actors were making quiet hitting sound effects (pew boom pow) as they pretended to fight each other LMAO it was sending me

-u can hear melody rose SUPER well when she sings…her voice just stands out sm and it’s amazing

-before the rumble darry & paul have their whole thing and darry goes “skin fight? skin fights are my favorite kind of fight” or smthing along those lines like hmm….

-some of the water kept on dripping from the ceiling onto the stage even after the rumble was over, and it happened to drip RIGHT ON TOP of johnny as he was. lying on a hospital bed. dying. u can see him flinching veeery slightly in the beginning when it was dripping on him and then he just got used to it HELP

ponyboy (pre trauma edition)

i can’t believe the outsiders got me out of art block but anyway