13

Ponyboy gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, knuckles white, the mirror fogging slightly from his breath. His heart was pounding so hard it echoed in his teeth.

There it was.

Plain as day.

Red and obvious, blooming just under his jaw like a bruise from a secret too big to carry.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

His fingers hovered over it, as if he could wipe it away, rub it out, do something—but it only made the skin angrier. More obvious. More real.

“Pony?” Soda’s voice called again, closer now. “You good?”

“I’m fine!” he called back—too fast. Too sharp.

A pause.

“…you’re not bleeding, are you?”

“No! Just—uh—just a pimple. I’m fine!”

Pimple? Really?

Pony squeezed his eyes shut, pulse racing. His mind scrambled through options, each worse than the last. He could try to cover it—makeup? He didn’t have any. Borrow one of Sandy’s old scarves from the closet? Too obvious. Say he scratched it in his sleep? Fell? Got hit?

None of them would hold.

Not with Soda. Not with that look Soda had given him.

He turned the water on and splashed his face just to do something.

When he looked up, the mark was still there.

Stupid. So stupid. He hadn’t even felt it. Too caught up in everything else—Steve’s hands, his mouth, his voice, the stars, the warmth of it all. He hadn’t thought about consequences. Not after I love you. Not after falling asleep against Steve’s chest like he didn’t live in a world that could tear them apart.

“Pony?” Soda knocked gently now. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” he croaked, his throat too dry. “Just—gimme a second.”

The mirror felt like it was judging him. So did the light.

He stared at himself—skin flushed, hair still messy from the night, neck painted in a memory he hadn’t even known he was wearing.

His stomach twisted.

He needed a lie. Something clean. Something fast.

But his nerves were fraying with every second.

And the only thing he could think, over and over, was:

I should’ve gone home. I should’ve left when I had the chance.

-

His chest heaved like he was drowning in air, the back of his throat tight with every breath. His fingers trembled against the porcelain. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to keep it together.

But the pressure had been building for too long.

Too many lies. Too many risks. Too many stolen hours that felt too good to survive daylight.

And now it was crashing in all at once.

The sob broke out before he could stop it. Just one, sharp and gutted, echoing off the tile.

He covered his mouth again—hard—but another followed. Then another.

The tears came fast. Hot. Silent at first, then not.

Outside the door, Soda froze.

“…Pony?” His voice changed—soft now, cautious. “Hey, what’s going on in there?”

Pony couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t lie anymore.

He slid to the floor, back against the door, hands in his hair. The sobs shook his chest like they’d been waiting there all week.

He didn’t know how to fix this. How to cover it. How to go backward.

He was unraveling.

And then—

The front door creaked open.

Heavy boots. A familiar rhythm.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice floated in from the living room, casual. “I left my damn jacket here again—”

He stopped.

Because Soda was standing in the hallway.

Stiff. Confused. Face blank, but not calm.

Steve took one look at him, then looked past him to the bathroom door.

He heard it—the water running, the soft sound of someone breaking on the other side.

Steve’s heart dropped.

Soda turned slightly toward him. “He’s not answering. He said he was fine, but—Steve, I think something’s wrong.”

Steve’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Because he knew what was wrong.

And he’d never heard Pony cry like that before.

Not like this.

Not because of him.

---

The bathroom floor was cold beneath him, but it didn’t ground him. Nothing did. The walls felt too close, the air too thin, and every sob that ripped through him made the world tilt just a little more off-center.

Outside the door, he heard voices.

First Soda—low, worried, pacing. Then Steve. Not panicked, but shaken. Their words blurred together, muffled through the door and Pony’s own heartbeat in his ears.

Then the footsteps got heavier.

Darry.

“Ponyboy.” The voice was sharp, too clear. “Open the door.”

Pony didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

“Pony—what’s going on?” Darry tried again. His tone wasn’t angry yet, just tight. Confused. “Talk to me.”

Still nothing.

Soda’s voice came next, softer, more desperate now. “Kid, please. Just say something.”

But there was nothing to say. There was no lie that would patch this up. No story that would make the bruise on his neck disappear or the look in Soda’s eyes un-see itself.

Ponyboy pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to force the tears back, but it only made him cry harder.

He’d ruined everything.

He hadn’t meant to.

He just wanted to feel something good. Something soft. Something his.

But now it was all slipping.

And all he wanted was to disappear.

Or better—go back. Go back to that night in the truck bed, under the stars, before the sun came up and tore everything open.

“Pony.” Steve’s voice now. Close. Quiet. Right outside the door. “It’s okay. I’m here. I promise.”

Pony flinched. Because it wasn’t okay. It would never be okay again.

“I messed everything up,” he choked out, voice barely audible.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Soda’s voice, sharper now: “Messed what up?”

Steve didn’t answer.

No one did.

And inside the bathroom, Ponyboy curled tighter into himself, back against the door, wishing the world would let him go for just a little while.