Work Text:
Curly’s never been the most emotionally available person in the world. He wasn’t raised that way. His father left him and his siblings the first chance that he got and his mama could hardly take care of herself, let alone three kids. That left Tim, the eldest, alone to help raise his baby siblings. Being raised by your older brother on the East side of Tulsa didn’t leave a lot of room for sympathy or empathy. That didn’t mean Curly was heartless though.
He knew he couldn’t be heartless when he ached so badly for Ponyboy. When he saw how much the younger greaser was struggling he knew he couldn’t be completely apathetic. He didn’t really know how to help, though.
It wasn’t like he could really talk to Pony and ask what was wrong. Well, he could, but that would be awkward for everyone involved. Curly knows Pony better than he knows himself (and vice versa) and he knows that Pony would shut down the conversation the moment he notices what the topic is. Pony’s been shutting down a lot of conversations as of late.
Curly guesses it’s because of the time of year. It’s almost Pony’s birthday, his sixteenth birthday. Any soc on the West side would be ecstatic about having their ‘sweet sixteen’ but Pony was distraught at the idea of turning sixteen. It’s not like Curly could blame him.
Johnny Cade, poor Johnny Cade, was only sixteen when he died. He was only sixteen when he had been forced to kill a kid only a little bit older than him and then had to go on the run. The kid had been living a shitty life before that, with parents who always ignored him except for when they were beating on him.
Curly could understand that Pony wouldn’t want to turn sixteen, because then he would be closer to seventeen, the age that his closest friend never got to see.
He knows that turning sixteen isn’t Pony’s only problem. The younger greaser still blames himself for the deaths of his friends, hell, he still blames himself for the death of his parents. No matter how many times Curly tries to talk some sense into him, Pony never relents on the self-hatred.
Which Curly could never understand. He can’t understand how Pony hates himself so much. They’ve never directly spoken about it, but it doesn’t take a magnifying glass to see all of the self esteem issues that the youngest Curtis has. It doesn’t take a medical degree to see that Pony doesn’t care what happens to himself.
Curly’s seen the scars that cover his body. That’s another thing they never talk about.
—-----
The Curtis house is, for some reason, always insanely cold. It could’ve also been the steadily dropping temperatures of the winter night, but whatever. Curly was freezing his ass off right now and Pony was hogging the blankets. Curly tried to pull the comforter off of Pony and closer to himself, but his grip was too strong and wouldn’t budge.
Curly sighed lightly, annoyed but not enough that he wanted to wake Pony up. He hardly got any sleep, it was a miracle that Pony was asleep at this moment. So instead of fighting for the blanket, Curly just moved closer to Pony, trying to get under the blanket or share some of Pony’s body heat.
He got as close as he could, so close that he thought if he moved anymore he would merge with Ponyboy. His right leg was in between both of Pony’s and at a slightly awkward angle. Curly grabbed Pony’s waist with his left hand and rested his right hand on Pony’s thigh. His shorts (because for some reason Pony had worn shorts to sleep in almost negative degree weather) had rolled up so Curly’s hand rested on the skin of his thigh.
Which would typically be smooth, maybe with some hair covering it like the rest of the boy’s leg, but for some reason his skin was raised. It was a feeling Curly was familiar with, having gotten cut by switchblades in enough fights to know what the scab feels like.
The only question was, why did Pony have cuts on his thigh? Carefully, Curly lifted the blanket so that he could see Pony’s thigh in the little light from the lamp that was left on when the two went to sleep.
There were scars, so many scars, covering Ponyboy’s thigh. There were old scars that had healed and turned pale over time, and angry, red lines that were raised and in the process of healing. They were all in precise lines. Intentional lines, Curly had realised as he stared at them.
He put the blanket back down, covering himself and Pony. It didn't matter anymore, he didn't sleep that night anyways.
—---
Curly had never told Pony that he’d seen the scars. Never even hinted at it. It was an unspoken rule between Curly and his mind that there were certain things he didn’t bring up. He didn’t bring up Pony’s parents or his late friends, he didn’t bring up the fact that Pony didn’t take care of himself, hardly eating or sleeping, and he didn’t talk about the scars.
He did try to help, though. Being a stellar thief from a young age had come in handy when he took Pony’s switch blade and any razor’s he could find. Pony didn’t ask him about it because that would be suspicious so Curly didn’t mention it either.
But it didn’t help. Pony was steadily getting worse. Curly has seen the little lines of blood on his clothes, he sees how skinny he is, the ever-present bags under his eyes, and how he goes through Aspirin like they’re breath mints.
Curly was worried, no, that wasn’t enough to describe it. He was fucking petrified. He was so scared that he was going to lose Pony. Being with Pony was one of the best parts of his life. Pony always saw the good in the little things, like sunsets and flowers. He enjoyed things that other people would call stupid, like reading and drawing. Pony was Curly’s light in the middle of a black hole, his escape at the end of a long tunnel. But now it seemed like Pony was stuck in the black hole with no way out. Not even Curly was enough to pull him back.
—--
“Hey, doll.” Curly called out as he opened the door to Pony’s bedroom. It used to be Pony and Soda’s, but Soda recently moved back into his old room.
“Shit, Curly!” Pony flared quickly so his back was facing the door and a blanket was covering his legs. That didn’t stop Curly from seeing what he was holding.
“Pony?” Curly shut the door as he took a step forward, his eyes not moving from the blood-freckled switchblade clutched in Pony’s hand. As he took another step, his eyeline moved down towards Pony’s left arm, which was dripping blood. A lot of fucking blood. It was like a twisted waterfall, instead of a beautiful blue shade running down, it was an angry red gushing down and staining his body.
“Curly, I, uhm. I’m sorry.” Pony’s pupils were dilated to the point that the black was taking over his green eyes. It was like he was high.
“Pone, what the fuck." He paused as he took in the sight, "Shit, that’s a lot of blood.” Curly was used to blood at this point, his own and others. He’s been in enough rumbles to be well acquainted with the sticky red substance. He never wanted to see this much of it though, especially not on Pony.
“It’s fine. It’s not that bad.” Pony was trying to console Curly like he was the one that needed to calm down. Curly’s eyes raked over Ponyboy’s body again, only now they stopped when he looked at the blanket. The thin white oversheet that Pony had hastily thrown over himself was now stained red. Lines and lines of maroon red were steadily stretching across the sheet.
“Pony. Show me.” He sat down next to Pony on the edge of the bed. His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was no room for arguments.
“No.” Pony all but whispered. His eyes were drooping and his speech was slurred, like it was hard for him to get it out.
“Baby, you have too. I need to see how bad it is. I’ll get your brothers if I have to. Please, doll.” Curly didn’t cry often, but this moment right now had him on the verge of tears. Seeing someone he deeply acred about in so much pain was truly his worst nightmare.
“Please what?” Pony took a bit to answer before he looked up at Curly. His eyes were still blown wide and he still looked pale as death.
“Show me, love.” Curly had never used this many pet names before. If the situation was different, he might be embarrassed but he was too focused on Pony to care. He looked back at Pony’s arm, realizing that he should try to stop the bleeding there if Pony wouldn’t show him his leg. He looked around for a second before giving up on finding a towel and took his shirt off. As he grabbed Pony’s arm both boys let out a wince. Pony’s was out of pain and Curly because he hated seeing Pony like this.
“Curly? What’s happenin’? Why are you red?” Pony looked from his arm to Curly then down to the blanket on him. “Why am I red?” His voice seemed to have genuine confusion in it, like he really didn’t know what was going on.
Curly didn’t answer him, deciding that Pony was too far gone to keep up an actual conversation. Instead, he muttered profanities as he realized what was happening. When Tim had a taught him first aid after Curly got into one to many fights, he had taught him the affects of blood loss.
It could cause confusion or slight memory issues. Pony has hurt himself so badly that he was experiencing side affects of intense blood loss. Fuck.
He continued to use his shirt to apply pressure to Ponyboy’s arm as he lifted the blanket to see the damage to his legs. He took a sharp inhale at the scene.
It was like a bear had gotten to Pony’s thighs. There were giant scratches across both of his upper thighs and smaller cuts surrounding them. As beads of blood started bubbling up, Curly registered that he fucked up. He ripped off the blanket, the sheet that was stemming the bleeding of Pony’s legs. He truly understood his mistake when Pony’s head fell to the side as he went unconscious.
“No, no, no shit! Shit!” Curly dropped the blanket back over Pony, pressing the fabric onto the open wounds. He tried to tie his shirt around Pony’s arm but he couldn’t get a good enough knot with all the blood that drenched it. He gave up and just laid it over his arm, trying to get most of the cuts covered. He looked around the room frantically, trying to find something that could help. It was then that he noticed the open pill bottle on the nightstand.
He grabbed the Aspirin bottle, picking it up easily with the absence of pills. The absence of pills. There were no pills in the bottle. This was a new bottle that Darry had bought yesterday. Pony wasn’t high, he was overdosing.
Curly ran out of Pony’s room and into the main living room. It was just his luck that every member of the Curtis gang was in the room.
“Curly, what’s wrong?” Darry had looked up when he walked into the room. He must be a sight to see, he thought as he realized that there were tears dripping down his face. And raised his hand up to run it through his hair, but he realised it was covered in Pony’s blood. He looked down and saw that both of his hands, up to his wrists, were covered in blood. He couldn’t contain it as he let out a sob. He didn’t know what to do as he walked backwards and hit the wall behind him.
“Curly?” Soda now asked, beginning to stand up from his position on the couch.
“Ponyboy, He, I, fuck!” Fuck!” Curly shook his wrists as he yelled out, trying to fling the blood off of himself. “He needs help, please. I tried, I’m sorry.” He muttered his apology as he slid down the wall.
Soda hurried now, running into Pony’s room. Curly could vaguely hear the boy yell something out, maybe a profanity, maybe asking for help. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was covered in blood that wasn’t his, and he needed it off.
He scratched at his wrists like that would work to peel off the dried blood that coated him. Curly picked under his fingernails, discarding the brown blood that had worked its way under there. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but it wasn’t long enough to get all of the blood off of him.