Twenty-Four Hours Later
Title: Twenty-Four Hours Later (Horrid title, I know. But I just couldn't think of one.)
Genre: You could call it angst.
Rating: PG, for recollection of character death.
Main Characters: Sodapop
Pairings: Um, I guess it could be Pony/Soda (friendship-wise).
Spoilers: If you haven't read the book, why are you even here? *shrugs* Book-spoilers, w/e.
Warnings: Um. Recollection of death, is all, as mentioned in the rating.
Short Summary: Without Ponyboy, I don't think I'd be half the person I am today. Even though if you asked I'd tell you Steve was my best friend, it really is Ponyboy...

I sat in the chair beside my bed, holding Pony's sweating hand, watching the moon rising into the dark sky through the open window. The street was quiet, which was a new thing. Usually, it was filled with noises of fights and drunk greasers, but tonight was different. Tonight was the night which was set for greiving.

It had been only twenty-four hours since Darry, Two-Bit, Steve, Ponyboy and I had been running down the street, screaming at the cops. There stood Dally, gun in hand, just asking to be shot. My heart was racing, and not because I was running. I was afraid for him.

Last night had been the loudest, slowest night of all. Ponyboy came home, crying, covered in cuts and bruises from the rumble. That had been the only silent time all night - just before he told us that Johnny had died. I felt the tears well up in my eyes, my stomach sunk down into my toes, and I couldn't have spoken if I wanted. I choked up, unable to speak.

Now, Ponyboy lay in our bed. He had slept through the day, his cuts and scrapes not yet tended to. I wanted him to wake up, just so I could know he was okay.

For no reason at all, my grip on his hand became tighter. I just wanted him to know that he meant the world to me, and that no matter how he acted, Darry felt the same way. Without Ponyboy, I don't think I'd be half the person I am today. Even though if you asked I'd tell you Steve was my best friend, it really is Ponyboy - Pony's a lot more understanding than Steve, and tends to take feelings to deeper consideration.

Pony then opened his eyes and looked at me. "Soda," he said groggily. "Is somebody sick."

I gave him a sympathetic look. "Yeah, Pony, somebody's sick."

"Who?" he asked, closing his eyes.

I felt a cool tear fall down my cheek. "You are."