The hospital waiting lounge was quiet in that strange, hollow way only hospitals could manage—white walls, the faint buzz of a fluorescent light above, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. Ponyboy sat slouched in one of the stiff chairs, his elbows on his knees, fumbling absently with a cigarette. His fingers worked almost out of habit, rolling it between his palms before striking a match and cupping the flame. He drew in the smoke, slow and shaky, watching the thin trail curl upward like it was the only thing in the world moving.

His mind wasn’t really on the cigarette, though. His thoughts drifted in messy circles—Johnny laid up, Dally being himself even when half broken, the fire, the kids, all of it. He hadn’t felt like a kid himself in a long time. Not since the church went up in flames. His clothes still smelled like it, smoke clinging stubbornly no matter how much he tried to brush it off. His hair—uneven, sharp-edged, bleached blond—wasn’t his own reflection anymore. He looked older in the glass windows he’d passed, but younger too, somehow. Like he had been aged and stripped down in the same breath.

The sudden ding of the elevator startled him. Sharp, cutting through the silence like it wasn’t supposed to. Out of instinct, his head turned. He didn’t expect anything, not really, just a nurse or maybe a visitor. But what stepped out nearly stopped his heart.

Darry. Sodapop.

Ponyboy froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips, his breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t believe.

They looked different, too, though maybe it was just the shock of seeing them here, in this place, at this time. Darry carried himself like he always did—strong shoulders, jaw set like stone—but his eyes looked hollowed out, ringed with worry and exhaustion. Sodapop was at his side, his restless energy muted, though his expression carried something softer, something raw.

The sight of them all at once—his family, the pieces of home he’d been aching for without admitting it—hit Ponyboy like a fist to the chest. He dropped the cigarette into the ashtray, crushing it out before it even finished burning. His legs felt weak as he pushed himself up from the chair, like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore, and he started forward.

Sodapop’s eyes found him first. For the briefest second, there was hesitation—the bleached hair, the soot-stained clothes, the hollowed face. But then, like the sun breaking through clouds, recognition lit him up. His lips parted in a sharp inhale, his whole body moving before his mind probably even caught up.

“Ponyboy,” Sodapop breathed, and the word carried a thousand feelings in it—relief, joy, fear, love.

Darry turned his head sharply at Sodapop’s voice, his gaze following, and when his eyes landed on Ponyboy, the world seemed to still. His jaw clenched, his chest rising with a sharp breath. Darry didn’t move at first—he was locked in place, staring at the kid brother he thought he’d lost. And Ponyboy felt it—the weight of Darry’s worry, the cracks in that hard exterior he always put up.

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his voice barely working. “Darry… Soda…” It came out broken, uneven, like he hadn’t used it in forever.

Sodapop didn’t wait another second. He bolted across the space, his footsteps quick, almost desperate, and before Ponyboy could blink Sodapop’s arms were around him—tight, crushing, trembling. The kind of hug that said I thought I lost you. Sodapop buried his face in Ponyboy’s shoulder, laughing and crying all at once, his words tumbling out. “Oh god, Ponyboy, you’re okay—you’re here, you’re—”

Ponyboy clung back, his throat burning, everything in him unraveling at once. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this—his brother’s arms around him, that sense of home.

And then Darry was there. He hadn’t rushed like Sodapop—he was slower, more deliberate, but the moment he closed the gap, his hand was on Ponyboy’s shoulder, gripping hard, grounding. His voice was low, rough, strained like it had been held in too long. “Ponyboy…”