Chapter Text
When Darrel Curtis was twelve years old, he made his little brother cry.
Well, no. He made Sodapop cry, which was different than Ponyboy. Darry made Pony cry every day—it almost became a hobby, with how easy Pony was to rile. Darry poked Pony in the ribs, and Pony bellowed with rage. Darry wasn't quick enough serving Pony's peas at dinner, and Pony squawked indignantly. Darry stuck his tongue out at Pony, and Pony dissolved into sobs. Sometimes, simply looking at the six-year-old a second too long was enough to send Pony rushing to tattle.
Soda was different. They were close enough in age to be buddies, and Soda never got on Darry's nerves the way Pony did. Soda was eight, tough as a firecracker and twice as loud, scrawny, scabby-kneed. Soda’s joy was all-consuming; he burned with it, a ball of fire in the cosmos of Darry's life.
But Soda never did anything half-way. When he was happy, you forgot how to feel anything else. And Soda was happy all the time. But oh, when Soda cried, you'd think the entire world cried with him, like every drop of sorrow to ever exist was stuffed inside his tiny body, desperate for escape.
"He's got a big heart," Darry's father had once explained, one hand on Darry's head while the other held a weeping Soda close. "Big as a horse's heart, that's our Sodapop. He feels things different than we do."
Darry never cried at all, and on the rare occasions when he couldn't help it (like the time he busted his arm), he scrubbed away the tears before anyone saw. But Soda bawled without shame. He cried over things Darry couldn't fathom caring about, like books he struggled reading and roadkill he felt sorry for, worms drying on the sidewalk and dogs in the pound. Darry didn't understand, and it scared him to death. Soda wasn't meant for sadness, the way daisies weren't meant to be ugly. Darry wanted to fight the things that hurt Soda until smiles were all his little brother knew.
Their mother told stories about when Soda was a baby, and Darry would sit patiently beside his crib, waiting to offer comfort if he needed it. "You were only four, but already a little soldier," she said. "But he never cried when his big brother was close."
Those words made Darry's heart swell. The title “big brother” rested on his shoulders like a knighting, a benediction. He loved both his brothers—even if Ponyboy was small, and whiny, and quick to tattle. But Soda, golden haired and silver-tongued, with laughter that bubbled up from his soul and sprouted wings—Darry loved Soda more than he loved anything in the world, more than superman or his friends, more than football, more than his parents.
Soda might not be a baby anymore, but Darry was still the little soldier, waiting to comfort him when he cried.
—
It happened on a Saturday afternoon, the kind where heat sticks to your skin and hides in your throat. One of the rare days when Darry's school friends weren't vacationing in the alps, or playing golf with their dads, or whatever snobby activity rich kids did in the summer. They invited him to the park. He wasn't from their neighborhood, but in football, no one cared whether you had fancy store-bought pants or patches in your jeans. No matter which side of the tracks you were from, everyone threw the same.
Darry's friends fought over sides. They all wanted to be on his team, and that made him feel good inside, a bubble of warmth nestled in his chest. Eventually teams were picked—he captained one, and Charles the other—lines were drawn, places taken. They were about to start when a shout cut through the summer heat.
Soda raced across the grass, gap-toothed and smiling. "Shoot," he wheezed, skidding to a stop. "Almost thought you started without me!"
Darry grinned. Soda had been playing with Ponyboy when he left, so Darry slipped out quietly, afraid Pony would want to tag along. But he'd hoped Soda would catch up. The teams were uneven, and they needed another boy. While Soda wasn't the strongest, he was good in a pinch.
Darry turned to introduce Soda to his friends, only for the words to die on his tongue when he was met by a chorus of groans.
"Aw, c'mon Curtis, who invited the kid?"
"Yeah, he's too little to play."
"He'll slow us down."
”He stinks of grease.”
Soda's gaze flit from Darry, to the group of boys, then back to Darry again, brow wrinkling. Unlike Darry, who'd shot up quicker than a weed, Soda hadn't started growing yet. But he was tough, and quick on his feet, and capable of taking a hefty wallop without sniveling. Unlike Pony (still a baby, in Darry's eyes), Soda never slowed Darry down.
But the other boys didn't know that. They saw a tow-headed little kid, dirt on his face and holes in his t-shirt, grinning like he owned the world. Their irritation bled out and pooled at Darry's feet, stinking in the sultry air. They'd come to play football with Darry, not pal around with some snot-nosed little brother.
Soda scuffed the dirt. Darry looked at his brother—at the stupid, dopey grin still stretched across his face—and heat crept up his neck. The collective weight of his friends' stares burned through his skin, razor sharp needles of judgment. The patches on his jeans chafed. The holes in his shoes itched. He'd never cared before. Now, their differences felt like the only important thing in the world.
If the ground opened up and swallowed Darry whole, he would thank it, and ask why it had taken so long.
Then, Charles stepped forward, patient and amused, like he and Darry were the only ones to know the punchline of a joke. "It's okay," he said, clapping Darry on the shoulder. "I get it, man. My little brother's just as annoying."
"Yeah," Darry muttered, his face burning. "Annoying."
The word festered between them. Soda's grin faltered. "Dar?"
"Go home, Soda."
Soda picked at the hem of his shirt. "I thought—"
"We don't want to play with you," Darry snapped. "Don't be such a baby!"
He'd said those words to Ponyboy a thousand times, and it always ended the same: an enraged squawk— "I'm telling mom!" and Darry desperately apologizing before a gleeful Pony trotted off to tattle. Ponyboy was six, but he had a mind of his own and a mouth to match. Darry and Ponyboy fought like it was the only sport they were good at.
Not Soda. Gentle, sensitive Soda flinched at the harsh words. He took a step away from Darry, scanning the group of hostile faces. He blinked quickly. His eyelashes were wet.
"Sorry," he said, ever soft, before turning and bolting.
Darry's friends laughed.
"Close call," Charles said, slinging an arm around Darry's shoulders. "Sometimes you just gotta be tough with 'em, you know?"
Darry thought he might be sick. "I made him cry," he said. The words echoed hollowly in his ears, an anthem. He made Soda cry.
Charles shrugged. "So? I make my siblings cry all the time.”
Maybe he was right. Darry and Soda were brothers, after all, and no strangers to squabbling. Petty arguments over who sat where at the dinner table, borrowed comics, sports teams, the last slice of cake and who would do dishes. Darry had an explosive temper, and Soda was like a raincoat—he laughed in the face of Darry's anger, the arguments rolling right off his back. They fought, and sometimes they brawled, and sometimes their father had to force them apart before they broke something.
Then one would accidentally make the other laugh, and suddenly, they were watching cartoons together like nothing ever happened.
This was different. Darry had said those things on purpose. Shame had filled his mouth, poison on his tongue, dripping into his voice, his words. In that moment, he wanted to hurt Soda. He wanted to impress his friends. In the end, punching Soda in the face would have had the same effect.
Suddenly Darry was running, the boys' surprised cries at his back, while the memory of Soda’s hurt hung suspended before his eyes.
He’d made Soda cry. Soda wasn’t supposed to cry when his big brother was close.
—
When Darry skidded through the front gate, his father was waiting for him on the porch.
"Darrel," he said, kindly as sweet tea, "Stop a minute, let's chat."
Darry paused. "Did you see Soda?"
"Yup."
His stomach clenched: upsetting Soda was bad enough, but now he was gonna get in trouble for it. But when his dad sat on the top step and patted the space beside him, he didn't look mad. He had that easy smile, the one Soda inherited. Darry slumped down and twisted his hands together in his lap. Dad didn't say anything for a few moments, choosing instead to let the silence ferment between them. He had a way of doing that—going silent, all smiles and long stares, until yelling seemed easier to bear than the quiet disappointment. Darry squirmed.
Finally, Mr. Curtis broke the tension. "Your brother was crying, just now. Blew right through the house and into his room. Won't come out."
Darry hugged his knees to his chest. "Did he say what about?"
"Nope. I thought maybe you knew."
He didn't ask, but the question loomed between them. Darry kicked at the ground. He hoped he did get in trouble. He probably deserved it. "I told him to get lost."
"Huh. I thought you invited him to play."
"I did, but—"A million excuses cycled through his head—Soda's too young, or Soda was being a brat, or, or, or—but his dad looked at him, and Darry's heart deflated. The shame still simmered on his tongue, hot and painful. He was his father's son; he wouldn't lie.
"I wanted to impress the guys."
Dad hummed. "Did it work?"
"I— yeah. I think so."
Staring at the sky, not looking at Darry, Mr. Curtis still didn't seem upset. Only thoughtful, the way Pony got sometimes, like a million different tunes were playing in his head, overlapping. "D'you know, Darry, your brother loves you more than anything in the world?"
Darry hesitated. "Yeah?"
"He won't say it—probably doesn't know it himself—but if you look real close, you'll see. The way he talks about you, the way he tries to ride his bike like you, and wear the same clothes. His obsession with superman and all the comics you read." Dad nudged Darry with his shoulder. "You're his hero, Dar. He looks up to you."
The words plunged like rocks to the bottom of his stomach, weighing him down from the inside. Darry was just a kid. A kid who yelled too much and made stupid friends and said mean things. Responsibility was a cold weight. He didn’t want to carry it.
Dad poked him in the ribs. "What's up?"
"It's just—" he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, the words clumsy in his mouth. "Sometimes it's hard being the oldest. Feel like I gotta be perfect."
His dad laughed. "You ain't superman, kid. You're gonna fail those boys more times than you can count. That's when you gotta stand up straight and take responsibility." He clapped Darry on the shoulder, squeezing gently, and suddenly his voice was oh so soft, sinking right through Darry's heart. "Perfection ain’t what makes a man, Dar—it’s holding yourself to your mess-ups, and making 'em right."
Darry nodded. He didn't understand, not really, but maybe one day, when he was old and grown, maybe he would. Maybe then he'd be the man his father expected of him. Maybe then, he'd be the brother Soda and Pony deserved.
He was glad for his parents. If it were just him on his own, he'd probably screw everything up.
Dad squeezed his shoulder again. "You ready to go in there and make it right?"
"Yeah," Darry said. He stood, spine straight, shoulders back. "Yeah, I think I am."
—
Soda was in his room, sitting on the bed. Not doing anything, just sitting, fingers tapping idly against his knees. It made an uncanny picture, Soda so still, displaced from his usual enthusiasm.
His face was flushed, eyelashes wet. When the door creaked open, he swallowed hard.
"Hey," Darry said, pressing his face to the crack
Soda smiled, because of course he did, but his eyes didn't match his mouth. "Hey."
"Sorry. For earlier."
"S'okay," Soda said, wiping his nose. "I shouldn't ha" butted in."
Darry pushed the door open further. "Those guys were jerks."
Soda shrugged. His eyes were fixed to his socked feet—stripes on the left, polka-dots on the right. He didn't look up.
Darry stepped all the way into the room, shutting the door firmly. "I was a jerk"
"Nah," said Soda, "you was just giving it straight."
"I was giving it mean."
"Mean is still straight."
With a sigh, Darry threw himself on the bed. Soda shuffled to make space, but even so, they were pressed together, shoulder to hip, Darry on his back, Soda hunched over with his arms around his knees. Sometimes they had sleepovers in this bed and smuggled a flashlight under the covers to read superman. Soda always giggled too much and got them caught, but Darry never minded. Rather get yelled at by his mom than not hear Soda's laughter burning up the dark.
Darry poked him. "You wanna go down to the stables?"
"What about your friends?"
"I'd rather play with you."
Soda finally looked up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
So they went to the stables, where Soda gazed starry-eyed at the horses, chattering a nonsensical stream of words in Darry's direction, and just like that, he'd already forgotten the hurt of the morning. Forgiveness came as naturally to Sodapop as breathing.
Darry wasn't so quick to move on. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the tear tracks on Soda's cheeks, the way his voice went quiet and bottom lip trembled. "Don't be a baby." The venom of those words roiled in his gut, the desire to scream, to hurt. The tears caught in Soda's eyelashes, this beautiful baby brother who was kinder than Darry could ever hope to be. The sickening knowledge: I hurt him on purpose.
"Hey, buddy," he said, bumping Soda's shoulder and interrupting the stream of horse facts. "You're pretty alright, y'know."
Soda looked up at him—wide-eyed, ever trusting, too forgiving, like Darry hung the moon and stars. He had too much love stuffed into his chest, spilling out over his ribs and splitting him at the seams. Soda forgave like it was the only reason he existed; Soda forgave like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
Without warning, he flung sunburnt arms around Darry's waist. "I love you more than anyone in the world, Dar! You’re so cool."
Right there, surrounded by hay and the stink of horses, with Soda's face smashed against his shoulder, Darry made a promise to himself:
Darrel Curtis would never make his little brother cry. Not Sodapop, not again. Never, ever again
And if it was wishful thinking, making a promise he couldn't keep, then at least he could try, couldn't he? And maybe somehow, the trying would become doing, and maybe, maybe, maybe, he'd succeed. Maybe his father was wrong. Maybe he could be superman, if only in this way, if only to Sodapop.
(And right there, surrounded by hay and the stink of horses, with Soda's face smashed against his shoulder, Darry Curtis lied to himself for the very first time.)