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“His father was always beating him up, and his mother ignored him, except when she was hacked off at something, and then you could hear her yelling at him clear down at our house… If it hadn’t been for the gang, Johnny would never have known what love and affection are.” The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton.
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The janky alarm clock on his bedside table read 3:47 am when Darry finally dared to look at it.
Two more hours, he told himself. Just try to sleep for two more hours.
This is what he told himself at 3:47 am, but at 2:00 am, it was just four more. At 1:00, it was just five. At midnight, it was just six. He didn’t know how many more hours he could take of this. He didn’t know how many more nights he could take of this.
He had already exhausted all his options. Counting metaphorical sheep, drinking a warm glass of milk, breathing exercises. He had even tried reading an actual book and not the morning paper, something he hadn’t done since high school.
When he had asked Ponyboy if he could borrow something from one of the piles of literature stacked up in his and Soda’s bedroom, Pony looked at Darry like he had told him he was going to quit roofing and become a florist. Nevertheless, Pony agreed and Darry went searching for the most boring one he could find, landing on one about the history of key making.
Pony had huffed out a laugh at his brother's peculiar choice. “What, you gonna use that to stop the wobble in the kitchen table?”
“Might as well. Why the hell do you want to know about makin’ keys?”
“It’s interesting,” Pony uttered, and Darry shook his head with a smile. How this boy could find enjoyment in such a dull thing, he would never know.
Now, the book was discarded on the floor next to his work clothes and the pillow he had thrown at his wall in fatigued frustration just a few minutes earlier. He sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist, and, once again, spared a glance toward the clock.
3:48 am.
Great.
He lolled his head back, feeling it thunk against the headboard. His eyes roamed the ceiling of his bedroom.
After a moment, he muttered into the darkness, “Fuck this,” and swung his legs out of the bed, slipping on a random zip-up hoodie that was probably Soda’s, if the way it hugged his shoulders just a bit too tight was anything to go by.
The floorboards creaked as he made his way down the hall, a piercing sound in the quiet of the night, and he paused in front of Soda and Ponyboy’s room to peek in through the gap in their door.
Soda’s arm was resting protectively across Ponyboy’s chest and his head was buried in the pillow. Beside him, Pony lay sprawled out on his back, his limbs outstretched and he took up more of the bed than could be comfortable for Soda. Soda never complained though.
Darry gently closed the door, his chest filling with a content fondness he only ever felt around his brothers. Continuing down the hallway, he zipped up his sweatshirt, catching a glimpse of the hood’s drawstring. Chewed up - definitely Soda’s, then.
The sound of pattering rain echoed through the house as he stopped in front of the kitchen sink, grabbing a glass and filling it halfway.
Darry shuffled his feet so he could lean back against the counter. He took a deep breath, sliding his free hand across his face and glancing out into the living room.
Everyone knew that the Curtis household was always open. There wasn’t a night where that couch wouldn't be occupied by an angered Steve who had gotten into it with his dad, or a bruised Dally who was too hurt to make it to his place at Buck’s, or even a sleeping Two-Bit who was just there because he wanted to be there. But Darry could recognize that jean jacket anywhere, and his eyebrows wrinkled in concern.
“Johnny?”
The kid never slept at the Curtis’. Too worried about being a burden. Scared to ask for help and scared to accept it.
A head popped up from the couch.
“Darry?” The voice trembled just slightly, and Darry quickly put his cup down and walked toward it. “I didn’t mean to- to wake you up or nothin’. It’s raining and I just- I didn’t want to sleep in the lot. I can- I’ll go. I’ll go, I’m sorry.”
Johnny made a move to get up, but Darry held out his hands like he was calming a spooked animal. Maybe he was. “You don’t have to go nowhere, Johnny, it’s all good. The couch is always open, you know that.”
Johnny nodded his head, softly at first, then fraught. Darry nodded along with him and smiled. “Good, good. Let- lemme just turn this thing on.”
They all knew what went on in Johnny’s house. Perhaps Darry was naive to think that when he turned on the lamp beside the couch, he would just find bags under Johnny’s dark eyes and damp, ruffled hair from the storm outside. But the idea that Johnny would come to this house and lay on this couch just as shelter from the rain was wishful thinking. He slept in the lot even when it rained, they all knew that too.
“Ah shit, kid,” Darry sighed, kneeling down and bringing his hand up to raise Johnny’s chin gently. The boy in question ran his tongue over his split lip nervously.
“Is it bad?”
“Uh-” Darry inhaled uneasily, trying his best to hide the rage that was threatening to bubble over.
It wasn’t good. His left eye had a mean shiner and the bruise traveled down his face, covering his jawline like ivy - most likely the outcome of a few solid punches in succession. The front of his shirt was stained red, as were the sleeves of his jacket which he had apparently used to calm his bleeding nose. A laceration split the skin of his temple and ended right up by his hairline. Darry furrowed his eyebrows and moved his fingers up to inspect it, letting up when he heard a pained hiss.
“He slammed my head on the kitchen table,” Johnny filled in, lifting his head out of Darry’s grasp and looking anywhere but at the concerned friend in front of him. “So? Is it bad?”
Darry swallowed, then leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “It-... you look tuff.”
That earned a laugh from Johnny - a low, dejected, self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, well I don’t feel it.”
“I-” Darry stood up from the floor, wringing his hands together. “I’m gonna go get some stuff. Do… do you want Pony?”
Johnny was quiet for a moment, his eyes skitting around the room. “He asleep?”
“Yeah,” Darry started, and Johnny was already shaking his head. “But he wouldn’t mind being woken up. Actually, he’d probably be mad at me if I didn’t wake him up for- somethin’ like this.”
Still, Johnny shook his head in disagreement. “No, he needs sleep. God knows the last time he had a decent night’s rest. He can be mad at me in the morning.”
Disconsolate, Darry started toward the bathroom, calling out, “Alright. I’ll be back in a minute, just stay there,” as he went.
The floorboards still creaked as he walked, but no longer was he worried about the noise. He made it to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, grabbing onto the porcelain sink with shaking hands.
Why did he go back? Why did he always go back?
Johnny had spent his whole life believing that he was unlovable. He spent his entire life with a drunk for a father and a mother who regretted bringing him into this world, and no matter what he did - how kind he was, how thoughtful, how caring, how quiet - they would never love him. Not like Darry’s ma and pa had loved him and his brothers. Not like a parent should love their child.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. Out of everyone in the world, Johnny Cade was the most deserving of love, and care, and family. He would always yearn for them - it never mattered what they did or how far they went, Johnny would always love them despite it.
Darry slammed his hands against the sink.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, taking a deep breath and turning on the faucet. Cupping his hands under the flow, he leaned down over the sink and splashed his face.
“Okay…” He murmured as he grabbed the hem of Soda’s sweatshirt, bringing it up and wiping away the water and the anger. “Okay.”
...
The wooden legs of the coffee table screeched as Darry pushed it with his foot, moving it closer to the couch that Johnny sat curled up on.
“Everythin’ okay?” He heard the boy ask, and he looked over at him with furrowed eyebrows as he set the supplies he had gathered down.
“Hm?”
“I heard a thud in the bathroom. You good?”
Darry inhaled sharply, nodding his head and maneuvering to sit on the table. “Yeah, just dropped something. Lemme see this…”
Johnny’s chin was taken into Darry’s grasp once again, and he let the older boy turn his head to put the cut that covered his temple on full display. A damp hand towel was dabbed over the wound, then moved down to wipe over the trail of blood that had dried under his nose.
It had stopped raining outside, the tapping sound of raindrops on the roof being replaced by the crickets who were always extra rowdy after a storm. Their chirping graciously filled the silence that felt deafening. Darry unwrapped a bandaid.
“Johnny, I really want you to know…” he said, positioning the bandage. Johnny’s eyes flicked toward him. “You’ve gotta know that there will never be a time when you aren’t welcome here.”
Darry sat back, placing his hands on his knees and looking at Johnny with the most sincere expression he could muster. In the warm light of the lamp, he could see Johnny’s eyes well up with tears.
With a sniff, the other looked away. Darry was sure he would get a headache with the way he was clenching his teeth.
After a moment - a long, painful moment - Johnny asked brokenly, in such a quiet whisper that Darry almost didn’t catch it, “Why don’t they love me?”
Darry wracked his brain for an answer, but truly, there wasn’t one. What was he supposed to say? Johnny Cade, your parents don’t love you because they are cruel and selfish and unfair and-
But he knew Johnny wouldn’t want to hear that. So, really, what was he supposed to say?
“I don’t know.”
Darry matched Johnny’s almost silent tone, and he swallowed against the lump that grew in his throat.
“I don’t know how anyone couldn’t love you.”
His parents had pushed and pulled and hit and screamed until all that was left of their son was a fragile shell of what he could be. Even so, Darry could see it in his eyes - the potential to be something great hidden behind a grief that permanently kept him company. That grief, manifesting itself now in the tears that he finally let fall.
With a pained sigh, Darry moved to sit next to Johnny on the couch, and the kid dropped his head on Darry’s shoulder.
Johnny always reminded him of Ponyboy. Young, sweet, too good to be a Greaser. He felt a shaky breath ghost against his collarbone and silent tears soak into his shirt.
“I’ve got ya,” Darry breathed out, wrapping his arm around Johnny’s shoulders and letting him curl against him.
It wasn’t fair. Johnny deserved more than to be stuck between the two forces he had the misfortune to call his parents. But he was Darry’s brother, a Curtis, a Greaser - and they stuck together. When Johnny needed to escape from his parents, he had his brothers .
Darry let his own head rest against Johnny’s hair.
“I’ve got ya.”