Chapter Text
“You can do more with a kind word and a prayer than with all the fists in the world.”
— St. Padre Pio
It was late.
The house was quiet, settled into that kind of hush that only came after the whole day had been wrung dry. The kind of quiet that held weight. Outside, the wind brushed its fingers through the elm trees out back, the leaves whispering soft things to the dark. The kitchen smelled faintly of old coffee and the apple pie Mrs. O'Riley had dropped off the day before. That sweetness lingered, curling under the doorframe, but it couldn't quite hide the scent of motor oil and sweat clinging to the man standing at the sink.
Darry Curtis hadn’t moved in five minutes.
He stood with his big hands braced on either side of the counter, his back bowed, a dish rag dangling from one clenched fist. The white tee shirt clung to his shoulders, soaked in places with sweat and dishwater, a smudge of grease darkening the hem. His jeans were worn thin at the knees, dirt dusting the cuffs. Even with his head bowed and face turned from view, he looked every bit the boy who’d had to become a man too soon.
Ponyboy hovered just outside the kitchen. Barefoot, pajama-clad, hair still damp from a bath, he watched the stiff set of Darry’s shoulders, the way his ribs moved slow and shallow under the thin cotton. The tired in him—Ponyboy could almost feel it from across the room. Not just in his body, but in the air around him. Like a heaviness had settled into Darry’s skin and made its home there.
Ponyboy didn’t speak.
He padded softly across the linoleum floor, the cool tile kissing his toes, and stepped up behind Darry like he might spook a bird. His hands reached out, slow, uncertain—but gentle. Always gentle. He slid his arms around Darry’s waist, not squeezing, just holding. His cheek came to rest between Darry’s shoulder blades, where the warmth radiated and the fabric of his shirt smelled like Ivory soap and sweat and sawdust from the roofing job he’d picked up last week.
Darry’s breath caught—just barely. Ponyboy felt it.
And then he stood on tiptoe and pressed a soft, trembling kiss to Darry’s temple.
“You’re doing good, Darry,” he whispered, the words feather-light, barely a breath. “I’m so proud of you.”
For a long moment, Darry didn’t move.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t lean into it—but he didn’t pull away, either. His eyes remained down, locked on the faucet that dripped once, then twice, the sound echoing like a metronome into the hush. His hands unclenched, the dish rag slipping to the floor unnoticed.
Something about Pony’s voice—small, tender, filled with something he couldn’t name—curled around his chest and held.
Later, after Ponyboy had fallen asleep on the couch with Great Expectations tented across his chest, and Soda had come home late from work, kicking off his boots and ruffling his kid brother’s hair without waking him…
Darry stood in the shower, forehead pressed to the cool tile.
The water ran hot.
Too hot, maybe—but he didn’t adjust it. Let it sting. Let it pound down his back and shoulders like rain against a roof, let it soak his hair and run in rivulets down his neck, his arms, his spine. His hands were splayed against the wall, fingers wide, as though holding himself upright with more will than strength.
And quietly, so quietly it could’ve been mistaken for the water, Darry began to cry.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind that shook your ribs or made you heave.
No—this was quieter. Deeper. The kind of crying that came from a place buried so far down, even he didn’t know it had been waiting there.
He stayed like that a long time.
And when the water finally ran cold, he still didn’t move.
But something—something in his chest felt just a little bit lighter. Like it had been seen.
And even then—
Even then—
He could still feel the ghost of that kiss on his temple.
Still hear Ponyboy’s voice, gentle and steady,
“I’m so proud of you.”
And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry it all alone.