Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength."

— St. Francis de Sales

The kitchen light was dim, flickering faintly against the pale linoleum floor, casting long shadows that stretched across the counters and curled around the corners like something alive. Outside, the wind sighed against the windows, brushing branches like fingers across the glass. Inside, Darry sat hunched over the table, his arms folded and his head buried in them.

He was still in his work shirt—creased, stained near the collar with sweat and sawdust. His back ached in that dull, familiar way, a deep throb that settled into his spine after too many hours hauling beams and standing too long in boots that should’ve been replaced last winter. His jaw was tight, locked without him meaning to. He hadn’t spoken much since he got home. Maybe not at all.

The table was cluttered. There were beads scattered across it—cheap plastic ones, mostly. Ponyboy’s, probably. Or Soda’s, back when he’d tried to make a necklace for a girl he liked. Darry couldn’t remember anymore. His brain felt like it had been left in the rain.

And then—light.

Not from the lamp overhead, but something gentler. Quieter.

He felt it before he registered it: a presence, then a hand.

Slender fingers brushed against the side of his face. Hesitant. Calloused in that specific way you get from holding pens too tightly or flipping too many pages too fast.

Not rough—just… familiar.

Darry stiffened instinctively, his shoulders squaring, the fight in his chest flickering to life before he even opened his eyes.

But when he looked up—he froze.

Ponyboy stood in front of him.

His little brother wasn’t saying anything. Just standing there in that quiet way of his, like a breeze sneaking in through a cracked window. His hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands, and his brown-green eyes glowed faintly in the low light—bright like wet leaves, tired like dusk.

He wasn’t blinking much. Just watching.

Just… there.

And Darry? He couldn’t move.

Ponyboy’s hand moved again, slow and cautious. He cupped Darry’s cheek, thumb brushing just beneath the deepening bruise on his cheekbone—earned two nights ago breaking up a fight between some kids behind the gas station.

Darry hadn’t thought much of it. Another knock. Another sore spot. But the way Ponyboy’s thumb traced the edge of it…

It made something stutter inside him.

His brother’s palm was warm. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just… there. Like it belonged.

Darry didn’t mean to lean into it. He really didn’t.

But the second his cheek settled into that small, steady hand, something in him dropped. Like a hook being unlatched.

He breathed in—and the air was Ponyboy.

The faint scent of ink and old paper clung to him, like the pages he was always falling asleep on. There was wind, too—fresh and green from whatever shortcut he’d taken through the fields behind the house. And something warm.

Something… soft. Like heat off pavement after a long rain.

His own hand—big, scarred, shaking just a little—rose and wrapped over Ponyboy’s. Not to move it. Just to hold it there. Like maybe if he kept that hand pressed to his skin, the world might stay quiet for a few more seconds.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really.

The knot in his throat was too tight.

And Ponyboy didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t trying to fill the silence. He just looked at him, like he saw him. Not the gruff, overworked older brother who forgot to eat sometimes and yelled too quick. Not the substitute dad who got too serious. Just… Darry.

Then, barely louder than the hum of the fridge, came his voice. Soft. Gentle.

“Long day?”

That was all. Two words.

But they folded into Darry like balm. Like something warm poured into cracked places.

He shut his eyes.

And for a long while, neither of them moved.

The kitchen sat still around them—quiet, except for the occasional creak of wood and the sleepy groan of old pipes. The clock ticked slowly, muffled under the weight of the night. Somewhere down the hall, the soft shift of Soda turning in bed.

Ponyboy’s hand stayed against his cheek.

Darry’s stayed right over it.

Eventually, Pony shifted closer, the floor creaking under his socked feet. Darry opened his eyes again to see him pull out the chair beside him.

The boy didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just sat, resting one elbow on the table, still leaning in, his fingers now tucked around Darry’s wrist like it was something delicate.

Darry stared at him. Really stared. At the way his brother’s hair curled behind his ear. The faint freckle under his chin. The shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there last year.

He looked… older. Wiser. And still so heartbreakingly soft.

“You should be in bed,” Darry finally said, voice like gravel, cracked from silence.

Ponyboy shrugged, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. “So should you.”

A huff escaped Darry. Maybe it was a laugh. Almost.

“I just needed a minute,” he admitted.

“You always do,” Pony murmured. “You just never take it.”

The words weren’t accusing. Just honest. Quiet. But they settled somewhere deep.

And maybe it was the calm in the room, or the warmth from Pony’s touch, or the way the beads on the table had started to look like tiny constellations in the dim light—but something shifted.

Darry let himself lean a little closer. Just an inch.

And Ponyboy—without a word—leaned in too.

Until his head rested gently against Darry’s shoulder. Until their breaths matched. Until the weight of the world didn’t feel quite so heavy, not when they carried it together.

There were still dishes in the sink. Bills on the counter. An early shift tomorrow and a hundred problems waiting past the front door.

But for now?

There was this.

Just warmth, and a brother’s hand.

 Just two breaths in the quiet.

 And the kitchen light, still glowing soft.

Chapter Text

“Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”
— C.S. Lewis

The floorboards creaked under Darry’s boots as he came down the narrow hallway, the smell of coffee still clinging to his sweater from the mug he’d left cooling on the counter. Behind him, Two-Bit’s laughter fizzled into something quieter—he’d just been telling some half-finished story—and Steve’s footsteps fell in step with theirs.

They weren’t really aiming for the living room, just passing through. Darry had a mind to check the mailbox before bed. But before they could round the corner, a low voice drifted down the hall, drawing them all still.

It was Ponyboy.

Darry froze, one hand braced against the wall. There was the soft rustle of clothes—Pony shifting on the couch—and then Johnny’s voice, warmer than usual.

“Why you always stick up for him?” Johnny asked. “Even after he yells at you.”

A pause. Darry could picture it without seeing it—Pony’s head tilted down, eyes on something small, maybe that ragged sweater he’d been wearing for days.

“He doesn’t know how to be soft no more,” Pony murmured. His voice wasn’t bitter. It was almost careful, like he was setting something fragile on the table. “He’s carryin’ Mom and Dad and work and school and me. He’s like—Atlas, y’know? If he stops even for a second, everything might fall.”

The house seemed to still around them. Darry’s hand curled against the wall, knuckles pressing the wallpaper.

Johnny’s reply was quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. “I get it. Doesn’t mean it don’t hurt. But I get it.”

Something soft thudded—maybe Pony leaning back into the couch cushions.

Darry’s chest felt strange, like he’d been holding his breath without knowing it. He had to shift his weight, shoulder braced to keep from leaning too far into the hallway.

Two-Bit’s head turned toward him slowly, eyes wide. He looked like someone who’d stumbled onto a secret he didn’t quite know how to hold.

Steve was the one to break it, his voice hushed but steady. “You… you gonna tell him you heard that?”

Darry’s jaw tightened. His first instinct was to bark something out—some joke, some half-sure way to keep from thinking about it too hard. But the words stuck. He shook his head once.

“No,” he said finally, the word almost rough. “I’m gonna make sure I earn it first.”

The night didn’t quite settle after that. 

Darry moved toward the kitchen like nothing had happened, but the moment clung to him like the faint scent of cigarette smoke in the curtains—there whether you wanted it or not.

He found himself lingering in the doorway, watching Pony from a distance. Pony was half-curled on the couch, a throw blanket crooked over one knee, his hair falling into his eyes. The lamplight made his sweater look even older, little threads pulled loose along the cuffs.

Darry remembered buying that sweater—well, not exactly buying. Picking it off a clearance rack because it was warm, and Pony’d needed warm.

Two-Bit came up beside him, still quieter than usual. “Kid’s got you figured,” he said softly, almost like it was a compliment he didn’t want overheard.

Darry didn’t answer.

The next morning, the house smelled like frying bacon and toast. The pan hissed as Darry turned the strips over, the heat blooming warm against his forearms. He heard the floor creak in the hallway and glanced over his shoulder. Pony stumbled in, hair mussed, sweater hanging off one shoulder.

“Hey,” Darry said, keeping his tone even.

Pony mumbled something back, rubbing his eyes, and dropped into a chair. The kitchen was full of that sleepy quiet that comes before the day gets moving. Darry set a plate in front of him—three strips of bacon, scrambled eggs, toast—and pretended not to notice the way Pony looked at it like it was more than breakfast.

They didn’t talk much. Darry figured he didn’t need to. But when Pony reached for the butter, Darry slid it closer without thinking, and Pony glanced up at him—just for a second—with that small, puzzled look he got when something didn’t fit the pattern he expected.

Over the next week, Darry caught himself making little changes without meaning to.

He’d keep his voice lower when asking Pony to help with chores, trying not to let the edge creep in. He’d come home from work and pause in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust, instead of stomping straight in. When Pony muttered about wanting to read on the porch, Darry brought out a blanket without being asked.

It wasn’t much. Nothing grand. But every time, he’d catch that same flicker of surprise in Pony’s eyes—quick, gone in a heartbeat—like the kid wasn’t used to being handled gently.

And every time, Darry felt that line from the hallway settle a little deeper in his chest. He’s like Atlas.

He didn’t know how to set the world down. But maybe, he thought, he could shift it a little so it didn’t dig into him quite so hard.

One night, long after the rest of the house had gone quiet, Darry found himself in the living room with the lights low. The couch still smelled faintly like Pony’s shampoo—something clean, with a hint of apple. He sat there for a long time, listening to the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the wall clock.

Upstairs, Pony turned over in bed, the bedsprings giving a soft groan.

Darry thought about going up there. About saying something. About telling him he’d heard every word in that hallway.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned back into the cushions, shut his eyes, and promised himself—quietly, firmly—that he’d keep earning it.

Every day.

Until the weight didn’t feel so heavy, and maybe Atlas could rest.

Chapter Text

“You may never know what results come of your act, but if you do nothing there will be no result.”
— Saint Teresa of Calcutta

---

The house was quiet in that deep, late-night way — not just silent, but hollow, like sound itself had gone to bed.

The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen corner, steady and low. The clock above the stove ticked in an unhurried rhythm. Even the wind outside seemed softer, brushing the windows with the kind of touch that never quite woke anyone.

Darry sat at the kitchen table with his elbows planted on the worn wood, his head in his hands. The dishes had been washed earlier — he’d done them without thinking, scrubbing harder than needed — but the faint lemon soap smell still clung to the air.

The bills were scattered across the table. Some were half-open, corners bent where he’d worried at them with his thumb. Others sat in tight stacks, numbers glaring up at him. He tapped a pen idly against one envelope, the click against the table sounding too loud in the stillness.

He was tired. Bone-deep tired. But going to bed meant quiet in a different way — the kind of quiet where thoughts didn’t have to share space with anything else.

He didn’t hear the soft shuffle from the hallway.

Ponyboy stood in the doorway, blanket slung around his shoulders, its ends dragging on the floor. His hair was a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts, and his eyes were still heavy from sleep.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just took in the sight of his brother sitting there, the hard set of his shoulders, the way his head was bowed like something had pinned it there.

Pony rubbed at one bare foot with the other, shifting his weight slowly. The floor felt cold under his toes.

He padded forward, each step soft against the wood. Darry didn’t look up.

When he reached the table, he stopped right beside him. From here, Pony could smell the faint clean of Darry’s soap mixed with the sharper scent of paper and the ghost of cold coffee from a mug near his hand.

He stood there quietly, watching his brother’s fingers curl around the pen like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Then, without any warning — no preamble, no explanation — Pony lifted one small, blanket-wrapped hand and leaned forward.

Boop.

Right on Darry’s tired nose.

Darry’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing in reflex. The expression he gave was caught somewhere between confusion and annoyance — but more than anything, there was exhaustion in it. The kind that made reactions slower, softer.

Pony blinked at him, his gaze steady and almost too calm for the late hour. Then, in a whisper that seemed to settle in the space between them like something precious, he said:

“I hope beautiful things happen to you, and when they do, I hope you realize that you are worthy of every single one of them.”

Darry’s brows drew together. The words were so unexpected that they slipped past his usual defenses before he could brace for them.

Before he could speak, before he could even fumble for something to say, Pony bent slightly and pressed a light kiss to his temple. Just a quick, warm touch — nothing drawn out.

Then, just as quietly as he’d come, Pony turned and padded back toward the hall, the blanket trailing behind him. His bare feet whispered against the floorboards until they disappeared into the soft dark.

Darry sat there, motionless. His hand was still frozen around the pen. The kitchen clock ticked on.

It had been years since anyone had told him something like that — years since he’d felt it might be true.

He’d spent so long holding up walls, keeping the roof over their heads, making sure his brothers had what they needed, that he’d stopped thinking about whether he deserved good things. Somewhere along the line, “worthy” had stopped being a word that applied to him.

But somehow, Pony still thought it did.

The thought hit harder than it should have. It was small — just a few whispered words in a quiet kitchen — but it had slipped into a place Darry kept locked up tight.

He pressed his hands to his face, elbows digging into the table edge. He told himself he was just tired, but that didn’t stop the heat stinging his eyes.

The first tear slid down without his permission. Then another. They fell silently, landing on the paper beneath him and blurring the printed numbers.

He cried quietly — the kind of quiet that was more about letting go than about making noise. It wasn’t the ugly, shaking sort of crying. Just… release.

Ponyboy crawled back into bed, the blanket still wrapped around him like a cocoon. His room was cool, the sheets faintly smelling of laundry soap and the open window from earlier that day.

He closed his eyes and let the weight of sleep tug at him again, but the picture of Darry at the table lingered.

He didn’t know if what he’d said had mattered. Didn’t know if it had landed the way he meant it. But something in Darry’s eyes — the way they’d looked startled, almost open for a split second — told him maybe it had.

Pony pulled the blanket tighter under his chin and yawned. He hadn’t been trying to make a big moment out of it. Sometimes you just saw someone you loved carrying too much, and you wanted to hand them a little something light to hold instead.

Sleep took him before he could think much more about it.

Darry eventually pushed back from the table, wiping his face with the heel of his hand in a rough motion. He stacked the bills in one neat pile, capped the pen, and pushed the mug toward the sink.

The house felt a little different now. Still quiet, still late — but the air seemed to carry something gentler in it.

When he passed Pony’s room, the door was half-shut. The sound of slow, even breathing slipped into the hallway. Pony was curled on his side, blanket pulled up to his chin, one arm tucked under his cheek.

Darry leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watching for a moment. His little brother’s face looked so young when he was asleep — the kind of young that reminded Darry why he worked himself to exhaustion in the first place.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, unplanned.

“Thanks, kid,” he murmured. It was quiet enough that it barely reached the air between them.

Then he stepped away, heading toward his own room.

The wind outside kept brushing against the windows. The refrigerator hummed. The clock kept its steady rhythm.

And for the first time in weeks, Darry thought maybe he could sleep.

Chapter Text

“Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point.”

— C.S. Lewis

---

It was a calm, sunny day—the kind that slipped in unnoticed and made you forget, just for a little while, about grease, bruises, or who last slammed a locker in your face. The kind of day that lingered soft and golden on your skin.

The sun slanted low across the Curtis house, bathing the peeling walls and sun-drenched floorboards in warm amber light. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and burnt toast—Two-Bit had tried his hand at breakfast again—and the familiar scent of motor oil clung faintly to the hallways like an old coat.

From the yard came the rhythmic thump of a ball being passed and the occasional shout of laughter. Soda’s voice rang out, bright and untamed, like it always did when he was caught up in a game. Two-Bit’s louder, raspier chuckle followed suit, sounding half like a barking seal and half like a kid with no worries.

Darry sat on the porch steps, the wood warm beneath him, one elbow resting on his knee. His eyes were hidden behind narrowed lids, watching the game with the quiet intensity of someone always listening for the wrong kind of noise—sirens, yelling, or the crack of a beer bottle.

Inside the house, the old fan buzzed in the corner, its blades slow and lazy as it pushed the warm summer air in a slow circle. Somewhere in the kitchen, the tap was dripping steadily.

Nothing could go wrong. Not on a day like this.

Until it did.

“Darry! Darry, come here! ”

The voice cracked through the lazy calm like a match to paper. It was sharp—too sharp. Urgent. Raw.

Darry’s heart gave a jolt. He was on his feet before he realized he’d moved, the porch creaking as he strode back inside. The hallway stretched in front of him like a tunnel, the walls dim and golden from the light bleeding through the curtains. The echo of Ponyboy’s voice still clung to the air.

The kitchen came into view all at once.

Ponyboy stood frozen by the counter, one hand braced against the edge like he needed the wood beneath his palm to keep from slipping. His eyes were wide—too wide—and his chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.

The kind of panic on his face wasn’t loud.

It was quiet, coiled, trembling. Worse.

Darry’s steps slowed. His voice, when it came, was low and careful. “What happened?”

Pony’s gaze darted to the pantry door and back. His mouth opened, closed. His fingers twitched where they rested on the counter’s edge. “There’s…” he swallowed, voice breaking into a breathless whisper, “There’s a snake in the pantry.”

Darry blinked. For a moment, it sounded like a joke, or something Two-Bit would shout in the middle of a prank. But Ponyboy wasn’t joking. His knuckles were white, and there was a tremor in his hands.

“A snake?” Darry repeated, voice slower this time.

Pony nodded fast. “I—I heard it slither. It was right under the shelf. I saw it.” He was talking fast now, each word tumbling out too quick. “It’s huge, Darry. I thought it was gonna—I mean—I couldn’t move. I—”

His voice cracked.

Darry’s chest tightened. It was the kind of sound that didn’t come out of Ponyboy unless something real had broken through. Not embarrassment, not nerves—real fear.

Without another word, Darry crossed the kitchen, grabbed the broom by the fridge, and moved toward the pantry. Behind him, the screen door creaked and smacked shut as Soda and Two-Bit wandered in, drawn by the tension like moths to flame.

“Snake?” Two-Bit asked, peeking around the corner with a grin. “No kidding?”

“Stay back,” Darry ordered, not harshly, but with a finality that made even Soda straighten up.

The pantry door creaked open. It smelled like onions and dry flour and something faintly earthy—old potatoes, maybe. The light overhead flickered once. The shelves were lined with neatly stacked cans, cereal boxes, and a jar of pickles no one remembered buying.

Darry didn’t see it at first.

Then he did.

A flicker of dark scales in the shadow beneath the bottom shelf—motionless. Coiled. Its tongue flicked once, tasting the air.

It wasn’t as big as Pony’s panic had made it sound. But that didn’t matter. Fear didn’t care about size.

Behind him, Ponyboy stood rigid in the doorway. His face was pale now, but not from fear alone. From shame. Darry could see it in the way he pressed his lips together, his eyes cast low. Like he hated that he’d called for help. Like asking had made him smaller somehow.

Darry felt a stab of something he didn’t have a name for. That quiet pride in Pony—how brave he always tried to be—could sometimes cut the wrong way.

Carefully, Darry edged the broom toward the snake, guiding it out from behind the shelf. Its scales made the faintest rasping sound against the floor. The room held its breath.

It slid out, slow as syrup, and Darry followed it with measured steps until he’d nudged it into the dustpan and out the back door, dropping it into the tall grass near the edge of the yard. The screen door slapped behind him as he returned.

When he stepped back inside, the kitchen felt too still. The fan hummed again in the corner, and Soda had gone back out to the yard, but Ponyboy hadn’t moved.

He was still sitting at the table now, elbows on the wood, fingers laced. His shoulders were hunched, like he was bracing for a scolding that wasn’t coming.

Darry leaned the broom against the counter and crossed the room slowly. He pulled out a chair and sat beside him, the wood creaking under his weight.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

The only sound was the quiet tick…tick of the wall clock and the distant whoop of Two-Bit laughing outside.

Then Darry said, softly, “It’s gone.”

Pony nodded, eyes still on the table.

The sunlight hit the side of his face, lighting the soft gold in his hair and the curve of his cheek. His skin looked warm. Fragile, somehow. Like the whole thing had shaken something loose in him he didn’t quite know how to name.

Darry’s voice came quieter this time, almost like a secret. “You don’t gotta do everything by yourself.”

Pony’s mouth twitched. He didn’t lift his head, but his fingers relaxed against the table, one knuckle brushing lightly against Darry’s.

“I know,” he said at last. Quiet. Honest. “I just… forgot for a second.”

Darry gave a small nod. The kind that didn’t need words to follow it. He leaned back slightly in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table.

Outside, the wind rustled through the grass, and the scent of sun-warmed dirt and cut grass drifted through the open window.

The moment passed, but not really. It stayed, tucked in like a folded page. Something both of them would remember later—not because of the snake, but because of the quiet that came after.

And in that quiet, Darry reached out and ruffled Pony’s hair—gently, almost absently—but with a warmth that settled deep.

“Next time,” he said, eyes soft, “call me sooner. Even if it’s a mouse.”

Ponyboy gave a small huff of a laugh. “You’re not scared of anything, are you?”

Darry smiled, just a little. “You’d be surprised.”

The light shifted across the table, and somewhere outside, the ball hit the side of the house with a thump.

But inside the Curtis kitchen, everything was still. Safe.

And for now—that was enough.

Chapter Text

“Do small things with great love.”

– St. Teresa of Calcutta

---

The shed smelled of oil and cedar. Old wood, damp with August humidity, creaked under Darry’s boots as he ducked inside. The morning sun was already hot, pressing against his shoulders, but in here it was cool, shadows stretching across the shelves where jars of nails and screws glinted faintly like old coins.

He rolled his shoulders, the ache of last week’s roofing job still lingering. Saturdays were meant for fixing things—quiet work, work his hands could understand better than books or people. Today it was the back fence. One of the slats had split where the wind caught it last storm.

Darry reached for his hammer, fingers curling around the familiar wooden handle—

—and stopped.

The handle wasn’t the same. Not the rough, splintered thing it had been last time he used it.

This wood was smooth. Sanded down until it felt like river-stone against his palm. The grooves of old use were still there, but softened, gentled. Even the faint crack near the head had been glued, the seam barely visible. Someone had cared enough to mend it.

Not new. Fixed.

Like Mama used to do with Daddy’s tools.

Darry’s breath hitched, quiet and sharp. His thumb rubbed along the curve of the handle, searching for the bite of splinters that had always caught him. Gone. His throat burned, sudden and hot.

Ponyboy.

It had to be Pony. Soda wouldn’t’ve thought of it, not patient enough to sit and sand, not steady enough to care for something so small. Pony, though… Pony noticed. Pony had quiet hands, softer than his brothers’, with a way of setting things right without drawing attention to himself.

And Pony hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked if Darry wanted it done. Just—made it right.

Darry sat down hard on the workbench. The wood creaked under his weight, a smell of sawdust rising where his jeans brushed the planks. He set the hammer across his knees and just stared at it, the edges blurring as the sting built behind his eyes.

Outside, a cicada started its steady whine. The shed was so still Darry could hear his own breath hitch, could hear the faint drip of water off the eaves from where the grass was still damp with dew.

He swallowed, but the tightness in his throat wouldn’t ease. His fingers closed tighter around the handle. It felt alive now, warm from his grip, as if some trace of Pony’s care lingered in the wood.

He thought of his kid brother sitting out here alone, maybe in the quiet evening after supper, the crickets loud and the porch light spilling weak yellow through the yard. Pony would’ve been hunched over, tongue between his teeth, sanding with that stubborn focus he got when he wanted something to be perfect. The soft rasp of sandpaper against wood, steady, patient. No one watching. No praise expected.

Just a boy with greenish-brown eyes too big for his face, doing something kind because it was in him to do it.

Darry’s chest squeezed so tight he had to lean forward, elbows braced on his knees. He dragged the back of his wrist across his eyes, rough, like he could rub the sting away, but it only made the hammer swim more in his vision.

He hadn’t earned this kind of care. Not with the way he barked at Pony, not with the way he set his jaw harder each time he was afraid. He was too much their father and not enough their brother, and some nights when Pony shut his bedroom door soft but final, Darry swore he could hear all his failures click shut with it.

But then—this.

This quiet gift.

It was like being handed proof that Pony still saw him as something worth softening for.

The hinges squeaked faint behind him, and Darry startled, swiping his eyes dry before the door swung wide.

“Darry?”

Pony’s voice. Light, uncertain.

Darry cleared his throat, too rough. “Yeah, kid. In here.”

Pony stepped in, his hair catching the sunlight slanting through the crack between boards. It looked more red than brown in the light, messy as ever. He had a rag in his back pocket, grease smudged faint on his fingers like he’d been fooling with the lawnmower.

“You okay?” Pony asked, eyebrows lifting a little.

Darry turned the hammer once in his hands, slow. He wanted to say something. Wanted to ask why, wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him he noticed. But the words jammed in his throat.

Instead, he held the hammer out a little. “This your doing?” His voice came out low, steady, but there was something in it that made Pony pause.

Pony shrugged, cheeks coloring faint. “Yeah. It was all busted up. Figured you’d get a splinter sooner or later.” His voice was casual, like it wasn’t a big thing. He shoved his hands in his back pockets, eyes flicking to the floorboards.

Darry studied him—the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the way he tried to play it off like it didn’t matter. That same quiet, stubborn love that’d fixed the handle was written all over him.

The shed felt too small for the weight in Darry’s chest. He set the hammer aside and stood, crossing the space in two steps. Before Pony could shift back, Darry’s hand landed firm but gentle on his shoulder.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, rough but steady. “Means more than you know.”

Pony blinked up at him, surprised. Then his mouth twitched into that shy half-smile that never lasted long but always hit Darry like sunlight breaking through cloud.

“It wasn’t nothin’,” Pony mumbled. But his eyes—soft, green-brown, tired and kind—said otherwise.

Darry squeezed his shoulder once, then let go before it got awkward. He picked up the hammer again, its weight solid, different now. Not just a tool. A reminder.

“C’mon,” Darry said, voice lighter. “Fence ain’t gonna fix itself.”

Pony’s smile stuck this time, brighter, and he fell into step beside his brother as they left the shed.

The sun outside was sharp, but Darry carried the cool quiet with him—the smell of cedar, the memory of sanded wood, the sting he hadn’t let spill over. His hand wrapped tight around the hammer, and though he didn’t say it, he knew.

He knew his kid brother’s love was stitched into every smooth line of the handle, and he would carry that with him—every nail driven, every board set straight—a quiet proof of something strong enough to hold them both.

Even when words failed.

Chapter Text

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

(Matthew 11:28) 

---

The small, yellow kitchen of the Curtis house was steeped in the golden, hazy light of a late Sunday afternoon. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that slanted through the window over the sink, illuminating the quiet, still air. The only sound was the gentle, bubbling simmer of a pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove, a sound that was, to Ponyboy, the very essence of comfort. The rich, savory scent of the broth, laced with the earthy smell of chopped carrots and celery, filled the small space. It was a smell that promised warmth, that spoke of care and convalescence, and he was making it for himself because he’d felt a vague, unnamable ache behind his eyes all day, a hollow feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with hunger.

He was tired. Not the good, earned tiredness after a track meet or a long day of work, but a deep, soul-weary exhaustion that made his limbs feel heavy and his thoughts slow and syrupy. The world felt a little too sharp at the edges, a little too loud, even in the silence. Making the soup had been a ritual, a way to soothe the rough edges of his own spirit. He’d chopped the vegetables with careful concentration, the thump-thump-thump of the knife on the worn wooden cutting board a steady, calming rhythm. He’d poured the broth from the box, the glugging sound echoing in the quiet house. Soda was out with Steve, and Two-Bit was… well, wherever Two-Bit was. Darry was in the living room, the low rustle of his newspaper a familiar, grounding presence.

Now, the soup was ready. Ponyboy reached for the big wooden spoon, the one his mom had always used. It felt smooth and familiar in his hand, its handle worn down by years of use. He dipped it into the pot, the warm, steamy cloud blooming up and dampening his face as he stirred, the noodles and chunks of chicken swirling in a lazy vortex. He lifted the spoon, full of steaming broth, intending to blow on it for a taste test.

His hand, which had been so steady while chopping, chose that moment to betray him. A faint tremor, a sudden, shocking lack of strength, and his fingers simply… let go.

The spoon clattered against the rim of the pot, then spun off, hitting the linoleum floor with a sound that was absurdly, painfully loud in the hushed kitchen. 

Clatter-clang.

Spin-spin-spin.

Silence.

Ponyboy didn’t move. He stared down at the spoon where it had come to rest near the leg of the table. The rich, golden broth was already seeping into the faded pattern of the floor, a dark, spreading stain. A single piece of carrot lay upturned beside it.

It was just a spoon. It was just a little spilled soup. He could get another spoon. He could clean the floor. It was nothing. A minor inconvenience. A non-event.

But as he stood there, frozen, the simple reality of the dropped spoon seemed to fracture, and a thousand other losses poured through the crack. It was the final, feather-light straw that broke something fragile inside him. It was the sound of a hubcap rolling away down a street. It was the cold, relentless rain on the night his parents died. It was the weight of a switchblade in his hand.

It was every dropped thing, every lost fight, every ounce of fear and grief he’d been holding down for months, all contained in that wooden spoon lying on the dirty kitchen floor.

A shaky, ragged breath escaped him, a sound he didn’t even recognize as his own. It hitched in his throat, and he felt a hot, sharp pressure behind his eyes. He wasn't going to cry over a spoon. He wasn't. But he couldn't stop the tremor that started in his hands and worked its way up through his core, leaving him feeling cold and utterly exposed.

He needed… he didn’t know what he needed. The soup, the ritual, it wasn’t enough. The hollow in his chest was now a cavern, echoing with every bad memory. He turned away from the stove, from the spilled evidence of his own small failure, and walked on unsteady legs into the hall.

Without conscious thought, he detoured into his bedroom. He grabbed the old, blue blanket from the foot of his bed, the one that was worn soft as gossamer from countless washes. He dragged it behind him like a lifeline, the fabric whispering against the wooden floorboards. The familiar, faint scent of laundry soap and home clung to it.

He emerged into the living room. Darry was in his usual armchair, the newspaper spread open on his lap. The reading lamp cast a warm, amber pool of light over him, highlighting the tired lines on his face, the strength in his shoulders beneath his worn-out t-shirt. He looked up at the sound of Pony’s footsteps, his brow furrowing slightly at the sight of his little brother standing in the doorway, blanket trailing, face pale and eyes too bright.

“You okay, Pony?” Darry’s voice was its usual low rumble, but it was softened by a note of immediate concern. He lowered the paper, his full attention now on Ponyboy.

The question, so simple and so kind, was the final key. The words tumbled out of Ponyboy’s mouth, soft and raw and stripped of all the pride he usually clung to. “No,” he whispered, his voice thin. “I’m emotionally compromised. I need to sit on your lap and have you pet my hair until I feel normal again.”

He braced himself for the reaction. For a confused laugh, for a practical question, for a “What in the world are you talking about, Ponyboy?” He was asking for something from when he was six years old, something that belonged to a time before responsibility, before grief, before greaser rumbles and social divides.

Darry didn’t question it.

Not a single word. His eyes, so often sharp with worry or tight with the stress of keeping them all afloat, just softened. He understood. He looked at the lost expression on Ponyboy’s face, at the blanket dragged like a security talisman, and he saw straight through to the heart of the boy who was still, and would always be, his little brother. Without a moment’s hesitation, he folded the newspaper, set it aside on the lamp table, and opened his arms.

It was a gesture of such uncomplicated, unconditional welcome that Ponyboy felt his throat tighten. He crossed the room, the rough texture of the rug under his bare feet, and let the blanket fall. He didn’t so much sit as he collapsed onto Darry’s lap, folding his long, lanky frame into a position that should have been awkward but felt, in that moment, like the only natural shape in the world. He tucked his head under Darry’s chin, his face pressing into the soft, well-worn cotton of his brother’s shirt. It smelled of starch, and faintly of motor oil from the shop, and underneath it all, the warm, clean scent that was purely Darry.

For a long moment, Darry just held him, his arms solid and sure around Ponyboy’s back, one hand splayed between his shoulder blades. Ponyboy could feel the steady, strong beat of Darry’s heart against his own chest, a slow, reassuring rhythm that began to quiet the frantic, scattered pounding of his own. He let out a long, shuddering breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and felt his entire body go limp with the release of it.

Then, Darry’s hand moved. He brought it up and began to slowly, gently, card his fingers through Ponyboy’s hair. His touch was surprisingly deft, calloused pads catching slightly on the strands before smoothing them down. He started at his temple, his thumb stroking a slow arc there, then his fingers combed back through the longer, greaser-length hair, again and again. Each pass was a silent message, a tactile absolution.

Ponyboy closed his eyes. The world, which had been so loud and sharp and painful just minutes before, shrank down to this single, safe point. The weight of Darry’s arm across his back. The rhythmic scratch-soft-scratch of his work-roughened fingers against his scalp. The deep, resonant hum of Darry’s voice as he murmured, “It’s alright, kiddo. I’ve got you.” The words weren’t even important; it was the vibration in his chest, the low rumble that Ponyboy felt more than heard.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t have explained the dropped spoon, the cascade of grief, the profound sense of being overwhelmed by simply existing. He didn’t need to. Darry wasn’t petting his hair to get an explanation. He was doing it to provide a shelter from the storm, a harbor where explanations weren’t required.

Ponyboy focused on the sensations. The way his hair shifted under Darry’s ministrations. The solidness of the muscle in Darry’s thigh beneath him. The slow, even rise and fall of Darry’s chest. The protective curve of Darry’s body around his own. The golden light from the lamp behind his closed eyelids. The distant, fading smell of soup from the kitchen, now mingling with the scent of old paper, worn leather from the chair, and the simple, steadfast presence of his brother.

The sharp, shattered pieces inside him began to settle. The hollow ache in his chest didn’t disappear, but it was filled with something else, something warm and solid and anchoring. It was the feeling of being held. It was the knowledge that he was not alone in this, that his burdens were not his to carry by himself. Darry’s strength was a quiet force, a levee holding back the flood, and in its shelter, Ponyboy could finally rest.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Long enough for the light in the room to deepen from gold to orange. Long enough for the tremors in his hands to completely still. Long enough for the tightness in his throat to dissolve. He was drifting in a warm, safe haze, lulled by the rhythm of Darry’s breathing and the endless, gentle stroking.

The front door creaked open, and the sound of two voices, laughing and shoving each other, spilled into the hall.

“—and I told him, if he thinks that heap is gonna run, he’s dumber than— whoa.”

Soda’s voice cut off as he and Steve entered the living room. Ponyboy felt Darry’s body shift slightly, a subtle tightening of his arm, but the petting never stopped.

Ponyboy cracked open an eye. Soda and Steve were frozen in the doorway, staring. Soda’s expression was one of pure, unadulterated surprise, his mouth a perfect ‘o’. Steve’s eyebrows were nearly in his hairline, a smart remark clearly dying on his lips as he took in the unprecedented sight of Ponyboy curled on Darry’s lap like a little kid.

A beat of silence hung in the air.

Then, Soda’s surprise melted into the softest, most understanding smile. It lit up his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t tease. He just got it. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod to Darry, a look of profound gratitude passing between the two older brothers.

“C’mon, Steve,” Soda said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He hooked a thumb towards the kitchen. “I think I smell somethin’ burnin’. Let’s go check it out.”

Steve, for once, was speechless. He just nodded, following Soda out of the room with a last, bewildered glance over his shoulder.

Their footsteps retreated into the kitchen. There was a faint clatter of a pot, the running of water, the low murmur of Soda’s voice, no doubt directing the cleanup of the spilled soup.

The interruption hadn’t broken the spell. If anything, it had reinforced it. It was a reminder that this sanctuary was part of a larger whole, a family that, in its own rough way, knew how to take care of its own.

Ponyboy let his eye close again, settling back against Darry with a deep, content sigh. He was okay. The world was still out there, with all its sharp edges and its capacity for pain. But right here, right now, anchored by his brother’s steady heart and the gentle, repeated stroke of his hand, he was no longer emotionally compromised. He was just Ponyboy. He was home. And he was, finally, normal again.