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Darry's palms found his knees as soon as the whistle blew. He hunched over, drawing in desperate gasps of air. Football practices were one of his favorite weekly activities, his home away from home. Still, they always left him worn out and drained. His neck and face burned with prickling heat, and his flushed face felt swollen with bloodflow. As his teammates were called to line up for another play, he groaned. Silently, he prayed for mercy to cease the scorching weather.
Another whistle sent the team charging at each other. Darry, being one of the bigger and better players, always played defensive back and took people down without hesitation. During scrimmages like this, he usually went after Paul, the running back who seemed to always have the leathered ball in his grasp. Darry liked bringing him down, sharing a brief moment where they would stare into each other's eyes through the confines of their helmets; huffing from the fatigue while one was trapped under the other's grasp. They had been in a relationship and hid it from the rest of the team, so it was the rare, little moments like that that they had to cherish. Paul wasn’t there that day, though, his absence caused by family matters.
Halfway through the chaos of pushing kids over and throwing passes, large drops of water pelted from the sky, washing down on the entanglement of limbs and violence below. The disorder dissipated as kids began to embrace the rain and found relief from the sweltering heat. Several kids skidded to a halt, gazing up at the falling cool drops, pausing the current play.
"Alright, quit gawkin’!” Their coach's voice interrupted. “It ain't nothin' but a bit of rain! Y’all see it every day. Everyone, line up and run suicides!" Darry winced, dreading how long they’d have to run. No matter the weather, running drills always felt like a chore, and his already aching body didn’t take too kindly to the idea of more activity. Still, with maybe half an hour of practice left, he figured he’d just tough it out; even if the consequence would be barely being able to drag himself out of bed tomorrow. Because that's what Darry was known for doing. Pushing himself, forcing himself through everything. That's why he was the best. He had to be the best.
There had been times when he had pushed himself too far, making himself come near close to fainting. His mother, father, and even his brothers had given him several warnings to quit fighting so hard, fearing what could happen if he didn’t, but he never listened.
Because what was he if he was not the greatest?
Everyone had lined themselves up on one side of the grass, standing on one of the many faded white lines painted on the ground. Yet another whistle sounded, and everyone began sprinting up and down the turf, Darry taking a quick lead.
While several pairs of legs ran, the amount of rain falling down escalated, drenching anyone who wasn’t lucky enough to find cover somewhere. Some kids were even unlucky enough to slip and fall into the mud.
By then, Darry had reached his third run and felt worse than usual. He was used to feeling fatigued during football, but this was different. His eyelids drooped like he hadn’t slept in days, and his legs throbbed with an ache he hadn’t ever experienced before, almost making it too painful to move. He knew he should have stopped and asked for a break, or slowed down at least, but he kept going, wanting to prove himself or be seen as the best. Two more runs passed by, and Darry began to fall behind, watching his other teammates pull ahead.
The pain by now was unbearable; every movement and step he took felt like fire. His helmet felt like weights around his head, and it didn’t help that his now soaking wet gear was freezing, but he still couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Darry witnessed more and more people pass by him, each person only making him more determined to push forward, to keep going. Each breath he took started to feel like not enough, and kids running in front of him warped into indistinguishable, blurred-looking blobs.
Darry finally stopped running, albeit not willingly, feeling his body sway as if he had no control of balance. One boy on his team ran up beside him, gripping his shoulder.
“Darry, ya’ good?” He asked.
Darry could barely make out his voice or how he looked, not even recognizing the guy. He glanced at him, face flushed a deep red, eyes squinted, mouth hung half-open.
“Whoa… man, you gotta sit down, you look awful!”
Darry shook his head, taking three stiff steps backwards.
“M’fine… m’fine…” he slurred.
Darry felt his knees shake with intense tremor, unable to support his weight anymore. He leaned forward slightly, blindly reaching out in front of him to grab onto something, anything to keep him up. His body launched forward, smashing into the mud face-first with a splash. Throughout his disorientation, he heard several people yelling, calling out random commands while a piercing ringing still persisted in his head. A pair of hands flipped him over onto his back, making him look up at the dark, angry clouds, and a few faces crowded around him, before it all went black.
“He’s alright. Just go do your homework, Sodapop.”
...
Darry felt a strange new warmth all across his body. Contrastingly, one of the last things he remembered before going down was how his soaking wet clothes clung to his skin, so the difference in feel made him question where his current whereabouts were.
He blinked his heavy eyes open, squinting whilst he tried to fight off his still blurred vision. The first thing his gaze caught hold of was a white, speckled ceiling. He looked around and saw a familiar warm glow of a lamp. He knew where he was. He was home.
A spontaneous ache shooting through his body quickly ceased any and all comforting thoughts of being safe he had. The pain caused him to fully gain consciousness, taking in every feeling and sense. Atop his head, he could feel the soft touch of a hand moving through strands of his hair. Darry turned, ignoring the screaming pain in his neck, and locked eyes with the culprit, his mother.
“There you are, sweetheart, are you alright?” Her voice was honey-sweet and gentle, despite the worrying situation. Darry’s face contorted into a harsh grimace as he felt a nagging, sharp pain spiral in his stomach. Copious amounts of drool began to collect and form in his mouth, dripping out the corners.
“Yeah ma’... m’fine-”
What was supposed to be reassurance from her son was cut off by long, shaky retches. Darry leaned off the side of the couch and vomited onto the floor. His eyes were clamped shut as his mother quickly rushed to his aid, holding any stray hairs away from his face.
A guttural sob clawed its way out from Darry’s throat, his body shaking with rough tremors. The hands that were dug into Darry’s hair slowly made their way down to his shoulder and into the back of his shirt.
“It’ll be okay, Darry. Jus’ get it out…”
Darry’s muscles drew taut once again. His stomach felt flat, as though it was trying to collapse in on itself. He still continued to heave, despite nothing else being able to be ejected, clutching the edge of the couch cushion for dear life. His face prickled with the heat of strain, mouth dropped open so wide he thought his jaw might snap off.
Over and over again, he let out retches, trying to force himself to throw up, trying to force nothing out of his system.
His mom reached a hand under his chin, closing his lips and turning his face to hers. “Nothin’ else is gonna come up, yer’ all done, honey. You’re okay.” His mother forced him to lie flat against the couch as she stood. “Now, I’ll be right back, alright?”
Darry watched helplessly as she fled to the kitchen, probably to grab cleaning supplies. He wanted to call out to her, beg her not to leave him alone, but any attempt to try and open his mouth caused his teeth to chatter with empty threats of more bile expelling. Electric sensations ran up and down his spine, causing him to arch off the couch just slightly.
His mom ran back in, not letting a single moment go to waste. She placed a trash can in front of her son, just as a precaution, whilst she began to scrub the hardwood floor of any fluids. Darry felt like hell, his head swelled with a pulsing throb, in tune with every beat of his heart. And the muscle aches… God, the muscle aches. Those were already expected; they always came and hit like a train after football practices, but this was agonizing — excruciating, even. That piled on top of the churning nausea, coughs, and raw throat made Darry feel like nothing but a breathing corpse.
Mrs. Curtis rose from the floor, sitting back up onto the couch with the nape of Darry’s neck resting on her legs.
“Hurts…” Darry forced out through twitches and gasps. His mom nodded, forking a hand through the front of his scalp.
“I know, honey, I know.”
Darry lay there, tossing and turning. Any feeble attempt to get more rest was greeted with a sharp pain in his legs, or a full-body cough, or his stomach deciding to roll with sickness again.
Ten or so minutes had passed by, and the dreaded feeling of nausea began to creep back in his throat. His skin rose with bumps, his mouth soaking with drool once again as another round of sickness forced its way up.
Darry let out a dejected cry for help as he leaned over the trash can, preparing for the worst. He let out another retch as more vomit flowed out of his mouth. Darry’s mother sighed pitifully, rubbing his back as tears prickled in her son's eyes.
“Mom!” He sobbed openly, gripping the bin in his arms.
“Shhh… s’alright, honey, you’re almost done.”
Darry lifted his head between gags, albeit unstably, and locked gazes with someone. Terrified and small green eyes stared back at him from across the room. His eleven-year-old little brother, Ponyboy, was clutching the molding of the doorway, fearful.
“Darry?...” His voice was wavery, like he was holding back tears. “Darry, what happened?”
Darry tried, really tried to be comforting, but instead of words of reassurance, the only thing that left his mouth was more groans and bile.
Pony sat there frozen in fear. He didn’t know how to think or react. His brother had never come home so sickly from football, and the word he had received of him supposedly passing out for the first time earlier wasn’t much of help either.
“He’s fine, Ponyboy, just a little sick s’all.” Their mother soothed. Darry wiped his mouth and eyes, finally feeling relief from the persistent pain in his gut. It was all gone. His body still ached, but the stinging of his throat, the cramping of his stomach, it was done. Darry lay back down against his mother's legs, letting any remaining tears that leaked from his eyes fall.
There were more words of passing between his mother and brother, but they became inaudible, because, like mercy from an everlasting battle, sweet sleep slowly took over Darry.
The muscle aches hit first. He didn’t even get the chance to open his eyes, no, as soon as he awoke, even in the slightest, pain surged through his body. The swelling filled the confines of his skull, slowly building pressure like helium to a balloon. And just when he thinks he’s in the clear, just when he thinks it can't possibly get worse…
The dreaded twisting sensation swirls in his stomach.
Darry barely has time to register it before he’s back to hauling himself back over the edge of the couch and hurling for a third time in the last twelve hours alone. He didn’t know how he could still have anything left to cough up, but it kept persisting and kept tormenting him.
Through all the pain, however, there was a gentle, supportive grasp. A pair of unknown arms stayed behind Darry as he finished, tracing soft circles up and down his back, and holding tufts of his hair.
“Christ, Darry! They told me you fainted, not that you were pukin’ your guts out…”
Darry's eyes widened in shock. He was supposed to be home alone, or he thought he was. His brothers were supposed to be away at school, and neither of his parents could afford to miss work, no matter how sickly their son was.
He whipped his head around to check and nearly yelped at the unexpected visitor.
“P-Paul?!”
In the flesh, his boyfriend Paul Holden was looking back at him with wide, dazed eyes. Still slightly put off by the way Darry had awoken.
“What…What’re you doing here? A-ain’t ya’ s’pposed to be in school?” Darry stumbled out with a wince. The previous look fell right off of Paul’s face, quickly being replaced with a sly grin Darry had grown to know and adore.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I heard ‘talk from the kids at school that y’took a bit of a fall yesterday, so I decided to come check up on ya’, ‘specially if that means I get to skip class to come see your face. Anyway, I can see you ain’t doin’ too hot, blue.” Paul spoke, studying every twitch, groan, or sign of discomfort coming from Darry.
“I musta’ pushed myself too hard during practice, ‘fell right into the mud face first.” Darry recalled, leaning against Paul’s body. Paul stood from the couch and walked into another room.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been telling ya’ to quit chasin’ that leather so damn much.” He called out. Darry sighed and looked away.
“I know, but it was Coach who thought it’d be a grand idea to have us keep practicing in the downpour, dumb bastard.”
Paul let a soft chuckle pass his lips as he returned. In his hands were a glass of water, a rag, and a plastic bag. Darry tilted his head slightly at the last item.
“I brought ya’ some soup,” Paul acknowledged. “You’ll need to regain all the fluids ya’ lost from throwin’ up just now,” Paul pointed out, setting it on the coffee table. The thought of even breathing over that soup made Darry wanna hurl all over again, but it was the thought that counted. He smiled weakly and reached over to grab Paul’s hand.
“Y’didn’t have to do all that for me, Paul…”
Paul reached over and wiped any leftover mess off of Darry’s face with the rag, as well as pushed a glass of water into his hand.
“Drink. Ya’ need it.” Paul commanded. Darry thought that if he could stomach it, then he might as well, bringing the glass to his lips and starting to chug. “Slower, slow down.”
Darry finished the glass after a moment, setting it down on the coffee table. It helped a lot, actually. His muscles still desperately ached, but the pain in his stomach had subsided, and even the swelling headache had decreased in pressure.
“Thank you…” Paul shook his head and leaned down, trying to press a kiss to Darry’s lips. Darry turned from the affection, covering his mouth with his forearm.
“No- stop… don’t kiss me, I don't know if what I got is contagious, and I just threw up,” Darry protested. Paul turned his head and smirked, his eyes sparking up with mischief.
“Oh like that’ll stop me, ‘Dar, and plus ya’ drank water, it’ll be fine.” He teased, pressing a kiss to Darry’s lips. Despite the previous pleas, Darry melted into it, digging the pads of his fingers into the blonde’s hair. After feeling so awful for so long, all he really wanted was some relief, comfort, and he got exactly what he craved. Paul gently pulled away, placing one more quick peck against Darry’s cheek. Darry jokingly rolled his eyes.
“Aghhh, that’s so gross! Why would ya’ do that to yourself?” Darry groaned, wiping his mouth.
“Because maybe I like ya’, just a little bit.” Paul jested, grabbing Darry and temporarily moving him over to the far end of the couch, giving himself room to climb on. Paul lay his back against the furniture and sprawled out, inviting his sickly boyfriend to come overtop of him. Darry climbed over his body and rested his cheek and ear against Paul’s chest, making himself as comfortable as he could be with his illness.
“Feel better yet?” Paul joked as he began to retrace soft, small shapes on Darry’s lower back. Darry sighed and buried his face into Paul's jacket, shaking his head.
“Y’know ya’ can’t stay here long, Pony and Soda will be back from school in a few hours…” Paul nodded, slipping his hand into the back of Darry’s shirt, running over the skin.
“I’ll only be here ‘till ya’ fall asleep, just get some rest baby, ya’ ain’t need to do anythin’ more.” Paul promised. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over the two.
Darry once again felt sleep slowly take over, eyelids falling down as he took solace in being able to share a moment with Paul.
“Darry, Darry, wake up!”
“Darrel, open your eyes!!”
Darry shot awake with his face flushed a deep red. The shirt on his back was stuck to his skin, translucent with sweat. Everything that had eased off before had come right back at full throttle. He felt like he needed to puke, but there was no point; surely, there was nothing left to give. Any attempt would just be wasted energy on dry-heaving.
“God… ‘thought we lost you there, ‘Dar, you were out like a light!” His brother Sodapop chimed in, interrupting his train of thought. Pony wordlessly knelt in front of his brother, placing the back of his palm against his forehead. His skin burned. Actually burnt. The heat was so forcible that it was genuinely uncomfortable to the touch.
“Darry! You’re burning up!” Pony cried, clutching his brother's shoulders.
Darry tried to respond, but he couldn’t speak; he was shaking so violently that he couldn't even get a word out. His eyes were wide open in a dazed, confused expression. He couldn’t lock onto anything, couldn’t focus his vision. He had felt alright when Paul was here earlier. What happened? Why was he now feeling the worst he had felt this whole time?
“Are you alright? Darry? Darry, answer me!” Sodapop persisted, desperate for an answer. The youngest of the three stood from the floor and ran off into the kitchen. “Darry, cmon man…”
Darry arched his back in pain, lips twitching as he tried to force something out.
“Hurts… where’s m-mom…”
Sodapop crouched down beside his eldest brother, blowing cold air onto his face briefly.
“Ma’s at work, she’ll be comin’ home soon, okay? Okay?”
A sudden sharp ache shot all across Darry’s body. It throbbed and burned like his whole body was set ablaze. It was so agonizing that he began to cry, clenching his teeth through it.
By then, Ponyboy ran back into the room with a cold, wet rag, witnessing the display. It took Pony mere seconds to rush to his brother's aid. Darry was tough. Sometimes Pony thought he was even tougher than their own dad, and seeing him weep openly wasn’t a sight you saw every day.
“Darry!? Darry, what's the matter with you?” Ponyboy spoke, frantically pressing the chilled rag to his brother's forehead.
“Darry, is- is it really that bad?” Sodapop asked, almost in awe. He didn’t ever think he’d catch Darry crying over pain, let alone a sickness at that. Darry twitched, blinking away a steady stream of tears.
“E-Everything… hurts…”
Darry could see his vision warping, everything going blurry around the edges, and an all-too-familiar ringing filling his head. He knew from the signs he was close to fainting, and he didn’t want to do that in front of his brothers. All he had done the past day was make people worry, and he was gettin’ sick of doing that.
“Guys…” Darry slurred, feeling his eyelids start to drop again. He tried to speak again, tried to reassure, but his vision slowly faded into black, and the last thing he could make out was the panicked voices of his two brothers yelling at each other.
“Darrel!? Darrel!!”
“Call mom, goddammit!!”
Darry’s blinked his eyes open, only to be met with darkness, an obvious contrast from the warmly lit living room. He felt the softness of bedsheets beneath him, instead of the cushion he had been sleeping on for the past day.
“Darry’s gonna die, he’s gonna die momma!”
Darry went frozen still.
What? Die? He wasn’t dying, he was just sick. Did his brother actually believe that? Had he worried him into thinking such morbid thoughts?
“Dont you say that… now, Darry’s gonna be fine, quiet down so you don't wake him up.”
The voice was familiar and sweet, no doubt his mothers soothing his distressed little sibling. The sound of Ponyboy weeping came next, loud and unyielding. Like it was all he had been doing for hours.
“But momma he ain’t never been like this, never! He fainted, and he keeps throwin’ up, he’s gonna die!!” Pony wailed. If Darry wasn’t already awake, he would’ve probably been woken up by Pony’s insistent sobbing.
“Ponyboy…”
“I don’t want Darry to die!”
“You’re being ridiculous! I’m worried about him too, but alls’ he's got is a bad fever at worst…”
Darry listened to the passing conversation, trying not to cry as he battled the bitter taste of guilt he felt. It was all his fault. If he had just quit pushin’ himself in football, he would’ve never had this happen. He would’ve saved everyone so much stress and worry.
Slowly, he sat himself up and turned to face the two, and gather the surroundings of the room, which he quickly found out to be his parent’s. Pony’s face was buried into their mother’s collarbone. They both snapped their gazes onto him as he arose, face etched with anticipation.
“Oh Darry, are you alright?” His mom asked, but all Darry could focus on was the expression on his little brother. He looked so terrified, like a deer in headlights. It was like he was carefully calculating every movement Darry made, considering every possible outcome he could encounter.
“Pony?” Darry muttered softly. Pony opened his mouth to speak, even moved his lips to try and form words, but to no avail. All that came out was a dejected, helpless sob. Darry tried to reach forward and comfort him, but Pony pushed himself off the bed, running out of the room and into his own. Almost like he was too afraid to get attached, too scared to share any more experiences, because he truly thought Darry was going to die.
Darry brought his hands to his eyes, covering them as if to hide from his guilt. It was dead silent, not a single thought shared by word of mouth. Darry was left alone with his racing mind that only chose to ridicule him of his mistake of continuing on, pushing himself all-too-hard.
“You know, we’re all real’ worried about you, Darry… this is why we say to not push yourself so much!” His mother scolded lightly. Darry left his hands over his eyes, refusing to move. He wanted to cry, he wanted to break down so bad, but he couldn’t, he kept it all in.
“S’all my fault,” He mumbled, moving his hands from his eyes. “M’sorry…”
Darry’s mom sighed and pulled him close, running her hands through her son's disheveled hair.
“That ain’t what I meant… Darry, cmon…” His mother soothed, placing small kisses on his head. Darry broke out into rough, full-body coughs that burned and ached in his lungs.
“Agh.. my head…”
His mom shook her head, gently pushing Darry down against the bed.
“Just go to sleep, Darry, go back to sleep.” She whispered, pulling the covers up to his shoulder.
Darry lay there, closing his eyes and even breathing deeply, but he just couldn't bring himself to fall asleep. The guilt of worrying his family rotted in his brain and made him have to occasionally blink away tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Hours passed by of him lying there, everyone else being able to sleep with relative ease. Both of his parents were asleep on either side of him, out like logs. Darry couldn’t, though. His emotions wouldn’t let him, and it got to be too much to bear.
Darry sat up in his parents' bed and made his way to the bottom of it, climbing off the mattress and onto the hardwood floor without disturbing them. Every step he took felt like death; he was in no condition to be walking and could barely keep himself upright, yet he persisted.
After a brief moment, he reached the living room and made his way to the phone, picking it up off the line and dialing a number. It rang a few times, a long, droning call sound.
“Hello?” A voice broke through.
“Paul…”
“Darry? Are you okay?”
Darry contemplated explaining his issues over the phone, but dropping that on his boyfriend seemed kinda strange to do.
“Can ya’ come over, please?”
Paul paused on the other side of the line. It was midnight at the earliest, and he knew it was a stupid question to be asking so late at night.
“Uhm.. okay, yeah, I’ll be right over.”
Darry hung up the phone and stumbled over to the couch, taking a seat. He didn’t know who else he could’ve talked about this with besides Paul, and he did feel awfully bad about bringing him over so late, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he couldn’t talk with someone.
After about fifteen minutes, the knob of the front door twisted and pushed open, revealing Paul in his letterman jacket, rain stuck in the blonde curls of his hair. He closed the door behind him almost silently and snuck over to sit beside Darry on the couch.
“Hey, are you alright?” Paul asked, whispering low. Darry paused, thinking of how to even begin to answer, but all the recent circumstances hit him like a truck. The guilt, stress, and buildup from everything crashed into him all at once.
Darry let out a sob, one hiccup at first, but one that multiplies into many, and before he knows it, his face is pressed into Paul’s jacket, and he’s crying in front of him for the first time.
“Whoa, hey! Darry, what’s wrong?” He wondered, hands quickly coming to wrap around Darry’s waist, pulling him in. Darry can’t even think of how to explain himself, only muttering fragments of sentences in between sobs.
“S’all my fault… God, s’all my fault…” Paul shook his head and forced Darry to look up into his eyes, his gaze full of concern and desperation.
“What happened? What’s your fault?” He asked clearly. Darry took a minute to gather himself, sucking in long, deep breaths till he could finally form sentences.
“My whole family’s worried sick about me, all because I couldn’t just… fuck…” He paused and wiped his eyes, sniffling. “I could’ve worked less…”
Paul sighed and kissed all along Darry’s temple, holding him tight against his body.
“Darry, you’re a natural hard worker, it ain’t your fault you’re sick, and coach having you guys run out in the rain probably didn’t help none!” Paul settled, trying to rationalize with Darry, who still had tears flowing down his face.
“But I could’ve slowed down… or taken a break.. I just want people to be proud of me…”
Paul placed another kiss right onto Darry’s forehead, stroking the hair that lay on the nape of his neck.
“Quit yer’ crying before you make yourself puke again. I’m proud of you.” Darry listened to the words, and it helped, but there was still a nagging part of him that said it was all his doing. That if he weren’t so careless, wasn’t so selfish, he wouldn’t be in this mess.
Darry looked into his lover’s eyes, tears prickling in the corners, baby blues meeting emerald greens.
“Am I selfish?” Darry asked bluntly. An almost appalled look plastered on Paul’s face, staring at the man across from him as if he were insane.
“What?” Paul paused, taking in the words before pulling Darry flush against him. “No! No baby, no… You just work yourself too hard, that's all. Stop thinkin’ words like that.”
Darry nodded and buried his face in the crook of Paul’s neck, sighing.
“I love you.” He muttered softly. Paul grinned lightly, running a gentle hand down his back.
“I love you too, Dar’.”
Darry still hurt. He still felt like he needed to throw up, his muscles still ached, physically speaking, he felt no better than how he began. But with Paul’s fingers tracing soft, delicate circles on his back, and whispering sweet words in his ear, it felt like maybe he didn’t have to feel as guilty about it,
if only for a moment.