Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One more year.

Eleven months and five days.

That’s all he had left until he was free. Free from the hell hole of a place that is the foster system. Darrel had been bouncing around from house to house since he was ten years old.

A ten year old who, in less than a moment, lost his parents back to back. A freak accident, it was called. Darrel was over at a friend's house the night it happened. The night his mother was found dead with a bullet in her chest, lying right next to his father with a matching bullet hole in his head. A gun in his cold, dead hand.

He doesn’t remember them much, just his mothers long, dark curls that bounced slightly as she walked. He thinks he got his dimples from her, but he doesn’t really know. He remembers how she would scoop him up in her arms, but not much after that. His father had a smile that could light up a room. Perfect pearly whites. He vaguely recalls people saying he looked just like his dad, but the faces of whoever would have said that faded long ago.

Darrel sometimes stands in front of the mirror, wondering if his face still looked like his fathers. The charming man who loved his family. Who couldn’t possibly be a murderer. Darrel just didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t.

People had felt sorry for the small, cute, and scrawny ten year old who had freshly lost his parents in the accident. How tragic, how could anything so terrible happen to a child so young? But as he grew up, that sympathy quickly ran out.

Children were cute, easy to love and care for. Teenagers were messy, emotional, and prepacked with baggage too heavy for some unsuspecting couple to unpack.

When he was younger, the houses he was put in were fine. Nothing notable. He hardly remembers the faces of those first adults—ages ranging from young to old. At first, the homes weren’t the problem. He was.

The stars would align for a wonderful home that was willing to take him in, but Darrel would always put up a fight. He didn’t want some random strangers to play pretend mommy and daddy. He wanted his actual parents back.

And so, he would be sent right back to the system. With the "sorrys" that spilled from his foster parents mouths towards his social worker trailing behind him like heavy weights.

That cycle continued and Darrel was always reprimanded for it. Every time a new house didn’t work he would get whacked with a paddle, ruler, stick—anything, really. They never understood why he couldn’t just behave himself.

As he got older, the houses only dipped in quality. The adults were harsh and unforgiving. Sometimes he wasn’t alone. The other kids were typically mean and nasty. Rough with hardened gazes that wouldn’t let anyone get too close. Especially not Darrel.

And so, he grew hostile. He would bite back at the adults who would toss him around like trash. He barely spoke a word to the other kids his age. He saw the way strong men were unbothered—free to travel the world. He wanted a taste of that, too.

Once puberty hit, he grew fast and he grew tall. He could easily tower over the other kids and very few messed with him anymore. But as his height and build increased, the amount of houses who were willing to take him in faltered.

Who would want to take in the gruff, dirty, oversized kid who didn’t quite know what to do with his own life over the petite, kind, adorable little kid who had a whole lotta potential?

Darrel understood. Even as his temper flared from placement to placement, he understood well. The houses left for him were sparse and clearly bottom of the barrel. A small part of him felt bad for the poor social worker, Catherine, who had been by his side for years, working her ass off trying to get him a suitable place to live.

He does hold some resentment for the people she placed him with during his late teenage years. The suffering he endured for those three years won't never leave him.

The house he lived in when he was fifteen started out fine. They were the Hawkins. It was typical, a promising rich couple who wanted a kid. A gangly fifteen year old probably wasn’t who they had in mind, but they welcomed him all the same.

It was small, at first. Small corrections for everything he did wrong. His speech, his manners, his posture. Small things that would earn him a ‘tsk’ and a small slap on the wrist. But the more mistakes he made, the more irritable they became. He would talk back and that would earn him a smack across the face. He wouldn’t clean up to their liking and he would get locked in his room for the evening. His cooking would come out wrong and suddenly his hand would be pressed down onto the stovetop.

That house changed him in ways he doesn’t like to think about. He doesn’t like to think about them much at all.

The mother, Diane Hawkins, her name was, had a sharp tongue and would be quick to chastise him. It was always spoken in such a silky and eloquent way that an outsider wouldn’t be able to see the venom that weaved its way into his bones. His height and ungraceful physique already made him feel like he was wearing his skin all wrong, but Miss Diane's words always made him feel itchy and wrong. Her lips would curl into a snarl as she would point out how he clambered about like a drunken elephant. Since he stomped around like one, maybe he was just as stupid. He tried to teach himself how to walk softly, elegantly, just like Miss Diane.

The father, Harold Hawkins, preferred to make sure Darrel knew the consequences of his mistakes and to make sure he remembered them. He always did. Things would get thrown, he would get kicked, slapped, slammed down onto the table while Miss Diane calmly drank her tea, and punched. Mister Harold liked to use his fists. He used to be a boxer back in his prime, but now, his favorite target was Darrel. There would be countless times where he’d be so dazed from the beatings that he’d forget where or who he was.

But all the while, he was treated kindly. They showered him in affection that was new and foreign to him. (He quickly learned not to shy away from the attention. No matter how uneasy he felt.) They would buy him things, expensive things. He was given new freedoms and privileges, like going to school. He had been in and out of school depending on which household he was in, but he enjoyed the place. He never made friends, the system showed him not to bother with such meaningless connections, but he did excel in his studies, even if he was behind. Every feathery kiss on the cheek reminded him of the bruises blossoming on his chest. Every penny spent reminded him of the everlasting fear of messing up. His mind felt muddled and confused with the rules that changed daily—feeling like a circus performer unable to balance because the beam was ripped right out from under his feet.

He escaped that house by pure fate. It had been months of this back and forth dance that he couldn’t quite get right, and his social worker was overseeing the final steps into his unfortunate adoption. She was over for dinner that day instead of a short check-in. Darrel knew she was partly there to observe him and partly there to discuss details with the Hawkins.

He was to set the table, a task he had all but perfected after a mishap from a few months earlier which resulted in his hands being held down and forced under scalding hot water.

This was an easy task. There was no room for mistakes. Hell, the very fact that he messed up still baffles him to this day. He had been placing everyone's respective glasses down at the table, when his hand—large, clumsy, heavy—knocked over Mister Harold's’ glass, causing his whisky to spill all over the pearl-white tablecloth and onto the floor.

Mister Harold had stood up abruptly, causing Darrel to flinch backwards so violently he stumbled and rammed right into the fancy glass cabinet full of valuable dinnerware. He desperately scrambled away from the cabinet while incoherently blabbering apologies, trembling so fiercely he could barely stand upright.

Catherine took him out of their house quickly after that.

But the knife had already cut too deep, leaving Darrel with scars he couldn’t rid himself of. He felt a deep shame and wave of embarrassment whenever he flinched at the slightest of gestures. The other kids in the system caught on quick, using his new weakness as a way to knock Darrel down a few.

So, Darrel did what he did best: buried the feelings deep down inside his gut and forced himself to man up. He was tough. He was strong. He wouldn’t let nobody touch him.

He wouldn’t be stupidly reckless and act out like he used to. He would suck it up, do what was asked of him, and keep his head down. He wouldn’t take no disrespect, but he wouldn’t go chasing trouble. After all, just another two years and he could run free.

Sixteen wasn’t much easier. There were three different houses that year, the Phillips, the Campbells, and Mr. Collins. The worst of the three being the latter.

Mr. Collins was an older man harshened from fighting in the second world war. His very presence made Darrel and the other two kids there permanently on edge, as if they were waiting for the old man to snap and shoot one of them if they breathed wrong. Whatever hair he had left was greyed and the lines on his face made him look far older than he should’ve. His eyes were a sickly green which only sharpened the ever-present scowl on his face.

School, Darrel's one escape, was ripped away from him in a flash. What's the point of wasting an education on someone who could be doing the hard work around the house? Mr. Collins had a busted leg after the war and so all the manual labor was thrusted onto Darrel's shoulders. Construction, yardwork, deep cleaning, and anything else Mr. Collins demanded.

The other kids weren’t spared from the responsibilities either. There was a young girl, Judy—Darrel only knew her name due to Mr. Collins shouting it at the top of his lungs constantly—she was subjected to mostly cooking and cleaning for the man. The poor girl was berated left and right for not being ‘ladylike’.

The other boy, Anthony, was older than Darrel and did the budgeting and finances, given he had actually gone to school for the majority of his life. He was the only one who was ever really permitted to go out, even if it was just to the grocery store. (Anthony had aged out of the house just a few weeks before Darrel left. The older boy celebrated his birthday quietly with Judy and Darrel, then during the night, he slipped away without a word.)

Mr. Collins ruled that house with an iron fist—stepping out of line was out of the question. He kept a shotgun by his bedside, not to shoot—even though it was loaded, but to beat them with. An honest way to show them who’s in charge.

He had his other ways of control, such as managing their food. The old man had survived on next to nothing during battle, so they should be grateful they even got a sliver of food. Even then, he would still send them off to work or to bed with nothing in their stomachs. This was his most preferred method when it came to Darrel. Maybe he was spiteful that Darrel had a muscular build, and was determined to wither him down one empty plate at a time. Darrel had lost a good amount of muscle mass while at that house.

Funny enough, it was thanks to Judy that he got out. The young girl was as sharp as a whistle— collecting evidence of the old man's abuse and showing all the proof to her social worker during a visit. A striking difference from Darrel, who was willing to work his sanity away for two years until he could finally leave. The man must’ve gotten his credentials for fostering taken away because suddenly Darrel was stripped away from that house and was back to square one.

Catherine doted over him constantly once he was back. Fretting over the weight he had so suddenly lost and the strength that had all but left him—mentally and physically. Surprisingly, she didn’t shove him in the next home available. She let a few months pass, claiming she was trying to find the right home for him, a good home.

Which is why, now, he finds himself in the same old backseat of the same old car with the same old bag at his feet driving a couple hours away to a new house.

His face is resting against the window, watching the terrain pass them by. His messy dark brown hair falls slightly in front of his face, but he makes no move to fix it. His icy blue eyes are half-lidded, his reflection in the window drawing attention to his deep purple eyebags that contrast against his slightly tanned skin that somehow looks sickly and pale. He has to force himself to not stare at the deep cut permanently etched into his left cheek. Or the burn mark on his neck. Or the way his face is all withered instead of sturdy. Or the way his entire body is all gangly and unsteady instead of firm and fit.

They’ve been driving for an eternity now. Maybe everyone's finally had enough of him and Catherine was instructed to drive him to the middle of nowhere and throw him out where no one’ll find the body.

That thought makes the ghost of a smile appear on his face. He blinks his eyes open, the oddly soothing motion of the car making it incredibly difficult to keep his eyelids upright. The scenery looks no different than the last time he watched it go past, so he shuts his eyes, shuffling against the window to get more comfortable, ready for a nap. Nothing else to do, anyhow.

He feels himself slip away into the sweet nothingness of sleep, when suddenly the car jerks forward without warning. He startles, eyes flying open as his face smacks against the window. His arms flail for something to latch onto as his breathing picks up. Distantly, through the buzzing in his ears, he hears Catherine swear.

“Oh, Sweet Mary! Apologies, Darrel. This city and its potholes. Are you alright?”

Darrel has a death grip on his seatbelt. His breathing strained through his clenched teeth. He shuts his eyes tight, forcing his stupid heart to stop beating so damn fast.

“Darrel?”

“M’fine.” He mumbles.

“I’m glad,” There’s a hesitant pause. “Well, now that we’re both wide awake, let’s talk about this home, alright?”

Darrel internally groans. He’s heard the same speech a thousand times by now, he’s practically got it memorized. Catherine doesn’t even wait for him to respond before opening her mouth.

“I know more than anyone that you’ve been in some…. rough circumstances the past few years. It’s not your fault, but it’s important that you work with me here, Darrel. I want you to have a place to call home with adults you can depend upon.”

He held back the scoff that bubbled in his throat. Adults have shown him time and time again that they don’t care.

“The Curtis’ are lovely people, I promise you. I went to high school with them. I was searching for homes further out than where we’ve usually looked and I immediately recognized them. They have two kids of their own, thirteen and ten, respectively. I reckon you’ll get along with them just fine.”

That struck him as odd. He’s never been in a house with kids that aren’t other fosters. “Why’re they takin’ me if they already got kids?”

Catherine smiled at him through the rear view mirror. “I guess you’ll have to ask them, hm?”

Darrel grumbled, crossing his arms and sinking down into his seat.

“Darrel, stop it,” She demanded. “They’re a nice family with sweet kids. You need to try to get along with them, that’s all I’m asking. Even if it’s just for a year until you age out.”

An uneasy tension filled the vehicle as Catherine sighed heavily.

“This is the furthest I can stretch your case. It’s either this family or a permanent behavioral home. Do you understand?”

A lump settled heavy in his throat. He’s heard stories of various boys' homes, none of them pleasant. Kids there get eaten and torn apart like prey. He probably would’ve survived or, hell, made a name for himself if he still warranted fear the way he did just a year ago. Now, though? The kids no better than rabid dogs would tear through his flesh with ease.

“Do you understand me, Darrel Shaynne?”

Darrel winced, jerking his head up to meet her sharp gaze and straight out of his own thoughts. Swallowing thickly, he nervously licked his dry lips, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Catherine's eyes softened ever so slightly. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. It’s just about thirty more minutes until we arrive. I can answer any questions you have.”

Silence stretched on before he asked, “Where in Oklahoma are we goin’?”

“Oh, a small town inside of Tulsa. There’s a train that runs through it, if I remember correctly. It’s a lovely little area.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, before falling back into silence once more. He fiddled with the loose strings on the hem of his black shirt, one of the few shirts that don’t make him look clunky.

The ‘lovely little area’ Catherine spoke of must’ve been long gone because as they reached the part town that he would be calling ‘home’, he became real aware of how… awful it looked. Almost all the buildings looked worn down, trash littered the streets, and the whole neighborhood looked totally busted.

Darrel's been in some crappy neighborhoods before, ‘specially with the Phillips, but nowhere as bad as this place. It reminded him of the foster home more than anything, and that was the dirtiest place imaginable.

The roads were rough, too. Darrel saw Catherine hold onto the steering wheel a bit tighter as they drove onward. He swore he saw glass littering the street, too, and prayed to God that it didn’t pop a tire. He did not wanna spend any more time than necessary with Catherine, no thank you.

As they turned down a street lined with various houses, Darrel wondered which one he would be staying in. The one with the half painted, broken fence? Nope. The one with the pathetic looking tree with a tire swing? Nope. The one with broken boarded up windows? Yeesh.

“Oh, there it is!” Catherine said. “The little yellow one, you see.”

Darrel turned his head to look at… A little yellow house. Well, it looked more like a home. It didn’t look depressing and stuck in time like the others, no, it looked lived in. There was a football left out on the steps, right below the porch swing that was swaying in the breeze. Both porch lights were on, bathing the front of the house in a warm, golden hue.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the house, and Catherine turned to face him.

“I need you to try, Darrel.” She repeated. “Are you ready to go?”

“Mm-hm.”

Catherine smiled, patting his cheek affectionately. His cheeks tinged pink in embarrassment at the gesture. He wasn’t a little kid, yet Catherine still occasionally treated him like one. She fixed up her hair in the rear view mirror before getting out of the car. Darrel swung his raggedy backpack over his shoulder and followed her up the steps.

He couldn’t shake the anxious buzzing underneath his skin as he took each dreaded step. His mind wandered, trying to guess what kind of family awaited him. He had endured almost every kind of beating, so he could only hope they’d punish him in some familiar way instead of surprising him by switching it up.

Catherine stopped suddenly, causing Darrel to bump into her, and she frowned.

“Try and stay present in the moment, Darrel. None of this... spacing out business.” Darrel's face flushed even more, and he turned his head away.  “And stand up straight, you’re slouching. You’re about to meet them, be polite.”

Straightening his posture and trying his best to get rid of the frown on his face, Darrel stared down at the base of the door.

Catherine rapped her knuckles on the door with three efficient knocks, and before he could even blink the door opened. He fully expected it to be an adult standing there, but was taken aback by the small teen who looked to be about thirteen or twelve there instead.

The kid had long, dark-gold hair that swooped in the front and long in the back. He had honey brown eyes that glistened under the warm yellow porch light. The kid looked like some kind of child actor or model. He had the biggest smile Darrel had ever seen plastered on his face as he swung the door open fully. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang and Darrel tried to hide his flinch.

The kid opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a woman’s voice.

“Sodapop Patrick I know you did not just open that door when both your father and I told you to stay in the living room!”

The kid—Sodapop? Patrick?— swiveled around to grin sheepishly at the woman who walked into view. Darrel subconsciously tensed up upon seeing her. She had golden brown curls similar to the child in front of her, but with bright blue eyes that looked just like the ocean. She seemed taller for a lady, having a few inches on Catherine. She was dressed nicely. Not anything fancy or extravagant, just welcoming. But her voice was sharp and no-nonsense. Darrel unconsciously took a small step back and shrunk as she reprimanded her son.

“Awh, I know, Mama!” The boy whined. “But I heard a knock and I was right here and—“

“And you got excited and answered it anyway. You are just like your daddy,” The woman shook her head, sighing exasperatedly. “Go join your brother in the living room and stay there this time. You hear me, mister?” She asked, placing a hand on her hip and cocking her head to the side.

Sodapop nodded instantly, looking like an uncontrollable bobblehead. “I hear you, Mama.” He grinned, turning on his heel and skipping away, not before waving to Darrel and his social worker. “Bye mystery lady! Bye bye new mystery brother! See you soon!” And he was gone.

Mrs. Curtis watched him go, an amused smile on her face as she shook her head. She soon turned her attention to the two at the door. “Terribly sorry about him. He’s been talking nonstop about this all week. Bouncing off the walls ever since we broke the news.”

Catherine laughed, that fake pleasantries laugh she always did. “It’s no problem at all, Karen. He seems like a sweet boy.”

“He’s got a heart of gold, he does. Though sometimes it’s hard to keep him reigned in.”

“Ain't it so?”

More forced laughter. Darrel shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, enough of Soda,” She turned to face him, but Darrel didn’t maintain eye contact. Instead staring at the wall right behind her. “What’s your name, dear?”

Darrel's eyebrows furrowed. She already knew his name, why was she asking him for it?

“Um. Darrel.” He mumbled nonetheless. He could feel Catherine wanting to correct him for not speaking more clearly.

“That’s a lovely name. You share it with my husband,” She stepped back into the house, calling out over her shoulder. “Darrel! The boy is here, come down!”

The heavy thudding of footsteps approaching could’ve been heard half down the block. An excited laugh echoed through the halls, one full of warmth. Darrel blinked and suddenly there was a man who looked so eerily similar to himself all he could do was stare. Darrel Curtis was a tall, muscular man with arms strong enough to beat him bloody. He had dark brown hair that framed his face and was combed just out of his eyes. His eyes were a sickly—no, a sage green that contrasted against his sun tanned skin. He had a smile on his face as he stood next to his wife.

“Well if it ain’t the Junior! Nice to meet you, son.” Darrel Curtis extended his hand out to shake, and Darrel Shaynne took it with a trembling hand.

“… It's nice t’meet you, too.”

That time, Catherine did correct him with a sharp look and a tight grin. “Darrel. Use your manners. You’re being rude.”

He shrank once more, tension bleeding into his posture as he looked down. He wasn't trying to be rude. 

“Sorry. Um. It’s nice to meet you, too, sir.”

Darrel didn’t see the look that the Curtis’ exchanged with each other, his eyes fixed to the ground.

“It’s quite alright, son. Do you need some help getting your things from the car?” Mr. Curtis asked.

“Nah— Um. No. I got everything.”

He startled as Catherine clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Well, if you both are ready to take him in, and since the paperwork has already been finalized, I will let you all be.” Catherine turned to eye him. “I know he’ll be a pleasure to have.”

He was then nudged forward, into the belly of the beast.

The next few moments were a blur, Catherine was quick to leave, and he was ushered inside their home. Darrel stayed alert as the Curtis’ talked to him, trying to understand what kind of people they were. They didn’t start raising their voices the minute Catherine left, but that didn’t mean they weren’t gonna.

Mrs. Curtis led him down the hall, Mr. Curtis trailing behind. “Your room is just down this hall. The room next to it belongs to Ponyboy and Sodapop—Our sons. I’m sure you’ll get along with them just fine.” She smiled at him, but Darrel couldn’t find it in him to smile back. What the hell were they snuffing in this seemingly innocent home to name their kids after a drink and a horse? Either he just got placed with the circus, or this house ain’t gonna be very homely. Darrel internally winced. He didn’t want to be the one picking up leftover needles and tiny orange bottles, not again. Especially not with two kids—one who’s already been nosy—around.

Is that why he was brought here? To babysit the young ones while they shot up in the bathroom? Someone they deemed just old enough to clean up their messes and watch over their kids, but not too old to be able to do anything about it. Hell, maybe at this point some dope would make his own life better. People did it for a reason, right?

“We’ll leave you to unpack, son,” Darrel jumped harshly at the voice behind him, clenching his hands into fists to hide the way they fiercely shook.

He forced his head to move, looking behind him at the man. Darrel didn’t see any suspiciously dilated pupils… or any twitching limbs. Nothing he could gather from just a glance, because soon his eyes were dropping to the floor in embarrassment the longer he stared.

“Th— Thank you, sir.” He stammered out, stumbling into the bedroom like a fawn just learning how to walk.

Sweet Jesus he needed to get his act together. He hasn’t been here for more than 20 minutes and he’s already acting like a fool. He’s gonna pull himself together. He’s gotta.

He glanced around the room. It was pretty unnoteworthy—there was a bed, a dresser, and a small desk. It was undecorated, like they assumed he would decorate it with his own stuff. Too bad the only things he has are clothes, a toothbrush, and a little yorkie stuffed animal he’s had since he was a kid. He thinks his parents gave it to him, but he’s not really sure. He didn’t let any of the kids from the foster home see it. The one kid that knew of its existence he socked so hard in the jaw it cracked. Sure, he was too old to care about a dumb stuffed animal, but a small irrational part of him didn’t want to let it go. So he kept it safe and sound in his backpack.

Eyeing the bed nervously, he shifted to sit on the floor, furthest away from the door. The Curtis’ never said he had to come out after unpacking, and it was getting increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. With his body against the side of the bed, turned away from the door, he reached out and grabbed his backpack. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he held the backpack under his chin like a pillow, and let his eyes flutter shut. A quick nap before the first awkward dinner is all he needed.

He could just rest for a short while. Just for a moment…

“….rrel…”

There was a soft voice in his ear. Pulling him out of his restless slumber.

“Darrel, dear, can you wake up for me?”

The voice persisted, followed by a gentle hand on his shoulder that had him startling awake. He ungracefully scrambled from his half laying down position on the floor. One hand grasping onto the bed behind him and the other tensed up at his side. His head shot up, tired eyes rapidly blinking the sleep away as he made contact with Mrs. Curtis. She had a sincere (sad?) look on her face for some reason. As Darrel came to, he became aware of the pain in his neck and back, suddenly regretting his decision to sleep on the ground.

“There you are,” She cooed. “What’re you doing on the floor, baby?”

Baby. That nickname shot a wave of panic through him. The last person to call him that was-- Miss Diane.

“I— It was an accident, ma’am. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He bowed his head.

There was an awkward silence before Mrs. Curtis slowly spoke her next words. “Now, don’t you worry about it.”

She paused for a moment, looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for Darrel to reply. But he didn’t. His mouth felt sewn shut, the weight of her stare boring into him.

“Are you ready for dinner? The boys are dyin’ to meet you.” Mrs. Curtis continued, filling his silence.

Right. He had almost forgotten about the other two kids in the house. Too focused on trying to read the adults he didn’t even sneak a glance at whoever he’d be living with. Wordlessly, he nodded, rising to his feet.

Letting Mrs. Curtis lead the way, he trailed behind her, hands shoved into his pockets. The kitchen was just as homely as the rest of the house, maintaining a sense of unfamiliar security within the home. Sat at the head of the table was Mr. Curtis, next to him was the golden haired boy, and next to him was a small, scrawny boy with a head of reddish brown hair that was slightly curled near the ends. He had wide, curious eyes that watched Darrel with an expression he couldn’t quite name as he entered the room.

The kitchen smelt of a good cooked chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and buttered rolls. The aroma was so strong it made his stomach twist. He hadn’t seen such a nice homemade meal in ages.

Darrel lingered awkwardly as the family served their plates. He felt like an invasive bystander intruding on a nice family dinner. Mrs. Curtis handed him a plate, telling him to dish up. Not wanting to go against her words, he listened, serving himself a small portion of the food. Darrel doubted he could handle any more, not to mention he didn’t want to take more than he needed.

He sat down at the table, right next to Mrs. Curtis and right across from the other two kids. Sodapop had been aimlessly talking about everything and nothing, but now all his attention was directed at Darrel.

“Hello! I’m Sodapop and I’ve been waiting foreeever for you to show up! I always knew I was supposed to have an older brother. I mean, Steve and Dally are technically older but they’re not big brothers, they’re just older. Oh! You don’t know them! Steve’s my best buddy, he’s the best. He’s real good with cars and can fix anything— oh, Mama, can he meet Steve?”

Darrel didn’t even process half the words Soda had spoken. He was talking faster than lightning in a shook up bottle. His gaze flickered over to Mrs. Curtis, who had been eyeing his small portion of food. Everyone else had filled their plates up nice and good, yet his remained slightly bare. Darrel couldn’t get a good read on her facial expression, and that made his heart hammer fearfully in his chest.

Miss Curtis hummed for a moment, before answering her son, “Once he’s settled in and ready, you can introduce him to all your friends.”

Darrel inwardly scoffed. Settled in? He hasn’t been able to settle down somewhere his whole life.

Soda just beamed, his smile growing impossibly wider as he nodded. “Okay! You also gotta meet Two-bit, he’s a real funny guy! Well, not funnier than me, I’m even more funnierer.”

“That’s not a word, Soda.” The smaller boy piped up, a slight annoyed whine to his voice. “And you forgot Johnny.”

Soda squawked in defence. “It so is a word! I said it, didn't I? And I didn’t forget Johnny, I was getting to him!”

“Did to!”

“Did not!”

The raising of their voices made Darrel shrink back in his seat. He wasn’t used to dinners being so chaotic at placements, usually they expected politeness—quiet. The kids being so blatantly disrespectful felt like a pit of ice deep in his gut. His hands tensed on his ratted jeans, dirty and unclipped nails digging into the coarse material.

At the the head of the table, Mr. Curtis cleared his throat.

A cold sweat broke across Darry's forehead. The noise echoed loudly throughout the small room and incessantly rang around Darrels head, screeching over and over like a loud, red siren warning danger. Get to safety. His mind screamed.

Darrel immediately ducked his head, intensely staring down at his lap. He wasn’t the one who messed up, yet his heart pounded anyway. It was an impossible feat to keep his body from trembling, the shakes that plagued him never did go away.

He waited for the screaming, the punishments, the crying, the scene that eventually would unfold before him. He always thought he'd be ready for these moments, yet he never was.

“Boys, settle down. I know you’re both very excited to introduce all your friends to Darrel, but you haven’t even let him get a word out. What do you have to say to him?”

“Sorry, Darrel.” The two young boys echoed in unison, as if they were reading a script.

And… that was it. No yelling, no swats or hits, no nothing.

Darrel continued to stare down at his lap until the silence lapsed on. He hesitantly looked up, flushing bright red as he realized everyone at the table was staring at him. Waiting for him to say something.

He opened his trap, willing a proper and respectful sentence to expertly flow out his mouth, but such was not the case. He was too taken aback by the lack of reaction from their father.

“Oh. Um. No- no, it’s okay. Um…” He fumbled, ears burning hot. He avoided eye contact with everyone, choosing instead to look down at his dinner plate. Still untouched. In comparison, everyone else's plates were almost empty.

Suddenly he found himself wishing the ground would swallow him whole, to be free of any attention at all. Bad or good, he couldn’t handle the eyes on him, the looks he couldn’t decipher. It's always something negative, he realized that a long time ago.

From pity, to contempt, to frustration, to annoyance, to hatred. There were no positive looks thrown his way. At least not since his folks, he thinks. He wishes he could remember the look of his Mama's face, of her eyes. He wondered if she would look at him with love, a mothers love. Maybe there would be adoration, maybe pride. Did his father look at him like someone worth something? Did he see a bright, young boy? A boy he was glad to call his son? Maybe his father looked at him with fondness and respect. He bets his real parents would never look at him with such pity. The same pity the Curtis’ had in their eyes.

He picked up his fork. Swirled around the mashed potatoes gone cold. If he just ate and followed their rules he could just survive until he turned eighteen. It didn’t work with Mr. Collins, but maybe it would work here.

Maybe this placement would let him get a job? He could work until he was of age, save up enough money, and then just…. Run. Somewhere far, where nobody would expect. Hop a train to New York. Hitchhike to Maine. Nobody lives in Maine.

“You wanna tell us a little about yourself, honey?” Mrs. Curtis spoke up, and it was like God himself was punishing him for just existing.

He swallowed down the thickness in his throat caused by that nickname, and gently shook his head. There wouldn’t be much to talk about, anyways. He doesn’t have any talent to be good at much. He can’t play an instrument, he can’t draw, he can read just fine but it don’t interest him all that much, he’s never had the time to play a sport. There’s just nothing to him.

“Aw, come on, son,” Mr. Curtis continued. “There’s gotta be something worth sharing. Ponyboy’s a library disguised as a boy and Sodapop’s a walking-talking sugar rush.” He chuckled, eyeing his sons fondly before turning back to Darrel. “What about you? What do you enjoy?”

It was rude to not answer, but his mind simply drew up blank. What did he enjoy? Well, for one, he enjoyed not getting beat, but families don’t really like to hear about his past experiences. He used to like working out, but that was before he felt like a dumb elephant stamping about.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“I - I like chocolate?” He offered, the answer sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

However, it was, apparently, the greatest news the golden haired boy across the table had ever heard. He gasped, shooting up from his seat like a bullet. He raced from his chair to the icebox, sliding on his socked feet as he joyfully rambled.

“Me too! Oh, man! We’re practically twin brothers now!”

He threw open the icebox, not-so-carefully grabbing a platter that held a large chocolate cake. It looked heavenly, perfectly frosted and baked to perfection. Darry's mouth began to water with craving before he could stop himself.

“Mama makes the best cakes! Me n’ Pony helped her with this one, but she hasn’t let us eat it yet.”

Soda hauled it onto the already cramped dining table, shoving aside the bowl of potatoes in his way.

“So, obviously, that means it's for you!”

Soda grinned so wide it made Darry's gums hurt. Darry tried to return the smile, but it didn’t quite fit his face right. The antics of the kid were cute, but Darry couldn’t help but be confused and a little apprehensive. He shot a weary look at Mrs. Curtis, who was politely covering her mouth as she shook with barely concealed laughter. She was looking at Sodapop with such an amused yet tender gaze.

He looked over to Mr. Curtis, who looked about the same. He was shaking his head, a charming grin on his face. He reached out and ruffled Sodapops hair. “Spoiling our big surprise aren’t ya?” He clapped Soda on the back, stood up, and walked over to the knife block.

Darry failed to suppress a flinch as the older man walked by him. The sight of the knife in his hand made Darry queasy.

Mr. Curtis just walked back over, sliding the cake closer and smoothly cutting a slice. He asked Ponyboy to get plates for everyone, with Mrs. Curtis helping the small boy reach the tall cupboards.

It was so sickenly domestic.

A slice of delicious looking cake was slid right next to his half eaten plate of dinner. Taunting him, almost. Seeing if he would even dare to try and eat a treat before finishing up his meal.

The Curtis kids seemed to have no inner qualms, simply scrounging into their respective slices of chocolatey goodness. The mess that culminated—especially around Sodapop—made him cringe internally. Darry’ll definitely have to clean that up after dinner.

“Are you not hungry, son?”

The softly concerned voice made him jump, turning his head to stare at the older man. His voice low, a conversation only between them two. The wife was busy scrubbing a handkerchief across the youngest's face, tsking him gently. Darry's gaze flickered back over to Mr. Curtis. Those tender green eyes were set in such a fatherly way. Maybe if he squinted, he could pretend it was his actual father.

“I ain’t finished my dinner, sir,” Darrel started. A small hangnail formed on his thumb, and he picked at it. “I’ll finish my plate, I - I won’t waste it.”

“Don’t worry about finishing it all tonight, son. Anything that doesn’t get eaten gets saved for later.” There was such a kind smile on his face. But was it truly kind? Was it another way to trap him? A false sense of security?

Darrel just nodded stiffly, automatically grabbing his fork and shoving the chicken down his throat.

A sigh left Mr. Curtis’ mouth, and Darrel damn near choked on the chicken he forced down. That sound was never good.

“I know it ain’t gonna be an easy transition, but my wife and I wanna make this place comfortable for you. If that means cutting dinner short and enjoying some cake, then you’re fully allowed to enjoy some cake.” Mr. Curtis winked at him, then took his dinner plate and began to wrap it up.

Darry was left staring at the man's back, his fork loosening in his appalled grasp. His head was reeling in pure, utter confusion. His mind stuttering, gaze frantically flicking around the kitchen as if it would give him some answers.

Darrel wasn’t necessarily hungry for dinner anymore, but he couldn’t just— not eat the food they prepared for him. That was rude, blatantly disrespectful. But it was taken from him. He couldn’t just grab it back. He didn’t really want to, but who the hell knew when he’d get to eat again?

The more he tried to think about it, the more his thoughts spiraled. He didn’t understand, and the pressure of not knowing was making him dizzy. The fork tumbled out of his hand and he instinctively clenched his hand around nothing. An impossibly quiet, strangled wheeze of a breath left his throat as he watched the family interact.

Once he had shut the icebox, Mr. Curtis was ambushed by Sodapop begging for another slice. His tiny body wrapped around his fathers legs, keeping him in place. Ponyboy wriggled away from his mothers hands to join in, giggling freely as he jumped on his dads back. There was loud laughter and harmless taunts, Ponyboys squeaky voice shrieking out as Mr. Curtis hauled him upside down—pretending to loosely dangle him, but holding onto his son in the most careful way Darry’d ever seen. Sodapop had taken that opportunity to tackle his fathers waist, trying with all his might to haul him down. All while Ponyboy yelled for help through his laughter, with Sodapop shouting in determination as he planted his feet and tried to push.

And Darry watched the whole thing, body frozen, one hand curled into itself on the table and the other digging into the fabric of his jeans.

He wanted out. It was so loud. Mr. Curtis could easily overpower all of them if he wanted to. His heart was thumping in his throat. He was gonna hurl. Anxiety curled deep in his gut. Try as he might, his breathing got shallower.

“Do you not like cake, honey?”

A shaky little gasp escaped Darry at the sudden question. He bit his lip, chewing it silently as he tried to wrangle himself together. The boys had taken up so much space he had forgotten about Mrs. Curtis entirely.

He fumbled for an answer, wringing his hands out nervously. He can’t say he didn’t like it because that was impolite. But he can’t say he does like it because he hadn’t taken a bite. He was trapped. Trapped in stupid words disguised as a punishment no matter which way he went.

Instead, Darry lifted his head slightly, though his eyes still remained downcast. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he began, voice trembling terribly. “I-I’ll finish my slice, won’t waste it. I swear it.” He repeated, echoing the same words he had said to her husband.

Darry wasn’t looking up, so he didn’t see the way Mrs. Curtis’ eyes pinched in concern before softening. He only saw her sit down next to him, slowly placing both her hands on the table, folded neatly. He wearily watched her all the while, tension easing slightly when she clasped her hands together gently. Risking a glance at her face, he saw nothing but… kindness. A sort of tenderness that only a mother could carry. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that. He averted his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. There were still no obvious signs of neglect or anything illegal—no needles or empty bottles. No obvious signs of being doped up, but his head screamed at him to find the crack in the illusion. To find out how to survive.

“Don’t tell my boys now, but I’ve always preferred strawberry shortcake.” Mrs. Curtis said evenly, dragging the platter of cake closer to her. Slow and steady, each movement purposeful.

Darry blinked, blatant confusion overtaking his face, ripping him out of his fear induced spiral.

“Back when I was a little girl, my Mama had a garden. Weren’t nothing fancy, but she grew the most delicious strawberries.” Mrs. Curtis sighed wistfully, eyes twinkling under the light as she reminisced. “Every summer, my siblings and me would race out to the garden when it was time to harvest. We were never told the exact dates, we just knew. The morning dew would glitter a little extra, the lightest of breezes would cool our skin, and it was like the whole damn world was just a little brighter.”

Mrs. Curtis blinked at herself, then chuckled behind her hand. “Pardon my language,” She smiled, gaze shifting over to Mr. Curtis. Darry quickly followed her gaze, watching as Mr. Curtis gave Sodapop a piggyback ride while he carried Ponyboy, pretending the young boy was flying. “That rascal has influenced my mouth, I suppose.”

Mrs. Curtis hummed to herself, sliding Darrels plate of cake over to herself. “Anyhow, after my brothers and sisters and I had collected all the berries, we’d bring our baskets to our mother. We all wanted to beg and plead for her to whip up some cream and toss those biscuits in the oven, but my mother was a woman who was keen on manners.” She then reached over, grabbing a knife and slicing the piece of cake in half. “Asking her so sweetly to please make us a summer treat. Oh, she would kick us crazy kids out of her kitchen so fast! Rag in hand, she’d swat at us until we all were outside, playing with the neighborhood kids.”

Another fond look overtook Mrs. Curtis’ expression. Darry watched her glance up at a photo mounted on the wall, but he couldn’t tell quickly enough which one it was. His head was spinning less now, but confusion still swirled in his gut.

Mrs. Curtis grabbed her own empty plate that she had yet to put away and placed one half of the cake on it. “But, when the fireflies came out, the sun slowly set, and the street lights began to flicker on, there was always a fresh strawberry shortcake waiting for us on the kitchen table.” Mrs. Curtis then slid Darry's plate back to him, an easier slice of cake for him to eat.

Darry looked over to Mrs. Curtis fully then, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked back at him with the whole warmth of the soul behind her eyes. Like she was truly seeing him.

“My mother wasn’t the best with words,” She started, looking down at her own plated cake. “We fought loudly, often. She thought I was throwing myself away, that I wasn’t ladylike. I thought she was a wet rag.”

Mrs. Curtis’ gaze met Darry's, and he couldn’t help the small smile from overtaking his face upon seeing the playful glint in the woman's eyes, his shoulders easing down a smidge. She smiled deeper in return, the crows feet on her face crinkled.

“But,” She went onwards, her soft eyes never leaving Darrels. “She was still my mother, and she still loved me. Even if she didn’t know how to say it, she would always show it.”

Mrs. Curtis picked up her fork, gathering a bite of cake and leaning it Darrels direction, as if to toast. “Cheers.” She said lightly, nodding at him.

Soon enough, his own fork was back in his grasp. His arms still trembled, but his chest no longer ached. He dug the fork into the cake, scooping up a bite and gently tapping the edge of his fork to Mrs. Curtis’.

“Cheers.” He responded shyly, only able to hold eye contact for a few seconds.

The piece of cake was absolutely delicious. He nearly started crying there and then once the burst of sweetness coated his tongue. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been given something so special. On his first day, nonetheless. Typically he had to work his way up to these sorts of things, yet here the Curtis’ were. Just handing it out to him.

The icing was overwhelmingly sweet, as if someone had dumped twice as much sugar as necessary. But Darry couldn’t even complain, the sweetness brought him back to a simpler time. Just a simple life pleasure that settled the heart. His heart. The cake itself balanced the icing out, more light and airy that it practically felt like a cloud in his mouth. The soft clatter of metal against porcelain rang out as he shoveled more cake into his mouth like a starving man. Shutting his eyes, he just enjoyed the fuzzy feeling inside that this little treat gave him.

When a gentle and calm hand fell onto his shoulder, he shot his eyes open, startled by how close Mrs. Curtis had gotten—even though she hadn’t moved from her seat. Subconsciously, he braced himself, body tensing even though she hadn’t been a threat.

“I cannot even begin to imagine what sort of life you have lived until now,” A light intake of breath, followed by a steadier one. “But I hope that even a small bite of cake will help. We will take it day by day, honey. There’s no rush.”

Darry felt hot and ugly tears well up in his eyes. That gross lump in his throat kept any words he wanted to say locked up tight. Mrs. Curtis brought a hand up to cup his cheek, her calloused thumb wiping away the stray tears that began to overflow. Such a familial gesture, being offered to him. Yet another thing he didn’t understand, the rules of this house were all upside-down. His breath hitched, shoulders trembling with all the emotion he’d kept locked away.

“Oh, honey,” She cooed, her other hand reaching up and gently stroking his hair. “It’s okay to cry, baby.” She whispered, as if Darrel was actually her own baby.

The boy flinched yet again at the nickname, but the words hit him hard. It’s okay to cry.

For months and months on end he’d been beat, ridiculed, mocked for the tiniest sliver of emotion that showed. The belt that slashed his back and shoulders still left phantom pains occasionally. Bowing his head, Darry shook it. 

“Now, now.” Mrs. Curtis lulled, “My daddy used to say that men shouldn't cry. And he also said that he saw Bigfoot.” She chuckled, but frowned when Darrel didn’t even seem to process her joke. “If there’s one thing I got from my old man, it’s to never listen to a thing he says.”

He was okay. He can pull himself together.

So what if he’d never been held like this in other homes? He didn’t need it. Comfort was just something that would bring him down. Soften him up, make him weak. He was already losing his muscle mass fast, he couldn’t lose his smarts, too.

But the hands cupping his face were delicate, and he crumpled. 

His hands unsteadily raised, grasping onto the blouse of the woman, his head falling forward onto her shoulder as more tears poured from his eyes. Hiccupping sobs became more difficult to bite down, they clawed up his throat until he couldn’t keep them at bay anymore. Those calm and gentle hands wrapped around his boxy frame, holding him—not tightly, but close. He buried his face further into her shoulder, hands grasping for anything to hold as pent-up tears streamed down his face. His eyes stung miserably and his pride was deeply wounded, but the low, soothing shushes and hums wrapped around him like a quilt. Holding him steady, keeping him anchored. 

The dull nails she had carefully ran along his back in slow, calming circles. “Shh, honey, it’s alright.” She repeated. “Deep breaths, there you go. I’m here.”

The sobs that wracked his body only grew, his grasp turned desperate, dull, dirty nails digging into her shirt. An attempt at a sentence fumbled from his mouth, but clearly didn’t articulate any of his thoughts, because Mrs. Curtis just shushed him again, reminding him to breathe. She sounded like his mom. She was too short and too gentle to truly be his mother, but God please, his heart wailed in agony. He missed her. He missed his mom. 

Her chest slowly rose and fell, with Darrel's beginning to fall in-tune with it. The gasping wheezes dulled down into sniffles and hiccups. His eyes felt impossibly sore, drained from crying so suddenly, so violently. His arms that had been holding onto her dropped, suddenly feeling too heavy to keep up. 

Today was, frankly, a lot. Too much for Darrel to even begin to process all at once. His eyelids drooped, and even though he snapped them back open, the exhausted haze still covered his mind. 

A soft, yet coarse hand gently patted his cheek. Darry peeked his eyes—he hadn’t even realized he closed them—open again.

“You’re exhausted, baby. Let’s get you some rest for tonight.” Mrs. Curtis helped him stand. One hand supported behind his back, the other lingered nearby, just in case. Darry, so drained by his own emotions, didn't even realize that the kitchen had been emptied, Mr. Curtis calmly leading his two younger kids into the living room after a silent exchange with his wife. 

“M’sorry, ma’am.” Darry muttered once he was underneath the covers of the unfamiliar bed. His arms were curled up underneath his chin, his legs drawn up. The blankets were warm.

Mrs. Curtis looked perplexed for a second, but just ran her hand along Darrels scalp, trying to ease him. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. You’re under my care, so I’m gonna care for you.”

Darry still looked ashamed, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Didn’t mean to cause issues on day one… I’ll do better.” He promised, eyes finally slipping shut and nothing would be able to lift them.

Something similar to a sigh and more words went in one ear and out the other, muffling into background noise that blurred in his brain. If he strained to hear, he’d notice the soft footsteps on the floorboards and a quiet, older voice whispering something. Following it would be two sets of smaller legs, much less quiet. Small voices and slow words mixed with each other, slipping through his grasp before he could even cup his hands.

Tiny hurried footsteps padded away, before trotting back even faster. Some more hushed words were exchanged before the door creaked open, rousing Darry slightly.

A plushed thing was gently tucked into his arms, its fur soft and ticklish. Darry curled tighter around it, clutching it to his chest.

“He ‘minds me of Johnny…” A small voice mumbled nearby, the only words Darrel managed to pick up through the foggy haze of sleep.

There were more hushed whispers, a firm, stable hand squeezing his shoulder—comfort. Something Darry longed for so badly that it tore him up inside. It had to have been his imagination. Just something his mind conjured up so he didn’t kill somebody or go insane.

“G’night new big brother!” Another little voice said in a not-so-hushed whisper.

Even if it wasn’t real, he’d soak in the consolation like a dying sponge. He’d squeeze his eyes real tight and try his hardest to remember his mothers face. The tone of her voice. Her soft laughter.

In the deepest parts of his mind, Darry held onto the belief that she’s alive, and that she’s been looking for him. One day she’ll find him, he’s sure. She’ll burst through the door and scoop him up—don’t matter that he’s taller now—and pepper his face in heartfelt kisses as she explains that she’s been trying. And that she’s sorry she took so long. It doesn’t matter that Darry saw her bleeding corpse and empty eyes. It doesn’t matter that he had choked on the pungent smell of blood, throwing up for hours until he got the strength to call someone. It doesn’t matter that he sat next to his mother, squeezing her hand, talking to her, reassuring her that she’ll be alright.

Here, in the darkness, Darry can pretend that the woman who had held him tenderly was his mother. He can blur the lines of her face. He can lie to himself, he can say he remembers his moms face. He can pretend the memories haven’t been ripped from his grasp over these years.

He can pretend that he’ll survive this house.

Only eleven months and five days.

Only one more year.