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Darry leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought. He was worried for his kid brother, and the only reason he wasn’t in the hospital and by his side, was because the nurses forced him and Soda to go home and get some sleep. That’s what Sodapop was doing right now, getting ready to go to bed. Or maybe he was asleep already. They should’ve eaten first, but both of them were too worried to keep anything down.
He was also thinking about Dallas. And Johnny. There was nothing that anyone could do about Johnny. But Dally…
He could’ve done something about Dally. He could’ve pushed harder that morning, pressured him to stop being so goddamn tough and actually talk about what was bothering him without being drunk. He could’ve told him that letting down a few walls is safe, that he didn’t have to be so cold all the time. He could’ve done something, anything! The kid called him Dad, for Christ’s sake! Granted, he was drunk, but they say alcohol reveals the truth, right? Dally trusted him, and now he was dead. Dally needed help and Darry did nothing to help him.
Darry wanted to cry. He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. He couldn’t cry when Mom and Dad died, and he couldn’t cry now. He couldn’t let Soda see him, he had to stay strong.
He continued to stare at the kitchen tiles, stuck in an endless loop of what if?’s. Until he was interrupted.
“Darry?” It was Sodapop. He was standing in the doorway, his blond hair falling in his face, it was wet and without grease. He was wearing his pajamas, which were one of their dad’s old shirts and a hand-me-down pair of sweat pants from Darry. He had new bandages on his wounds from the rumble, and a concerned look on his face. “What're you doin’ still up?”
Darry softened his expression. “Thinking.” He paused. “Just go back to sleep, baby, I’ll go to bed soon.”
Soda moved over to Darry’s side and rested his head on his shoulder. “Can’t sleep. And if you’re thinking about Dallas… Dar, there was nothing you could do. He was too tough for his own good and he paid the price for it.”
“I could’ve tried, though. He—” Darry took a deep breath and looked back at the tiles. “A couple weeks ago he showed up at one in the morning, drunk and quiet. He just went to the couch and sat there in a ball. I went over and asked him what was wrong because he’s never drunk and he just started cryin’ and talkin’ about Sylvia and his dad and other stuff. Then he got real quiet and tried to leave. I stopped him and got him to stay and sleep on the couch, and before I went to bed… Soda…” Darry looked at his kid brother, “He called me Dad.“ Darry stopped to give Soda a minute to process.
Sodapop’s lips were parted in a small ‘o’ , his eyes were wide, and his eyebrows disappeared into the wet hair falling on his forehead. He looked off to the side and shook his head, too stunned to speak. After fumbling with words for a moment, he finally landed on: “Well, shit.” Now, Soda didn’t curse, hell, he could count how many times he had in his life on one hand. But currently, no other words could properly articulate what he was feeling right now.
Darry nodded. “Yeah.”
Sodapop frowned. “I—” He paused and leaned more into his big brother, “I don’t want to think ‘bout this right now. I jus’ wanna sleep.”
Darry put his arm around Soda. “Yeah. Me too. Hey, you can sleep in my bed, if you want.” Darry knew Sodapop needed the comfort after all they’ve been through, and if he was being honest, he did too.
Soda nodded and yawned into Darry’s shirt. “Mhm.”
“Alright, Pepsi-Cola, let’s go.”