Kryptonite

by pineapplefan

Soda thinks he should have realized it sooner.

In hindsight, Soda thinks he should have realized it when Darry started going to bed at 9:45 on the dot each night.

He should have realized it when Darry started wearing one of his heaviest jackets to work in the heat of summer – in Tulsa, no less.

He should have realized it when Darry straightened the magnets on the refrigerator so that they were perfectly and precisely aligned.

But instead, it takes Darry falling in the shower one evening to finally clue Soda in.

He and Pony both jump when they hear the crash, sending cards from their mindless game of Go Fish flying.

"What in the…?"

Soda bursts into the tiny, steamy bathroom with Ponyboy on his heels. He throws the shower curtain back, expecting the worst and finding close to it.

Darry is sprawled out on the bathtub floor, his long limbs tangled in awkward angles. He's cursing under his breath and the features of his face are pinched with pain. He barely registers that Soda and Pony are standing above him.

"Darry…?" Ponyboy asks timidly, unsure that this is actually his big brother on the floor. That this is Superman on the floor. "…Are you okay?"

Soda can understand the disbelief in his younger brother's voice. If it weren't for the prominent birthmark on Darry's left shoulder, he'd have a hard time believing this was Darry too.

Because the man in front of them doesn't look like the big, strong brother that they know.

Not at all.

And it makes Soda feel sick.

"M'fine," Darry answers on an exhale, moving his hand to cover his exposed groin. "Fine. Jus' slipped. M'okay. Get…" he draws in a shaky breath. "Get outta here."

Soda swallows hard, tries to salvage at least some of Darry's dignity when he instructs Ponyboy to go grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Ponyboy doesn't need to see this, and Darry doesn't need Ponyboy to be seeing this.

But Soda's not leaving.

No way.

Darry's thin, and they need to talk about it.

He's not paper thin or scrawny by any means, but Soda would guess that he's lost about twenty-five pounds, and on Darry, that's all muscle. His body would have no other option than to turn on itself to find the energy to make it through a grueling workday of roofing houses.

Soda reaches to shut the water off. The steam from the heat is encompassing, and he suspects Darry might have passed out instead of "slipped" as he so claims.

He grabs Darry's towel that is neatly folded over the rack and drapes it across his brother's bare body.

"C'mon, sit up," Soda says gently. He puts a hand behind his back and helps him into a more upright position. He can feel the vertebrae from Darry's spine jutting out against his hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I told you, I'm fine." Darry tries for defiant, but comes up short.

Soda licks his lips, not believing. "Well, just sit there for a minute," he says. "Pony's bringing you a glass of water."

Darry locks his jaw and turns his gaze away from Soda until Ponyboy appears at the doorway, glass in hand.

"Thanks," Soda acknowledges as he crosses the small bathroom to take the water. "Listen, kid, is it all right if I talk to Darry alone for a while?"

"Yeah," Ponyboy says softly, peering around Soda to get another look at his oldest brother. "But is he okay?"

Soda musters up what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Yeah, Pone, he's gonna be fine. We won't be long, okay?" He squeezes the kid's shoulder and then nudges him out of the room.

When he turns back around, Darry has wrapped the towel around his waist and is attempting to stand. But by the looks of it, he twisted his right ankle, and he's having a rough time of it.

Soda snaps into action. He sets the water on the counter and rushes to help Darry the rest of the way up. "Thought I told you to sit for a minute," he gripes, taking on the majority of his brother's weight as he awkwardly steps over the edge of the bathtub.

"Want to get dressed," Darry replies stubbornly. He's shivering harshly despite the hot steam that still encompasses the room.

Soda gives in, because it's hard to look at Darry's body this way, thin and wracking with shivers.

How was I so blind?

"Okay," Soda says, motioning to the closed toilet lid. "Sit down. I'll help you."

Darry obeys but says with a sigh: "I don't need your help, So'."

"Yeah, well, you're gettin' it."

Darry had brought his change of clothes into the bathroom, which tells Soda that he knows how thin he is – he's aware of how much weight he's lost. Before, Darry would walk around the house in just a towel, flaunt his muscles, zero shame.

He's ashamed now.

"Here," Soda says, handing a perfectly folded long-sleeved T-shirt to his brother. There are two T-shirts folded neatly below it, and Soda cringes at the thought of Darry wearing three layers in July.

He pulls them on quickly.

Next are the boxers and the baggiest pair of sweatpants that Darry owns. And lastly, a pair of thick, wool socks.

"We're gonna need to put some ice on that later," Soda says as he watches Darry try to pull the sock up around his swollen ankle.

"Yeah, I should go do that now," Darry says, seeing an opportunity for an escape.

As if.

Soda shakes his head. "No, that can wait," he says, and even takes a few steps back to block the door. "We need to talk."

Darry is glaring at him from his perch on the toilet seat. He folds his arms, looks away. "I don't know what you mean."

He looks like a petulant little kid, and if Soda weren't so worried about him, he'd be amused.

Soda runs his hands through his hair, squeezing his scalp gently to remind himself to stay calm. He drops his hands with a flop to his sides. "Don't do this. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

Darry sighs heavily and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He lets his head drop into his hands.

And Soda hates what he's doing right now: putting his brother under the microscope like this. He knows how hard it is for his Darry to accept help.

Even worse, this isn't the first time this has happened.

Soda remembers the summer before Darry entered high school, when they were still sharing a room. Soda had only been ten, but he remembers.

It had been a tense year. Grandma Haynes passed away after a long battle with leukemia, two of Darry's best friends moved to Texas, and Dad had taken a pay-cut at his job.

Mom cried a lot that year – even though she tried to hide it – and Dad wasn't home as much because he had to work longer hours. Leading up to that summer, Darry had been upbeat and always goofing around with Ponyboy and Soda, trying to make them smile and keep them from cluing in on the difficult times.

Soda remembers when all of that changed. He remembers walking into their bedroom one Saturday morning, searching for a missing sneaker, and catching Darry in only his boxers, just staring at himself in the mirror. Even at ten, Soda knew immediately that something was wrong with his brother, with the way his bones stuck out at protruding angles.

"Why are you so skinny?" he'd blurted, causing Darry to jump.

Darry scrambled for clothes. "You ever hear of knocking?" he asked harshly, pulling a sweatshirt over his head. He then proceeded to call for their parents frantically, tears forming in his eyes. "Mom? Dad?"

Dad had whisked Soda out of the room after that. He loaded the car up with fishing gear and took Ponyboy and Soda for a drive. Soda still remembers it so vividly.

"Is Darry sick?" he recalls asking as Dad drove farther out into the country. Ponyboy was sound asleep in the backseat.

"Yes, Sodapop," Dad told him calmly. "But he's working real hard on getting better."

"What's the matter with him?"

Dad hesitated before answering. "He has something called an eating disorder. That means that sometimes it's difficult for him to eat."

"Why? I thought Darry loved to eat!"

Dad laughed. "You're right, Soda. He used to. And we hope he can get back to that some day. It's important for Darry to eat, so he can grow big and strong, right?"

"Right!"

"What I need from you, Pepsi-Cola, is to keep being that good brother to Darry that you are. Your mother and I will make sure he's eating enough, okay? That's not something you need to worry about."

They went fishing that day, and Dad tried to make Soda forget all about it.

Soda didn't forget though. From that point on, he noticed how Mom and Dad hovered over Darry constantly, even when he was grumpy and trying to push them away. At dinner, they put food in front of him and they wouldn't let him leave the table until he ate it.

Sometimes Darry cried, or yelled, or stomped his feet, but he did put the weight back on and life slowly returned to normal.

Darry went on to have a growth spurt, he got involved with football, he kept putting on more muscle, and he looked so big and strong that the summer of '59 was only a distant memory.

At least until Soda's freshman year of high school, when Mrs. Addison, the health teacher, made them read the chapter on eating disorders.

It was one of the few times that Soda was able to give full attention to what he was reading.

The main point that Soda took away from that chapter was that an eating disorder wasn't always about the food or the weight.

Sometimes it was about control.

As Soda read, he was able to see exactly how Darry's personality could fit into this pattern.

And now, as Soda slides down to the tile floor to sit with his back against the door, he thinks he understands why it's happening again. Now.

He just wants Darry to be the one to say it.

"How long?" he asks softly.

Darry doesn't answer him. Just presses his palms against his eyes, hiding his face.

"Darry."

"Jesus, Soda, what do you want from me, huh?" Darry asks brokenly when he lifts his head.

Sodapop steels himself, because he can hear from Darry's voice that he's close to shattering. "I just want you to talk to me, Dar. I know you. I know that you've struggled like this in the past. And I'm sorry it took so long for me to clue in this time, but I just want you to talk to me."

Darry closes his eyes, lets it sink in that Soda knows. "What am I supposed to say?" His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"Tell me how long."

How long has this been going on? How long have you been starving yourself?

Darry lets out a shuddering breath and pinches the bridge of his nose when he says, "Almost a month now."

Soda doesn't want to accept that. It barely even registers.

He clears his throat gruffly. Now that they're talking about it, he's completely unprepared about what to say.

"You need to tell me what's going on, Darry. I want to understand why you're doing this."

There's a long pause of silence. Soda crosses his legs, leans forward on his elbows.

"Darry."

"Fuck, Soda, take your pick," Darry exclaims. "It's like no matter what I do, we always end up getting clobbered. First we lost Mom and Dad, t-then you dropped out of school – and that was… I never wanted that for you." He's getting worked up now, Soda can tell. His breath hitches between words. "And then I-I drove Ponyboy away that night a-and…" He trails off, unable able to continue with the emotion catching in his throat.

Darry isn't sobbing, but he's close.

Soda catches a couple of tears slip down his cheeks.

"Okay, okay," he placates, standing up to go console him. It's the least he could do, after forcing him into this.

Darry is trying to salvage any semblance of composure, using his hands to press down on his knees and taking shaky, but deliberate, breaths. "Damn it, Soda," he says, an edge of frustration in his voice. "I d-didn't want…"

I didn't want you to find out. I didn't want you to see me like this.

"I know," Soda soothes as he takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub. "I know. I'm sorry, Darry. C'mere."

Darry does. He sags against Soda's shoulder and lets Soda wrap his arms around his lean form. He continues to mumble everything that had "clobbered" them the past couple of months into the crevice of Soda's neck. Soda can only make out a few words, but the ones he hears make his heart sink even further into his toes. Words like Johnny and Dallas and even Sandy.

Darry is positively quaking, and Soda hates himself for not realizing it was this bad.

"Shh," he hushes, rubbing his hand up and down Darry's back. He can feel the protruding vertebrae, even through the three layers his brother is wearing.

Eventually, Darry settles down. Soda can hear him swallowing thickly, taking measured breaths as he regains control. They hold the embrace a little longer.

Soda waits for Darry to pull away first.

When he does, Soda reaches to grab the glass on the counter and hands it to his brother. "Here, man, try to drink some of this."

"Thanks," Darry breathes, taking the cup. He manages a couple of swallows then sets it back down on the counter. He shifts nervously on the toilet seat and glances at Soda out of the corner of his eye. "It's not about the food, you know."

Soda knows, but he says, "Then what's it about?"

Darry shakes his head. "It's gonna sound so stupid."

"Try me."

Darry lets out a deep breath and there are a few beats of silence before he begins talking. "Everything's been screwed to hell for so long now," he says. "And when I don't eat and the pounds come off, it makes me feel better. It makes me feel grounded. It's the one thing that I…" he breaks off struggling to find the right words.

"It's the one thing you have control over," Soda finishes for him softly. Because he gets it. He really does.

Darry's eyes widen and some of the tension in his body seems to fade away. "Yeah," he whispers, disbelief from being understood.

Soda puts a comforting hand his brother's knee. "That doesn't sound stupid, Darry," he tells him. "But it doesn't solve anything… does it?"

"No, I know it doesn't."

Soda notes the pink twinge from embarrassment that colors his brother's hollow cheekbones. He knows how vulnerable Darry must feel right now.

"I wish you had talked to me sooner," he says, because he can't ignore the sting in his chest from being left in the dark about this.

Darry hangs his head. "I wanted to get back on track before you noticed."

"So you want to get better?"

Darry frowns and meets Soda's eyes. "Of course I want to get better. But it's not that simple, Soda."

"I know it's not. We'll figure it out together, Darry, okay? You're not on your own here."

Darry nods, but Soda can tell he's not taking his words with much conviction.

"You've conquered this before," Soda reminds him easily.

Darry opens his mouth to say something, but then bites down on his lip. "I didn't know you knew about that." He tilts his head at Soda. "I thought Mom and Dad tried to keep you and Pony from knowing."

"They did try," Soda replies. "And I wish they hadn't, Darry."

Because then maybe I would know how to help you now.

There's a beat of silence. And then: "I was so horrible to them that summer," Darry says quietly, ashamed.

"Yeah," Soda agrees, because he remembers the tantrums and the door slams and the I hate yous. "But you can't blame yourself for that, man. When I learned about eating disorders in health class, my teacher said that they can cause you to lash out at people you love."

Soda sees Darry flinch at "eating disorder" and knows his brother well enough to know that he doesn't like that label. He brushes it off though and gives his Soda a half-hearted smile. "I can't believe you just referenced school, man." Darry eyes the bathroom door. "Can we get out of here now?"

Soda stands. "Yeah, sure. Let's go eat something."

Darry shrinks back. "I'm not hungry."

He realizes how that must sound when Soda raises an eyebrow at him.

"I mean… just… I don't think I can tonight."

Again, Soda gets it. He knows how mentally drained Darry must be after their discussion, and frankly, Soda is drained too. He doesn't feel like pushing Darry tonight.

It's not in him.

So he relents. "Okay. But tomorrow morning, Darry. I mean it."

Darry nods. "I know," he says softly. He holds his hand out. "Help me up?"

xxx

Even though Darry can put a little weight on his bad ankle, Soda still helps him out to his armchair where he can ice it.

Ponyboy jumps up from the couch the second they emerge from the bathroom. The TV is on, but it's some boring infomercial and Soda doubts the kid had been watching it at all.

"You okay, Darry?" he asks fervently, and then without waiting for him to respond, he says, "I heated up some soup, so you don't have to worry about cooking dinner. Do you want some? Did you hurt your ankle? Why'd you fall? Are you okay?"

Soda glances up at Darry to gauge how he's handling Ponyboy's frantic questions and is surprised to see that his lips are actually quirking up into a small smile.

"I'm okay, Ponyboy," he answers steadily, despite his misty eyes. "I got a little dizzy in the shower and twisted my ankle on the way down. I just need to ice it, and it'll be good as new."

Ponyboy helps Soda get Darry the rest of the way to the armchair then runs to get a kitchen chair for Darry to prop his ankle on.

When he returns, he asks, "Why'd you get dizzy?"

Darry glances nervously at Soda before answering. Soda holds his breath, wondering what the excuse will be, but what Darry ends up saying surprises him.

"I got dizzy because I haven't been eating too good lately."

Darry visibly steels himself for more questions, but Ponyboy takes his answer without issue.

"Well, then I'll bring you some soup!" he announces, and rushes back to kitchen.

"Wait, Pony—" Soda starts to call after him, but Darry grabs his arm.

"Let him go."

"Really?" Soda asks, eyebrows raised and voice hopeful. "You're going to eat?"

Darry takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

What Darry says next is all Soda needs to hear to know everything is going to be okay.

It's all he needs to hear to know that Darry understands how much he means to his brothers.

It's all he needs to hear to know that his brother is truly Superman – willing to keep fighting, even against his kryptonite.

What Darry says next is:

"I'm going to try."

Fin.