It's late where I am, so I'm sorry for any errors! Just wanted to post this because I freaking miss S.E. Hinton's Curtis brothers.

I drove with as much restraint as possible, trying my damn hardest not to cuss people off when they deserved it, not to speed when I wanted to escape drivers so awful I wondered how on earth they could be allowed on the road, and not to slam the car door shut when I'd finally made it into our driveway. It was raining, and I was sent home from work; I could taste the bitterness mingling with my tongue, and I prayed for the strength to not snap at my brothers. They got on my nerves, even if they weren't attempting to.

It was a tough situation, when I just wanted to get my anger out until I didn't have to feel the bitterness anymore, have it sit on my chest like a rat, but all I did was give it to somebody else. I figured the shifted burdening weight was easiest kept on my own shoulders. Learned it overwhelmed my brothers the hard way, so I'd been trying to hold my tongue, and swallow all my worries and bitterness down my throat. I could handle it.

I tried to sound cheerful as I greeted Pony, who was sitting on our abused couch, as we heard a roll of thunder. He mumbled a hello, not even looking at me. He jumped a little as the door shut behind me. Damn.

"Anything happen at school today?" I wasn't even close to being cheerful. Maybe toneless, at best. I found it unfair that he got to be grumpy but if I did it, it was somehow threatening. He didn't used to be afraid of me- before Mom and Dad's accident, I mean. A part of me has a sinking feeling that maybe this was because Dad could overpower me, no matter how mad I got at Pony. I had to remind myself, though, that it was mostly Soda who I knocked heads with.

Jesus, that kid would snoop through everything, a little too curious for his own good. I remembered the first time he found a condom in my drawer and these little notes from my English book that my ex girlfriend wrote me. Soda couldn't hide his emotions for shit, though, so I knew right away he was acting strange; he had refused to make eye-contact with me, and seemed to squirm with every word I said. You better believe I gave it to him straight, what would happen the next time he so much as had the thought of going through my stuff. I was a little embarrassed, too, if you want the truth.

Pony, though? One of the only fights we had that I could remember was who's room Sodapop would be moving into, when I was big enough to want my own space, and Pony was old enough to realize that if I wanted my own room, then he wanted it more. Poor Sodapop was caught in the middle, both his big and baby brother not wanting to share their room with him out of nowhere. I tried to get the image of those walnut shaped, watery brown eyes out of my head.

"Ponyboy," I had said sternly through gritted teeth, trying to stay calm, "I am ten years old. Ten. That's a whole decade, buddy. I can't be sharin' my room with no baby." I had scoffed, my arms crossed, looking down at my brothers with an air of superiority I now want to roll my eyes at myself for.

Sodapop glared up at me, stomping his foot in the middle of the hallway, clutching his pillow (which I had kindly thrown at him). "I ain't no baby, Darry. Pony's the baby!"

"I am not," a little four year old Ponyboy had pouted, crossing his arms and scoffing, mirroring me.

Sodapop had looked angrily between the both of us, his brown eyes now blazing.

Dad had walked into the hallway to our bickering back and forth, and he stopped short, his eyebrows narrowed. "What the hell is all this?" I remembered his lips twitching upward, as though he wanted to laugh. "Soda, why are all your things out here? Your sheets, blanket, toys and all? Is Darry that smelly, that you need to camp out here?" He looked at his stuff, hands on his waist, looking tall and broad-shouldered and I prayed to God Soda wouldn't snitch on me.

Clearly God had some more important prayers to answer, 'cause Sodapop didn't waste no time telling Dad what a horrible, horrible thing I was doing to him. I rolled my eyes at his dramatic accusations and take on the story; you would've thought I was leaving him out on the streets.

"Darry, you old grump," Dad had said, allowing himself to burst into laughter. "You can't just throw Pepsi-Cola's things out like that. How would you feel if he did it to you?" Soda had stood next to Dad, giving me a smug look, as he nodded appreciatively to every word Dad was saying. "Darry, you're still gonna share with Sodapop. Now put everything back where you found it, nice and tidy, or else I'mma move Pouty Pony over here into your room too."

I smiled at the memory, until I was met with Pony's short, simple, "Nope," in answer to my question. He didn't even look away from the screen, leaving his eyes away from my own. He sure was in the mood to get into it tonight, and hell, so was I, but it was taking all my might to work against this urge.

"What do ya mean, 'nope'? I remember doing so much every day in school." Some of it was school-related, like football and homework. Some of it.

"Well, I can't be like you Darry, can I?" he grumbled at me.

I sighed as I took off my shoes. "Ponyboy, you know that's not what I was saying. I just wanted to know about your day, is all." I tried to be calm and explain myself, just like Dad did whenever we were trying to start an argument with him. He just clearly stated his intentions. Then again, I was no Darrel Curtis, Sr. See, we looked alike, but the fact that he looked so young, and I looked older than my age, should've been clue enough to people just how different we were. We met somewhere in the middle of the twenty years that separated us, but I still yearned to obtain that superpower of his to shrink to whatever age I needed him to be. When I was five and crying about a teddy Soda trashed, he was eight and reminding me I could have a new one on my birthday, while reassuring me he was sorry for my loss. When I was sixteen and losing my baby fat, he was eighteen and teasing me, while running around and helping me train for football. Even with the story of how I tried to kick Soda out of our room, he didn't lose his cool on me. He always seemed to be just a little bit further than me, just a little bit ahead, so that I could reach out to him and not feel so left behind.

I would do anything to have that feeling. That warm, soothing comfort that branched towards me, like a tree that offers shade and shelter, and something to look up to.

I'm trying to be that for Pony. I'm really, really trying, especially after that whole mess last year. Sodapop said I needed to be patient with the kid, not yell or be so harsh. For Pete's sake, though, all I did was ask him how his day had been...

I went to the kitchen, dropping the conversation, but when I saw the pile of dirty dishes I wanted to whip around and give Ponyboy a piece of my mind. I had been working all day, and he'd been at school, sure, but he could have at least cleaned up after I made him breakfast -

Wait.

I turned back into the living room, eyeing Ponyboy. "You okay?"

He glared at me, making me wish he'd still been avoiding eye-contact. "Yes."

We stared at each other for a few seconds, until he let out an exasperated sigh and repeated, "Yes, Darry, I'm fine. Now quit lookin' at me."

The tension between us didn't stand a chance at diffusing, and only made me more uncomfortable when I had to push for more details, especially because I just wanted this interaction to be over, what with all this teenage angst and attitude, it's the last thing I need...

"Why are you back early, then? You sick?" I walked forward, sitting closer to him on Dad's armchair.

"Threw up in class. I'm fine now though," he added, just so I'd leave him alone.

"If you're so fine, do the dishes, then."

He staged an obviously fake cough, looking bored with the whole thing. "Oh, now would you look at that. I guess I'm still sick. Good luck with the dishes."

"Pony!"

"What?"

"What the hell is your problem?" I couldn't take it anymore. I knew what might have been bugging him, but I just needed to be reassured that it wasn't what I was thinking. Please, God, let him just be sick; a cold I could take care of...

He stood up abruptly, marched passed me, completely ignoring my question. He turned on the faucet, and let the sound of running water and clashing plates fill the house, instead of a proper response that would calm me down. See, it wasn't just the rain that was bugging me. It was Dad's birthday, and he was so far beyond anywhere I could just reach for him, talk to him...it's funny how the time I needed him the most was because he wasn't here in the first place. I wanted to be like him, just be able to level-down closer to Pony's age and have him think I was not somewhere ahead of him so untouchable that there couldn't be any way for me to understand him. The way Dad did it, it seemed so seamless. So effortless. If me and Dad could switch places, he would be able to sooth Ponyboy, make him feel stable, and not so alone.

I turned to the right and stared at an old picture of Dad placed on top of our unused, dusty piano. I'm trying, I told him. I'm trying to be like you.

I thought of Pony's glares and tone. Maybe I deserved it; hell, I knew I gave my parents their fair share of a hard time, and for much less than being aggrieved at my Dad's passing. When my football team lost a match, I wasn't exactly always playing nice at home, snapping at anyone that even breathed in my direction, if the loss was bad enough. I was the captain, it looked negative on me if we didn't win. There were so many people to impress: possible future coaches, my team, girls, myself...

It was all pointless.

"Hey, Darry? You know you tried your best, no reason for you to sulk in your room all Saturday. Come out and play with us and the rest of the boys, it'll take your mind off things," a freshman Sodapop had said to me gently, Ponyboy at his side, both of them standing at my bedroom door, not daring to disrespect me by entering without being asked to.

I scoffed. "Yeah, make me forget about football by playing football. You're so smart, Sodapop, no wonder you're doin' so well in high school already," I snapped harshly, making my poor little brother flinch.

My father never hurt anybody's feelings like that for no reason, much less his own family. He never messed up with any of his sons as much as I did, and even though it was all forgiven, the guilt still strangled me: I had hit and lost Ponyboy less than a year of being in charge, got him upset enough to escape to the park, almost got him killed, and...and...

I looked at the picture again. His smiling, kind face haunted me. How could I have your voice, your face, and have you live so vividly in my mind, but be nothing like you?

I got out of Dad's armchair.

x

Soda and Pony's chatter traveled down the hall and through my shut door, as well as the sound of chuckles and footsteps, involuntarily making me groan, like some twisted grandpa who doesn't like hearing the sound of kids playing down the street.

I heard the sound of my name being called, and it caught me off guard like a crack of thunder, and I urged myself to get out of bed and open the door. "Yeah?" I called.

"Darry!" Sodapop called again.

I groaned. He wanted me to go to him. Walking down the hall, I started saying, "Sodapop, you could've just told me what you wanted, instead of making me -"

I stopped short. "What's this?" The living room was unrecognizable: the couch and armchair had been pulled closer together, facing the opposite of each other, with a blanket thrown over both, like a roof. Bed sheets, clipped by laundry pins, attached to the 'roof' and swept the floor, like a wall, or a door.

"You built a fort?" I asked, a smile creeping up my lips. Soda's blond head peaked through the sheets, his body not visible, like some sort of floating head.

He pretended to be solemn, but his face reddened at his attempt to be serious. "Um, can I help you?" he said, repeating exactly what I had said to him all those years ago when he tried getting into our room after I had decided, without notice, that I wanted our room to myself. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, exactly like I had done, and he just about nailed my snobby, ten-year-old tone. He couldn't hold it in much longer after he uttered the sentence, and finally laughter escaped his mouth, and I grinned. Pony's snickers could be heard from inside the fort.

See, after Dad had ordered me to put all of Soda's things out of the hallway when he found out I tried kicking him out, Sodapop and I made a fort, just like this one, instead. Dad made us return Soda's blanket and sheets and toys eventually, but he let us play for a while. We thought it was hilarious, at the time, how we had turned on Ponyboy and didn't let him in, claiming it was for big brothers only, an alliance of out nowhere. When Ponyboy brought Mom into it, demanding she have another child, Dad made us quit it real quick. They were done at three, and didn't want us to have any ideas.

Ponyboy's head popped up next to Soda's. "Sorry, Dar. Little brothers only." He gave me a devilish grin.

"Fine, have fun, little buddy," I said patronizingly, making him groan. I knelt down, and crawled for the first time in years. "I'm kidding. If you don't scoot, I'mma knock your heads." They shifted happily, and as I moved on my hands and knees, making them laugh as I tackled them against the pillows they set up on the floor, I thought about my dad, how he played with us, how he always got on our level, never too old to join our childish troubles or adventures.

And I thought of my brothers, struggling beneath my arms, their faces red from being winded and our laughter that mingled, like branches of a tree that grew together. I was not my father and never would be - I was a big brother, and nothing, not even the painful birthday of my deceased father, not even all my guardian duties and roles, would change that. Knowing that, Dad doesn't seem so hard to reach after all.

Sorry if it's cheesy lol!