You could call this one-shot an AU. Mrs. Curtis is already dead, which leaves our favorite boys with their "favorite" dad.
As always, enjoy, and review if you wish.
in all his glory
There were moments in time where I forgot I was the oldest Curtis son, which meant I was supposed to protect Soda and Ponyboy at all costs. Even if that protection was meant to be against our father. Mom had died years ago, and since then, the old man was just a ball of heated anger, a shadow of his former self. I understood him to an extent; I knew her death shook him to his core, but he still had three lives to provide for. Three lives to fight for. It was clear, though, that he had no fight left in him to protect his sons from the outside world or from himself.
Soda has never been one for conflict. Whenever Dad would yell at us as kids, he was the first one to apologize no matter if he caused it or not. He took the fall for me when I snuck back into the house through the front window, and Dad had found the screen still out of place. He had called us into the living room and demanded to know who was the sly fox that a) snuck out and b) decided the front window was a good place to heave themselves up into the house.
"Sorry, Dad," Soda said, his eyes downcast to look more at fault. "I couldn't find the key under the flowerpot, so I just figured that was my best bet."
Dad shut his eyes and ran a hand down his face. "Soda, you know there's a thing called knocking on the door, right?"
"There's also a thing called I didn't want to wake anyone up."
My stomach twisted as Dad's eyes blazed with anger. "Don't you dare talk back to me, boy."
Soda shrugged and stood up, ready to leave the conversation. I reached out and took Pony's hand as Dad moved with Soda towards the hallway, his muscles taunt with a slap to the face. I could feel the way Soda was prepared to take the hit as he lightly bent down and moved Pony's hand, which had been gripping the side of his jeans like it was a lifeline, and made it so Pony was grasping for air instead. Pony fell into my chest and I wrapped an arm around him as Soda started to walk away from the couch.
Dad immediately intercepted and shoved Soda backwards so he couldn't maneuver himself between him and the wall. The two of them simply stared at one another, and I watched the room burn around me with how much tension was in the air. Neither of them moved for what felt like years, and with each moment that passed, I saw Dad's demeanor slack but Soda holding his own.
Looking older beyond his years, Dad stepped out of the way. Soda snorted, threw a few curse words in his direction, and made his way down to his bedroom, where he slammed the door so hard it shook the whole house.
Soda's always been lonely.
The one Curtis son who got high off of life was lonely. My senior year of high school was just about to end; Soda's junior year was coming up quick. It broke my heart to see my younger brother sitting by himself at a lunch table, hunched over his homework that he decided to do just before the bell rang, signaling that we all had to get back to class. I watched him move quickly in the commotion of students, almost as if he was bothering everyone just by walking through the halls.
As much as I'd always wanted to go and comfort him, to stand by his side as he walked among his classmates, I knew I couldn't be seen with him. My reputation as the star of the football team, the one who had a shot at a full ride to any college I wanted, was above the mental agony of watching Soda suffer alone. There were a few times that I thought about standing up for him as kids in his class treated him like shit because he couldn't grasp basic subjects like math, or English, or history. But then my teammates would come to my locker, blocking my view of Soda like a barrier I couldn't get past.
Steve and Two-Bit didn't come into the picture until Soda's shitty junior year. I was grateful that Soda finally had people to lean on, people who would protect him now that I couldn't. His junior year, Soda began to fall behind rapidly; his grades slipped well below his usual C range. His mastery of music and the arts declined to where he barely touched a piano or a paintbrush ever again.
When he told me that he wanted to drop out of school, I knew that he was doing it for himself. "I can't do it anymore, Dar," he said one night as we sat outside on the porch. He was blowing light puffs of a cigarette, not inhaling the nicotine, but doing it so he had something to steady him.
I said nothing for a long time. I sat there and contemplated what he should do, whether or not he should tell Dad. I knew Dad would eventually find out, and the rage that Soda had coming his way was nothing I could save him from.
"I told Dad already and he about blew a vein in his forehead. Said I was a disappointment," Soda whispered, and I could feel his gaze turn on me as he asked, "Are you mad at me too?"
His question took me by surprise. I turned and looked at him, seeing a million questions running through his head. He doesn't want to let you down, I told myself. Soda could never let me down, and I think both of us knew that, but Soda refused to admit it to himself. In his mind, I was disappointed in just about every move he made, in every decision he ever made, and every word he ever said.
I smiled and reached across the chair I was sitting in and ruffled his hair. "Nah," I said, and I put a hand on his shoulder to make sure his eyes met mine. "You'll never be a disappointment, Soda. No matter what anyone tells you."
When cops came to our front door to tell us that Dad had died, he was the one to break down first. It was surprising, knowing how badly Dad treated Soda just up until the day he died. Knowing how badly Soda wanted to please him, to make him proud, and Dad never turning a prideful glance his way.
Dad's pride showed in Pony and I. Pony for getting good grades, me for working construction, and both of us for being athletic. Soda had none of that - neither a worker nor a good student, nor an athlete. Dad always made sure he put all of his cards, all of his faith, into Pony and I. My poor middle brother got the scraps of that pride, but even still, he bent over backwards to show Dad that he was good at something.
Pony was in his freshman year of high school when Soda got drafted. Soda told me first, and I couldn't exactly hide the shock on my face. "I know it sounds crazy," he said, and his eyes were pleading with mine for approval. As if my acceptance, my faith in him, could replace the faith our Dad never showered upon him.
Even when Soda was younger, I knew he was made to protect people. He fought Soc after Soc like it was nothing; one time, I had to literally pull him off so he didn't beat someone to death. He held his own against our father, a cruel, sadistic son of a bitch, who played games with Soda's emotions, his mind, and his heart.
"It's not crazy," I said, and I took his hand in mine. "You're doing what you do best."
The kind heart that Soda had turned dark when he came home.
Nightmares ravished him to nothing but an insomniac. There were plenty of nights where I had to hold him down, his body writhing beneath mine as he fought someone in his dreams. There were plenty of nights where I sat outside the door to the room he shared with Pony, listening to their breathing through the walls.
I silently looked at his scars, marking his body like tattoos. He caught me a few times and immediately snarled at me, "Quit staring. I'm fine."
I watched Soda stop taking his medication. I watched him stop going to therapy. I watched him settle into a deep depression and just about burying himself alive. As much as I knew he needed help, as much as I wanted him to get help, his doctors told me that only he can do it himself. That I had to give him time; give him space.
The space between my middle brother and I was as far as it could ever be. He was off in his own little world, and I knew that world was nothing but a desolate wasteland of war, of blood, of bodies falling and hearts stopping.
Soda has never been one for conflict.
He has always been a protector, a quick thinker, and a joker.
He has loved those in his life with his entire being. He never gives up on people.
But he is haunted by his memories. He is haunted by our father, by Vietnam, by the aftermath of his entire life.
My brother is strong beyond his years.
But he is also broken.