While I work on the zillion WIPS I have, a one shot on Darry and Paul. :) C/W: homophobic slur used


Darry's dad closes his bedroom door. Darry's only here on weekends but he gets a bedroom all to himself, while these kid brothers-the ones his dad has with his stepmom Jo-share. The window is small and doesn't shut properly but it makes Darry feel important, like a grown up, to have his own space. When his dad takes his boys on trips to the country he says that they're "getting away from it all." That's what Darry does in his bedroom.

Darry's dad is massive. He played football, wrestled, rode bulls and at one point wrestled bears. He's a good shot. Darry says this to himself like a liturgy on nights when the breeze and cicadas and popping sounds in the distance conspire to become someone–or something squirming it's way in between the crack in the window.

It's not that Darry believes in ghosts or that a robber's going to sneak into his room in the middle of the night–and take what? But Darry believes in his dad in the way you do when you're ten.

Darry's dad is still at his now closed door–actually his hand is on the knob–when he starts to speak. This is unusual. His dad likes to get close to those he loves, hold them, touch their skin. He stopped kissing Darry because Darry told him too-said he was getting too old-but his dad looked sad about it-even with the two little boys who still wanted their faces covered in kisses. Sometimes he'll let his dad kiss him on the top of his head because Darry loves his dad.

"Son, how are we gonna convince a judge to let you stay here?" When Darry looks up his dad's face is taut with a single minded focus. This might be what it was like to face his dad on the gridiron. Under his breath Darry's dad says "she can't do this to us."

Darry wants to say that it's not Ma, it's Sammy. But his mouth is dry. She's leaving him, ain't she? He looks down at his lap, rubbing the drawstring between his fingers. Shouldn't it matter what he wants? He's ten years old, and what he wants is his dad.

He wants his mom too, but he wants his dad more. He's not like Timmy who is coming on eight and buries his head in her chest. Darry always wants his dad more than his mom. Maybe that's why his Ma's leaving?

Darry's trying to think of ideas but nothing is coming to him. He wants to live with his dad and not hurt his mom. He hates Sammy–his stepfather-the one who is making Ma and the little kids move with him to New York City. His Ma must not realize how sick all of this is making Darry feel.

At first Darry's stomach did a flip-flop because he thought she wasn't including him in their plans. But wasn't he her son too? He was her first born son, her Dash. Didn't that mean something to her? It did because Darry's Ma mentioned going to see the Mets or the Yankees to him. Darry thought about Mickey Mantle–Darry's a football fan-but The Mick was well–The Mick.

Darry could recite The Commerce Comet's stats on the fly. It takes Darry ten seconds after Mantle's name was brought up in a conversation that he'd tell you Mantle was leading in home runs in the American League. He was an Okie too. That made him, Paul said, somebody you had to root for.

Also, Darry liked Mickey Mantle because his best friend Paul did and back then Darry and Paul always liked things in tandem. To not like Mickey Mantle would be akin to not liking Paul Holden.

But then his Ma said he'd always be able to come back to Oklahoma in the summers. She didn't call Oklahoma home. Darry's stomach flipped in the other direction.

Darry's still trying to think of a way to fix everything and to not hurt anybody when his dad breaks into his thoughts.

"We could tell the judge Mr. Shepard slaps you around." It's a statement, not a question, and when Darry looks up at his father the familiar twinkle in his dad's eyes is replaced with something dark and hollow. Like fish eyes after the hook sinks in, a tunnel at night, all pupil and no iris.


The next day Darry gears up looking for a fight. The problem is that no one at school takes up his invitation to tear up his ass. Darry thinks about them arresting Sammy and then Ma could stay here and everything would work out. With Sammy gone he'd have to be the man of the house–but that was okay–he wasn't afraid-not really. He'd help Ma mind Timmy, Kenny and Linda Angela. He'd take a bullet for his Ma. When Darry thinks this he also puffs up his chest.

Darry leaves the playground unscathed but it's okay. He's got Paul. He calls up Paul as soon as he gets home. The twins are chasing each other. Kenny thinks they're playing cops and robbers but Angie says that they're Martians. She wears a pair of green tights over her head and holds a water pistol that will zap you with 1,000,000 volts of electricity.

Kenny grabs Darry by the waist and pushes him in the line of fire and Angie shoots. "I'll get you my pretties!" She cackles. Now she's the Witch from the Wizard of Oz. "Freakin' gobshite arseholes!" She yells when neither Darry nor Kenny–looking at his older brother-give her any attention. For a five year old American girl her ability to sound like a middle aged Irish sailor (seaman) is uncanny.

Sometimes after Angie pulls the trigger Darry will judge her shot. There ain't no way one bullet could take down him, Tim and Kenny-not with Timmy reading at the dining room table. Other times he'll play along and stumble. He'll clutch his chest or his stomach before falling to the floor.

She has five brothers and she once told him he was her favorite.

But he doesn't have time for the twins and their games. Not today.

"I got to come over," Darry-a bit breathless-tells Paul over the phone. Paul doesn't question it. He never does. Just like Darry never questions Paul when he needs something. They're best friends.


Paul Holden's mom is also Darry's brother-in-law's big sister. That's how they know each other. Darry doesn't care but he also doesn't like thinking about it like that. It makes it feel that their friendship was imposed from above instead of what it is: meant to be. They are eight years old.

Summer stretched out to meet this: war, comic book exchanges, their first air rifles, bike rides, fishing trips, wrestling, football and baseball games, firecrackers, bottle rocket launches, frogs in buckets. They dare each other to see the nudies at the fair and both are too chicken-even the word 'nudie' breaks them down into booger nosed hysterics. So they eat corn dogs and drink coke with peanuts instead. Theirs is a world without parents, even their siblings exist on the outer limits, to be plucked in and out at their discretion. Theirs is a world at once both insular and expansive.

They start that summer being fans of The Lone Ranger but by the end they decide that of course Superman is way better. And they buy comic books and lunch pails with Superman in mid-flight to affirm this mutual decision. Darry gives his Lone Ranger stuff to Soda.

Pain is not something they commodify or store to divvy up at a later date. They pass it back and forth like a football and then forget all about it. Sometimes one boy will have the upper hand but then wait– now the other boy does. It evens-stevens itself out in the end. They never leave each other's houses angry at one another. They can't.

They call each other on the phone and say, 'so uh what are you doing? You wanna hang out? Will your mom let you spend the night?'

Sometimes they don't even bother to call, they just show up.

They stalk their feet into the ground. Their bikes lean on each other and against a pole.

Ass booger is their favorite insult and they will grab their stomachs and burst out laughing. They look like gladiators, like ancient warriors, dirt and grass paint their face and chest.

"Hey Faggots!" Charlie Lowell sing-songs across the street and into their brains.

Charlie's a year older but it seems like he should be in junior high with the beginning fuzz of a mustache. Darry feels tiny around Charlie Lowell. Later, Darry will look back and realize that Charlie wasn't that much bigger, that he was still a child, but back then Charlie looms like a giant.

Charlie's tough but also he knows everything. He knows things about girls that Darry and Paul don't even have the words for, he expands their vocabulary to every cuss and what a faggot is, he knows how to throw a football further than anyone and how to sneak out of a tackle, he knows how to shoot a gun–a real one-not just an air rifle. Everything Darry and Paul want–everything they're looking forward too-Charlie knows.

But wait! Huh, what? Faggots? Are they being like faggots? How? How do faggots act?

But that summer Lowell gets to be no more than a temporary blip.

Paul has no brothers while Darry has four younger brothers nipping at his ankles and two much older step-brothers. Is this how it is with brothers?

Paul also wonders if one day Darry's going to decide that he's not enough anymore. Darry wonders if one day Paul is going to care that Darry doesn't live in a nice house like Paul.

But those feelings vanish. Darry chose Paul and Paul chose Darry. When they're together there's a type of equilibrium.

But then something shifts. It's this year. They're ten. Darry watches Lowell who is only a year older but seems to exist on some other side of this chasm that Darry knows he and Paul are about to cross over soon. He spends more time with Charlie, telling Paul that he's grounded but playing football with Charlie.

He wants Charlie to think he's cool. What does it matter what Charlie Lowell thinks? How can it no longer matter as much as it once did-what Paul thinks?

Is he betraying Paul? How does he atone? By letting Paul pin him when they wrestle in Paul's big backyard for a few seconds more than normal.

There are things they don't talk about-like Darry coming from a broken home and being poor or Paul's dad whipping him with the belt for little things in front of Darry.

What do you want me to do? Darry said with his eyes when Mr. Holden holds Paul, squirming and gritting his teeth, over his knees. Just tell me. I won't look.

They've known each other for two years but also they've known each other forever.

In those two years the boys grow and get bigger and need new shoes, new pants, new shirts, new everything. There are sleepovers almost every week and the boys have complete dominion over the Holden's rec room. They turn it into a fort. For Paul, Teresa Holden's impromptu tap dancing to Song of the South is an intrusion; for Darry the relative quietness of Paul's house and unbroken state of their furniture is a marvel. Still, nothing can ruin their night. They'll talk all night and into the morning.


Now, look at these boys. Paul and Darry are eating peanut butter sandwiches with the peanut butter squirting out between their knuckles. Paul doesn't want to hurt Darry. Darry's his best friend.

He can't hurt Darry any more than he could hurt himself.

Without Paul saying a word Darry points to his scar, to one of his scars and says Paul gave that to him. It's true. Paul says it doesn't count because that was by accident and his voice is a bit desperate now.

"Okay, okay, okay, don't puss out on me Paulie," Darry says, trying to sound like Charlie Lowell, with a mouth full of peanut butter and white bread mushing in his saliva.

Darry drowns milk and Paul asks why Darry wants him to hit him. And Paul leans his head in a bit, closer to Darry's own. They're not concerned about peanut butter breath.

Darry doesn't look at Paul when he says that his mom is making him move–to New York City and this is the only way he can stay here.

Paul wants to know how it's going to help? That his mom might think Tulsa's dangerous, that maybe Paul's dangerous, but Darry shakes his head. He can't tell Paul how but Paul's got to trust him.

What's Paul thinking about this right now? Or is he only thinking that his friend asked for his help?

"She won't know it's you. Cross my heart," Darry says.

The thought of losing Paul hurts Darry deep inside his chest. At first it looks like Paul is mauling it over but then he must be feeling and thinking everything Darry's feeling and thinking because Darry's watching Paul's eyes. They are two ten year old boys with twin holes in their chest.

Okay, Paul answers with his eyes, whatever you need from me, I'll give you.


They go down to the river, to a place half-hidden in trees.

"It'll hurt," Paul warns, his fist clenched while he looks at Darry's shoulder.

"I ain't chicken, Paulie. C'mon just get it over with."

Darry squeezes his eyes shut, he tries to remember everything his dad says about how to take a punch. With his eyes closed his mind can see Paul's fist, the jagged rocks of his knuckles and Darry sucks in a breath. Sucks in the whole world. Waits for the blackness then the pain to hit his eyes.

He knows how Paul's hands and fists feel, but Darry's never felt them deliberately doing damage on him.

It doesn't hurt. That revelation feels like relief then a massive let down. When he opens his eyes Paul is holding his knuckles tight in his hand. He looks like he might be close to crying. "Sorry, I can't. I can't do it." Paul moves away a few inches, like Darry might clobber him. Darry puts his hand on the part of his face Paul's fist barely touched. Pony could clobber him harder.

The words rise from his chest to his throat like a fire breathing monster: Stop. Being. Such. A. Fucking. Faggot. But Paul doesn't hear these words from Darry, instead he hears this:

"It's alright."

"I need to be angry to punch someone out, I can't hurt somebody if I'm not pissed off at them."

It's not true, at least Darry doesn't think it's all true. There are plenty of times Darry and Paul hurt each other without being truly mad at each other. Throw each other hard into the ground. Two boys looking like mad gladiators, spitting and cursing. Pulling each other down. But they're not truly angry. Just boys, just pals messing around.

Were they pissed at each other all those times? Darry touches a scar that Paul gave him. Hell he figured they were just blowing off steam, having fun. All those times, did Paul want to hurt him?

He doesn't want to think about it. Him and Paul are best friends. Brothers, almost.

Paul's face is a craggy rock of Paul. Darry doesn't recognize it, not on Paul.

"See you," Paul says when they get back to his house.


At his Dad's house Darry paces his bedroom, it seems like forever until he finally has the house to himself. He doesn't have much time. In the boys bathroom, he moves the wash clothes bunched up on the edge of the sink and hangs them up to dry. He closes the door and looks in the mirror.

Growls and grits his teeth. FUCK! He screams at the top of his lungs and punches himself. Again and again. And again.

Darry stumbles backwards. This is easy. Stupid Paul. His throat feels funny.

The adrenaline keeps his face from hurting until he's lying on his bed, stretched out with a throbbing headache.

He wishes he could take it all back, wishes he could stop his fists from slamming into his face.

His dad knocks, his dad always knocks –says it's about respecting Darry's space and privacy and Darry sits up.

"Well hot damn, what happened to you?" His dad slurps in a breath but grins. "Let's go clean ya up. I know if you look like this the other guy's face gotta look like monkey shit. But how much did I lose wagin' on you son? We gonna be spending the night in debtor's prison? I'm just joking, hon, I'd never bet against my boys. Now what the hell happened?"

His dad says words like 'shit' and 'hell' around him that he'd never say in front of Jo or the boys. It means Darry's a man and can be trusted.

"So we can show the judge that shithead wanker clobbers me, that way I can stay with you, right Dad?" Darry says wanker in the thick accent his stepfather brought with him from Ireland.

There are a million emotions that flash on Darrel Sr's face, Darry thinks he recognizes pride, then fear, shame and at last his face scrunches into confusion. All that's left is anger.

Darry doesn't recognize the man looking at him and from the look on his face the man doesn't recognize Darry. That's twice today Darry looked at the face of somebody he loves and doesn't recognize it. His best friend and now his dad.

Did you do that to yourself?" His father's voice rises and Darry can feel his eye swelling in rhythm to his dad's voice. "Dammit Darrel! Did you punch yourself?" he bellows.

Darry winces. What's the big deal?! His dad never got this riled up with Darry came home bruised and bumped before. His father's anger throws him off guard. His dad rarely yells at his boys, not with any real wrath behind his voice. His dad's voice is strong and walls are thin, he's sure he can hear Soda's high pitched voice and Jo shushing him.

Heat fills Darry's mouth and nostrils. His eyes narrow and all he can see where his father stood is a red and black blob.

Darrel's soft on his boys but Darry knows he's not going to stand for this blatant disrespect. He's playing with fire. Knows that he's jumping over a line he's never crossed. He doesn't give a shit.

Darry cocks his head forward and rushes full speed into his dad's massive frame. "Sonofabitch! You made me do it!"

What happened next is that Darry's dad catches him by the back of the shirt and lifts his first-born son off the ground.

In Darry's memory his head scrapes against the ceiling, but he's sure that can't be right. He does remember his legs kicking–as if he could generate enough power and blast on out of that room, out of his father's hold. Where would he go? He'd go to Paul's. Even if Darry's angry at him he loves him and he's sure Paul loves him right back.

"Letmegoletmego!"

His whole life Darry saw his father's muscles, his body, as a source of comfort and emulation. Ain't no one messes with Darrel Curtis. Now for the first time in his life Darry is fearful of his old man.

Why couldn't Paul have hit him?

The two of them are eye to eye. Darry still dangling held up only by his father's arm.

"You don't ever hurt yourself like that again, got it?. Not for me." His father hisses. His father's never hissed before. His eyes narrow and turn black. He sounds and looks like a snake.

"Yes, sir." The fight in Darry deflates like a balloon. He wishes he could take everything back. He wishes he could stop his fist. Why couldn't he stop?

With that his father floats him back down safely to the earth.

His feet touched the ground and Darry looked down at the floor and with some resentment and confusion he tells his old man, "Sorry."

His father lifts Darry's chin, cups it in his palm. He looks calm as if the last few minutes never happened. Maybe they didn't. His dad is the storm and his dad's the calm and it will take Darry sometime to feel resentful for it.

For right now it's enough that his father's face shifts into complete generosity. "You ain't goin' nowhere you don't want to, I promise you. Me and your Ma will work it out. Okay son?"

Darry buries his face in his father's side. His father is warm and huge-like a fire in a winter storm.

Darry's dad cups his chin again, "Son, did you really do all that for us? Give yourself a black eye for us?"

Of course it was for us, Darry thinks but he's not completely sure who the us is.

He looks around at his room. He'd give up having his own bedroom if he got to keep everyone.

Right now he just wants to feel the warmth of his dad, cotton against cotton. Skin against skin.

His dad grins like he's won something very precious. "My boy," his dad says under his breath, deep inside in his chest, his hand rubbing Darry's back. His father's pride and awe, devotion to him–is unmistakable, "My boy."


A/N: thank you!