A.N: Hinton owns all characters. Rated for graphic death scenes and suicidal thoughts.

You Don't Got Room To Complain

You don't got room to complain. Or at least that's the deal you are stuck with. After all, Darry had to give up college to become a parent, and Ponyboy was just a kid when it happened. So there ain't no room for you to complain. Not really.

You remember when the cops turn up at the house to tell you. The way Darry goes quiet and brooding, how Ponyboy breaks down and sobs- and how it's your surprisingly calm voice who answers the officer in charge. As you recite your parents birthdays, you still remember the way his moustache doesn't quite meet his beard, and how his breath smells softly of peppermint. And you remember how he and the other cop look at each other, the way police officers never look at kids like you; gently, pitifully.

"We're very sorry for your loss," says the cop with the somehow incomplete facial hair. And you shake his hand, and tell him thank you. 'Thank you' is a strange term, you think afterwards. Thank you for coming into our house with news that will ruin us forever. Please close the door behind you when you leave.

You don't got room to complain. You remember the run up to the funerals- how Darry is wigging about you being placed in a boys home. He is worried about a social services visit and he wants to mend the yard fence and paint the den. So when the funeral parlour calls around, it seems the right thing to do for you to get involved. You go with Darry to the funeral home to see them- even though you can't bear the thought of seeing them not alive- because if you don't go, Darry will have to tough it alone. Darry wants a few moments alone with them and that makes it feel like you should too. But when you are stood there by yourself in between their caskets, no words seem like they are enough. All you want to do is hug the shit out of the pair of them. Your Dad's hands had always been warm, his hugs plentiful, but touching your Dad's cold hard hand makes you realise that you'll never hug either of them again. You try to read a nearby bible to them both, hoping you'll find something worth saying in there, but nothing seems worth saying once you truly knew they are never coming back. Outside, you find Darry sobbing quietly in the truck, so you never tell him you didn't find the right words, you never mention the reality of what has struck you while sandwiched between identical wooden coffins.

You don't got room to complain. It was six months after the funerals that you dropped out of school. Don't get it twisted, you have never been the smartest Curtis, but after your folks die, you don't sleep too good anymore. Ponyboy has screaming nightmares that keep you awake, and you have dreams too- not dramatic ones like Pony- sometimes you dream you see your old man in the kitchen or outside cooking burgers on the grill. You throw yourself at him dramatically- you always know he is supposed to be dead- and he tousles with you laughing and saying 'What's all this, Pepsi-Cola? You can put me down now'. You always wake up from those dreams with a sweat on your brow, and your heart in your mouth, with the sickening reality that you'll never hear his voice again or hers- two voices that you are beginning to forget. Sometimes Ponyboy will say, 'You were talking in your sleep, Soda. What did you dream?' And you'll smile and say 'Just that Mom and Dad were here', like it was a good dream. You don't like to lie to the kid but sometimes you'd give anything for one of his nightmares. At least he knows in his dreams they are never coming back. The dreams play on your mind all day long after you have them- you don't hear a word the teachers say anymore, and none of them seem to notice. By the end of the first quarter, your grades have taken a considerable nose dive, and Darry is called into school. He ain't happy because he has to take off work to get there, but when you get in the truck afterwards, you guess he notices you're a little quiet.

'You got something on your mind, little buddy?'

And you want to tell him everything. But you see how he stoops when he gets in the truck because his back is tired. You'd seen a list of figures on a scrawled piece of paper on the coffee table that morning. You know Darry doesn't need your problems too.

"I wanna drop out, Darry," you tell him. "I'm failing everything except gym and automechanics anyhow."

Of course, he puts up a fight, but when you get a full time position at the DX, even Darry realises that the extra money makes sense. It kills you when you hear there's a school dance you ain't invited to, or a fight you missed in the school parking lot. You want to throttle Two-Bit for the way he waltzes in and out of school like it doesn't matter to him. But it ain't your style to be angry and bitter- you leave that to Dallas. Because you're the happy one, the comforter, the one who tells Ol' Dal to lighten up.

You don't got room to complain. Your problems with Sandy don't come out of nowhere and they didn't happen because of your folks dying neither. You know this as an absolute truth 'though nobody else does. Sandy's the kind of girl that everybody likes; the female that they all think you deserve. She's classically beautiful and great to have on your arm at parties. She always knows how to say and do the right thing in public, but only you know she doesn't come to the hospital when you get your head busted open by a Brumly boy. That she's pretty shitty on the phone when you sweet talk a hospital nurse into letting you call her. You tell yourself after that Sandy was frightened but you distinctly remember the tone of her voice as pissed off. You get more empathy from Steve and Two-Bit than you do Sandy; and that's saying something.

Then there are the secrets- how she is all up in your business with your friends and your family- and she always has something to say about your past- a girl you've been with, someone you still say hey to in passing- yet you're kept you at a distance from her friends- and her family are cold and tightlipped whenever you visit- which makes you think she's not only sworn them to secrecy but that she maybe hasn't spoken so highly of you to them.

All of those things should be enough for you to walk away. You know you ain't bad looking, and you know people kinda warm to you, 'the Soda effect', Steve ribs you about it. But somehow, you can't stand the idea of losing Sandy. The idea that the girl who holds you while you sob after your parents funeral won't be the woman you marry, feels so fucking wrong. The girl that keeps your gaze steady as you stumble through your funeral speech, lies next to you in bed when you can't form words anymore; that stays with you, however grudgingly, through that most awful part of your life. It doesn't seem right that when you look back on that time, it will have been shared with someone you simply 'used to date'. But it turns out that way anyway. Because she wants it to. Because she forces your hand. Who knows- maybe she was sick of your miserable shit. But hey, there are people worse off than you are.

You don't got room to complain. But maybe, just maybe, you once held Mr Randle's hunting rifle to your temple. And you allowed yourself just for a second to feel the cold steel against your skin and imagine that the thoughts and worries running through your head could all go away. That you won't have to ache for your parents, fret over money, or worry about Ponyboy getting jumped or Darry working himself to death. That the memory of Sandy when you cry into your pillow each night when Pony's asleep will be gone forever. Steve had come back from the bathroom then, and he'd scared you shitless and you'd almost lost control of the gun. Later that night listening to Ponyboy breathe, you silently curse yourself for what might have happened. Checking out would definitely be wimping out. You have responsibilities here. People depend on you.

And after all...you don't got room to complain.

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