for love (and for adversity, too) [The Outsiders; Darry/Sodapop; Mature]

[sodomhipped]

for love (and for adversity, too) [or read on ao3]

Fandom: The Outsiders

Pairing: Darry Curtis/Sodapop Curtis, Sodapop Curtis & Ponyboy Curtis

Rating: Mature

Warning: Underage Sex

Tags: Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Sibling Incest, Brother/Brother Incest, First Kiss, First Time, Back Rubs/Massage, People-Pleaser Sodapop Curtis, Men Crying, Sodapop is 15, very light implied infidelity

Author’s Note: For my partner. May you have the happiest of birthdays this year, garnished with this bite-size incest offering.

The title references Proverbs 17:17.

Summary:

It hadn’t occurred to Soda that there was planning—costs—associated with burying their parents. Darry organized it all so seamlessly that all he and Pony had to do was bawl into each other’s shoulders, oblivious to everything Darry was doing for them.

Guilt twists in his gut, and he resolves to help Darry however he can.

『 Or, Soda does his best for his brothers. 』

---

i.

“What’s this?” he asks Darry, holding up an envelope with the funeral home’s stamp on the return address.

“Another bill,” Darry says, barely giving it a glance. He looks like he’s aged five years in the past month. “Put it on the kitchen counter, I’ll look at it after work.”

Soda doesn’t know how they got through the funeral. Not in the emotional sense but in the pragmatic details and the steps to make it happen. It hadn’t occurred to Soda that there was planning—costs—associated with burying their parents. Darry organized it so seamlessly that all Soda and Pony had to do was bawl into each other’s shoulders, oblivious to everything Darry was doing for them.

Guilt twists in his gut, and he resolves to help Darry however he can.

ii.

“How’s Pony?” Darry asks. “Still having those dreams?”

“He’s getting better,” Soda answers, even though Pony still wakes himself up screaming at night at least twice a week. The fits worry Darry even worse than they bother Pony. Soda hasn’t slept in his own bed since the funeral. This way, he’s right there with Pony so he can hush him and tell him he’s safe—they’re all safe.

“And how are you, little brother?”

The question takes Soda by surprise.

“You know me—right as rain,” Soda says, making sure to give his best grin. Darry gives him a look that says he’s not fooled.

iii.

“You ain’t dropping out, Soda,” Darry says, “and that’s final.”

“Wanna bet?” Soda asks, leaning back in his chair. “I ain’t askin’, Darry, I’m telling ya. The manager’s gonna give me twice the hours—twice the paycheck.”

“You don’t wanna work at the DX forever.”

“Why not?”

“You stay in school,” Darry continues, not listening to Soda. “We’ll be okay. It’s my job to take care of this family, not yours.”

Darry is stubborn to the end; he’ll never admit that he’s in over his head. Soda is so frustrated he could yell. Instead, he keeps smiling, throwing in a wink for good measure, and says, “The teachers are gonna be so glad to get rid of me that they’ll throw a party. And who says the money’s coming your way? Sandy’ll love some fancy dates.”

It’s enough that Darry scoffs at him, forgetting to be mad. “Soda, you’re a damn mess,” he says, but it sounds more fond than anything.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Soda agrees.

“Do what you’re gonna do. It’s not like you’re gonna listen to me.”

“Glad you’re seeing things my way.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know about that,” Darry answers. “But you’re the one who’s gonna tell Pony.”

That dig lodges in Soda’s chest. He knows Pony won’t take the news well. He can tell Darry’s watching him for a reaction, so he doesn’t give Darry the benefit of seeing him squirm.

Soda answers, like his stomach isn’t flip-flopping in his gut, “No problem.”

Pony throws a hell of a fit, but it blows over after a few weeks. And Soda does use some of the money on dates and silly things—but he leaves the bulk of each check in an envelope for Darry. Darry doesn’t mention it, but Soda notices fewer bills with big red “OVERDUE” stamps in their mailbox.

Darry picks up a second job shortly after. He mentions it to Soda pointedly, probably hoping Soda will change his mind and go back to school. Soda pretends not to notice.

iv.

Soda doesn’t say anything when Darry arrives home hunched over like an old man. He watches for a while to be certain. When Darry reaches for the plates from the high cabinet, letting out a sharp and pained hiss, Soda finally asks, “What’s wrong?”

Darry grimaces. “Pulled something in my back today. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Darry smiles grimly. “Got work tomorrow, so it doesn’t matter either way.”

“You can barely move. I don’t think you’re gonna make it to work,” Soda says, doubtfully. “They ain’t gonna fire you for missing a day or two. Not when you’re the hardest worker they got.”

“Maybe. But they won’t pay me to sit at home—and the electric company will turn our lights off.”

Soda pulls a chair out from the kitchen table, flipping it around so it’s facing outward.

“We’ll figure it out,” Soda says, already wondering if he can pick up some overtime. “Now, sit yourself down in Doctor Sodapop’s chair.”

“Doctor Sodapop,” Darry repeats in disbelief. “Sounds like a hack if you ask me.”

“I ain’t askin’ ya.”

Darry must really be hurting, because he begins to sit without further protest. But Soda wants him turned the other way, so he puts his hands on Darry’s sides and directs him how he wants him. Eventually, Darry sits so his chest rests against the back of the chair, his chin stacked on his folded elbows.

“So where’s it hurt?”

“Left side. Near the top.”

Soda presses the flat of his hand against Darry’s shoulder blade. The muscle is so tense that it twitches under the careful touch. Darry hisses as Soda presses down, rubbing his way down Darry’s back.

“Is it bad?”

“Mmm,” Darry hums in response, admitting as much as he ever does.

Ordinarily, Soda wouldn’t mind, but frustration grips him by surprise. He doesn’t get it. Why can’t Darry just let down his guard for once?

Soda lets his fingers dig into the meat of Darry’s shoulder—and Darry moans, pushing against his hand. “Right there,” he says, voice husky.

Any frustration dissipates immediately. Soda rubs at the spot, pleased when Darry makes another low noise. Soda can practically feel Darry melt. Being able to have such an effect on Darry—his handsome but so reserved older brother—makes Soda feel powerful. Pride kindles in his chest at this tangible, audible proof that he can do something to make Darry’s life a little easier.

v.

Darry is sore more often than not these days, so he almost always lets Soda give him a back rub in the evenings. Usually, it’s at the dinner table. Occasionally, he can coax Darry to the couch or an armchair. Even more rarely, he can sweet-talk Darry into the bedroom.

“C’mon, Darry,” Soda wheedles. “Ain’t it your lower back that’s bothering you? I can’t help with that unless you lie down.”

“You’re tryin’ to put me to sleep, Soda,” Darry says. “I see right through you.”

“I dunno how it’s my fault if you’re so tired you fall asleep in the middle,” Soda answers. “Can’t hurt you to get an extra hour of rest anyway.”

“I’ve got too many things to do.”

“Like what?”

Darry gives him a warning look. “The dishes, a load of laundry, and about a hundred other things. Unless you’re offerin’ to take ‘em off my plate?”

“I’ll do the dishes—and the laundry can wait.” Soda pauses, nudging Darry with an elbow, “The offer’s not open forever, ya know.”

Darry tries to grab for him, but Soda slips past his grip. Finally, Darry shrugs, “Fine, you win.”

Soda feels pretty pleased about getting his way. He has Darry lie crosswise on the bed so that he can crawl over him, planting a knee on either side of Darry’s hips. Darry’s arms are folded under his head, stretching his t-shirt across his broad shoulders.

He’s had enough practice to know what Darry likes—how much pressure will get a stubborn muscle to unlock and how a soft touch will make him drift into sleep. But this is the first time Soda can see the definition in Darry’s back as he kneads away Darry’s stress. Everyone knows Darry’s strong, but it’s different altogether to see the prominent indent of muscle that outlines his shoulder blades pressing against thin cotton.

“Don’t let me go to sleep,” Darry warns. His voice is already getting bleary.

“No promises,” Soda says back, sing-song.

“Soda…”

“Relax, Darry. Will ya?”

It only takes about ten minutes for Darry to drop off. Soda eases out of bed, careful not to wake him as he goes to check on Ponyboy.

vi.

Soda’s always been the middle child, but he never felt stuck between Darry and Ponyboy until recently. Before, he never had to play the referee—that had always been their mom’s job.

But back then, Pony and Darry more or less got along. These days, they fight more often than not.

Soda catches the tail end of the most recent fight. He has no idea what it’s about, but Pony hollers at Darry as he charges down the short hall and disappears into his room. The door slams behind him. Darry stands in the living room, scrubbing his eyes with a frustrated hand.

“That kid,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Soda’s not sure if Darry’s talking to him, but he pitches in anyway. “I’m sure Pony don’t mean nothing. What’s the matter this time?”

“Hasn’t finished his schoolwork but he’s mad that I won’t let him go runnin’ around town on a school night,” Darry answers.

“I’ll talk to him,” Soda offers.

“Be my guest. He won’t listen to a word outta my mouth,” Darry says. He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him, but Soda thinks he sees gratitude in Darry’s expression.

Soda lets himself into his and Pony’s shared room. Pony’s lying on the bed with his back to the door.

“Hey, Ponyboy,” he says. “Want some company?”

“I guess,” Ponyboy answers. He sounds a bit watery.

Soda hops into bed, curling around Ponyboy’s back. This close, he can feel Pony trying to hold it together, his skinny body as rigid as a steel bar. It breaks his heart to see Pony upset—even more so when it’s because he’s had it out with Darry again. He would give up everything to make them get along like they used to.

“Don’t worry about it, Pony,” Soda says. “I’m staying home tonight, too.”

“Why is he like that?” Ponyboy asks, sounding even more choked up than before. “What did I do that’s so bad he’s always got it out for me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Soda says, taken aback by how far Ponyboy’s perception of Darry is from what Darry’s trying to accomplish. “He’s just worried about you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pony answers. Soda lies with him, stroking his hair until he relaxes.

After Ponyboy calms down, Soda goes to find Darry. He’s in his bedroom, halfway through folding a hamper of laundry. He watches as Soda enters the room, throwing himself on the bed alongside the folded clothing.

“Hey, watch it, little brother. Mess these up, and you’ll be the one fixin’ it.”

Soda nudges the leaning tower of finished laundry so it stands a bit more upright. He gestures with a flourish and a wide grin, saying, “See? Good as new.”

Darry tries not to, but he cracks a smile. With the situation smoothed over on both sides, Soda feels less shaky.

vii.

Soda and Steve are walking to the Dingo when the day’s sunny sky shifts quickly into clouds. It’s been a long, boring week, so they want to find a bit of fun for the night. They’re less than halfway there when it starts spitting rain, but they don’t turn back until the downpour starts, drenching them both in a minute.

They decide to call it a night early, and Soda squelches home in water-logged shoes to find the house entirely dark. The only light on is in the dining room, where he finds Darry sitting with a scattering of papers in front of him and a letter in his hands. He’s staring at it, motionless. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Soda or the fact he’s dripping all over the floor.

“Hey, Darry,” he greets.

Darry remains frozen. Soda's hands start to sweat, wondering what’s gotten Darry so worked up that he’s paralyzed.

“Darry,” he says again, louder this time.

That seems to shake Darry out of it. He doesn’t look up, but he does answer with a distracted, “Hey.”

“Something the matter?”

“We just got our heads above water.” Darry’s speaking fast, gasping sharply at the end of the sentence like he’s coming up for air. “I started to think, ‘Hell, maybe I can do this—maybe we can be okay.’ And then reality beats me down again.”

Soda takes the envelope out of Darry’s hands, and Darry lets him, letting the paper slip through his fingers like he doesn’t even notice. Soda’s not sure Darry’s fully registering his presence. He skims through the letter, not certain what he’s looking at. He can recognize the numbers though—a bill. And a big one.

Darry finally turns to Soda, but he looks more lost than Soda’s ever seen him.

“I have no clue what I’m doing,” Darry says like a confession. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You’re doing better than I would,” Soda replies. “What is property tax anyway? Don’t we own the house?”

Darry covers his face and laughs, but it’s a bare, desperate sound. Just hearing it makes Soda feel raw inside. He pats Soda on the shoulder twice blindly before walking to his bedroom, a hand still over his face.

Soda’s never seen Darry cry before that he can remember. He was always the older one, the stronger one. That’s probably why Soda follows, even though he knows Darry doesn’t want anyone to see him at his weakest.

viii.

The bedroom is quiet except for Darry’s tattered breathing and the hard patter of rain. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, face buried in his palms. His neck shines wetly where the tears escape under his hands.

Soda is well-practiced at consoling Ponyboy; he has no idea how to approach a crying Darry. He hesitates a beat before shutting the door, peeling off his sodden clothing, and crawling into bed behind Darry. He hooks one arm under Darry’s armpit, pulling him down so they’re lying on the mattress together. Darry allows it, hands still balled into his eyes. Soda can’t curl around Darry like he does Pony—Darry’s too big—but he does his best.

“Your hair’s wet,” Darry says, muffled into the heels of his hands.

“Yeah, it’s raining out something fierce.”

“Give me a minute and I’ll get a hold of myself,” Darry says.

Soda wants so badly to do anything to make Darry feel better.

Maybe that’s why he does what he does. He leans over and pries Darry’s hands away from his face to kiss him as softly as he can—the lightest press of his lips against Darry’s mouth. He can feel the wetness of Darry’s tears, warmer than the rain, and he can taste the salt.

xi.

If Soda expects anything, he might think Darry would push him away or make it into a joke. But Darry doesn’t. His mouth opens under Soda’s, slack but offering like he’s giving himself up to Soda’s care.

So he kisses Darry more deeply, as sweet and gentle as he’d kiss Sandy or any girl.

Darry’s hands come up to frame Soda’s face, holding him in place and kissing Soda back with more sincerity than Soda can bear. Darry’s still crying—lazy drops escaping from under his eyelids to wet both of their faces—but it’s slowing down. Soda kisses him until there are no more tears, and it’s just Darry’s dry, chapped lips against his own.

“Let me help,” Soda says, the words meaningless. It’s not what he wants to communicate. He wants to help Darry with so many things that are beyond his abilities.

Soda can’t help with the property tax thing, and he can’t make Darry and Ponyboy get along better, and he can’t help how hard Darry has to work at his two jobs—but he can do this.

He kisses Darry even more thoroughly, knowing he should stop, but instead pushing forward. He shifts so that Darry’s under him, and he can slip a hand under Darry’s jeans and into his shorts.

He’s never done this for any man, but it has to be okay since it’s Darry. It isn’t too different than when he jerks himself off—but the angle is different, less comfortable. And the sounds Darry makes are worth it. He’s louder than when Soda rubs his back, letting out choked-off gasps with each stroke like he can’t help himself. Darry’s mouth is open against Soda’s temple, his body curled into Soda’s touch, and it’s the best thing Soda’s ever felt.

At the end, Darry spills into Soda’s hand, saying Soda’s name. Soda repeats Darry’s back, kissing him again firmly. Soda thinks Darry might be crying again a little bit; Soda feels like he might cry himself.

x.

The rain beats against the window, louder than ever. No one’s ever accused Soda of thinking too much before he acts. Sometimes it lands him in trouble. He lies next to Darry, who stares at the ceiling like it might have the answers to all his problems, and Soda thinks he might be in trouble now. Maybe he messed everything up and this will become one more thing Darry worries about.

He wants to know everything will be okay, but he holds the question back.

Instead, on a whim, he sloppily licks the dried tear-track line on Darry’s cheek from his jaw to eye. It earns him Darry’s attention—an offended, irritated look. Soda grins but, sensing danger, tries to slide off the bed and out of Darry’s reach. Darry’s too fast, though. Before Soda can escape, Darry captures his head between his bicep and forearm, using his other hand to ruffle Soda’s damp hair.

Soda pushes against Darry—only to find hard muscle that doesn’t give in the slightest—and yelps, “Darry, stop! My hair!”

Darry only holds on tighter and messes his hair up worse.

“What’s that, Pepsi-Cola? Having some trouble, ain’t ya?”

But Darry’s just playing around, he’s not really mad. Soda can feel him laughing silently, a rumbling wave of amusement that rocks through his chest against Soda’s cheek.

That’s how he knows they’ll be alright.