Santa Curtis: a small Christmas oneshot!
Your local Christmas hater is here with some Outsiders Christmas angst! Blame my bf @thegetou for this, they encouraged me :> I'm not even technically in the Outsiders fandom, I just related to Darry too hard and now he's in my rotation of angst victims...
Anyways, Merry Christmas to those that celebrate!
Word count: almost 1.2k
Warnings: angst surrounding the death of the Curtis parents, one singular mention of vomit, Darry crying lots
December 24th, 1964. 11:40pm.
The Curtis residence, void of the recently departed.
Darrel Curtis Jr. sat on his bed, the tension in his body threatening to choke him. A large part of him wanted to go to bed and pretend that it wasn't Christmas Eve, and that Ponyboy hadn't baked cookies for Santa like he'd done his whole life — like him and his brothers hadn't become orphans just three days prior. Three days were not nearly enough time for Darry to feel ready to take up his father's mantle in any capacity, especially in traditions so tied to joy and wonder. How could he celebrate the Curtis family's biggest holiday of the year when he was still trying to plan their parents' funeral?
Through the thin walls of their home, Darry heard the muffled cries of his youngest brother. He couldn't find the energy to get up and comfort him. Sodapop, as endlessly loving as he was, could be heard soothing Pony instead. A vague, barely recognized sense of hopelessness added to the weight on Darry's shoulders.
Mom would know what to do. She'd have him laughing off his sorrows within a minute. But Soda will have to do, now. He may not get Pony to laugh, but maybe small comforts will be enough.
Enough for what, Darry didn't know. But if his kid brothers can come together for each other, he could do the same for them. He had to. As much of a lost boy he was himself, he was the man of the house now.
So he stood up and left his room. He could see that Pony's door was ajar. If Darry was more like his mother, maybe the three of them could share this moment together. He put that out of his mind as he made his way to their parents' bedroom instead. He gripped the doorknob, a sudden wave of nausea keeping him from twisting it.
They were in this room three days ago. There was life in this room that will never come back. As soon as I open this door, the room will be dead and I will remember it that way.
Darry rested his forehead against the door. He couldn't cry. If he cried, he'd just think about all the times his mother soothed him. She wasn't here anymore. He inhaled deeply and shakily, fighting the tightness in his throat. On an exhale, he twisted the knob and stepped forward into the dead room.
He stopped to take it all in, still clinging to the doorknob. The room was too quiet, too cold, and too vast. He felt too small for his body as he stared. He was just a giant boy. Too giant for this room and too young to see it so lifeless.
He remembered where they hid the gifts every year. They never knew that he had found it, and his brothers never bothered looking. He almost wished that the spot under the bed would be empty if he looked. Wouldn't that be easier? To have a sad, empty Christmas without any gifts from the deceased? To mourn instead of celebrate?
He lugged his heavy feet, one in front of the other, around the bed and dropped to his knees. The world slowed down as he bent forward, and eight color-coded gifts came into his view. He couldn't cry. Not without Mom.
Two green boxes for Darry, from Santa Curtis.
Two blue boxes for Sodapop, from Santa Curtis.
Two gold boxes for Ponyboy, from Santa Curtis.
One small pink box for Mom, from Dad.
One small white box for Dad, from Mom.
Darry grabbed both small boxes and stifled a sob. Tears fell, and he hugged the boxes to his chest. He managed some shaky, quiet breaths so as to not worry his brothers, and just sat on the floor.
...
December 25th, 1964. 1:15am.
Darry flushed down his vomit, rinsed his face and mouth, and walked back into the hallway. He put the gifts for his mother and father under their respective pillows before he ran to the bathroom. Out of sight, out of mind. He peeked over at the doors to his brothers' rooms, both closed, before heading into his parents' room again. This time, he made sure not to dwell, and just grabbed some boxes before speeding to the living room. He slid the first trip of boxes under the tree, trying not to think.
"Mm?" Darry looked over at Two-Bit Matthews, half asleep and mumbling to himself on the couch, still clinging to a now empty bottle of whiskey. As selfish as it was, Darry was glad that Two-Bit was refusing to leave him alone since the bad news, even if it meant drinking himself to sleep on the raggedy couch.
The least I could do is give the fool a blanket.
Darry welcomed the distraction, and stepped towards the linen closet. On the way, he spotted a plate and a glass on the dining room table. He approached, and was sorely reminded of his new role as Santa by the milk and cookies coming into view in front of him. Near the plate was a small note.
To Santa,
I know I'm too old to believe in you anymore. I know you were Dad. But please don't go away.
- Ponyboy Curtis
Darry sighed, having to lean on the table for a moment. He still remembered being much younger than Pony is now, his mother helping him with baking cookies for Santa. Now, being on the other side of it, it was bittersweet. More bitter than sweet, really. He grabbed a cookie and took a bite. It was for him now, wasn't it?
It tasted like his mother's absence, both figuratively and literally. Ponyboy was a shit baker.
Darry packed the rest of the cookies up in a paper bag and left it next to Two-Bit for the morning. He surely wouldn't mind some half-burnt cookies. He washed the atrocity down with the glass of milk before continuing his journey to the linen closet. On the top of the rest of the blankets was a Christmas themed blanket, and he grabbed it. Two-Bit muttered to himself in his sleep as Darry laid the blanket on him, finishing it off by tucking the man's hair behind his ear and leaving a peck on his temple.
Darry whispered against his head. "Thank you for being here. Couldn't have done this without you." And with a soft groan, he stood and put the rest of the gifts under the tree, the tension in his shoulders easing with every step. The Christmas spirit helped fill the hole that the loss left, at least for now.
When he was finally finished with his duties for the night, he kneeled next to his bed and did something that he abandoned years ago; he prayed.
"Please God, if you're still there… Don't take anyone else from me. I'm not ready."