sodapop curtis doesn't get angry. well, scratch that.
sodapop curtis doesn't get outwardly angry. there's always something burning underneath — a fire simmering — but he never lets it boil over. he figures there's no point. his brothers already have enough going on in their lives without having to deal with a ticking time bomb. so he keeps bottling it up, faking a smile whenever he has to.
he made the decision a long time ago — probably even before their parents died — that somebody had to be the calm one when everything else was falling apart.
so he holds it in. the sleepless nights, the unspoken worries. the rage that flickers hot in his chest every time darry yells at ponyboy or when steve talks too loud about things he shouldn’t. when pony comes home scraped up and pretending not to limp. when darry’s back hurts after a long shift and he tries to hide it.
sodapop curtis doesn't get angry. not out loud. but he carries it all the same. anger at how unfair everything is. anger at the silence between darry and pony sometimes. anger at the fact that he can’t fix it.
he keeps smiling though. keeps being the glue. if he lets himself be anything else, everything could fall apart.
