Chapter Text
"C'mon." Despite Steve's previous reluctance, he was herding Soda to the bathroom with the efficiency of a sheepdog. "The quicker this is over with the sooner I can sleep."
"I can get behind that."
His friend all but dumped him into the old tub and tugged the curtain closed.
Some people thought Steve was always angry. It was the reason Ponyboy didn't get along with him very well, as the kid was always sensitive and prickly about people he thought were mad at him. Hell, it had nearly made Pony shun Darrel for a year or so, and Darry's love for him was so big it could be seen from space. Steve was prickly to everybody, and had a mean look in his eyes that had shown up the first day his father kicked him out of the house and hadn't dimmed since. Steve was angry in some corner of himself always, and he'd probably still be angry as worms curled in his bones six feet deep.
Soda had spent his life learning to surf the waves of his best friend's anger, how to tell the shifts of it like weather patterns. Knowing when to leave him alone, when to hold him back, when to get in his face with a grin and make him do something about it. It had become so second-nature to him that he sometimes forgot he was doing it, and was slightly surprised when anybody asked him how he put up with the grumpy, snappish curmudgeon that was his best friend.
It was a simple answer, always. Even when he wasn't sure how to say it out loud. Steve was his and he was Steve's. Brothers, of a different sort than Darry and Ponyboy.
All that to say, Steve's anger usually didn't phase him at all.
Tonight, it felt like the predictable waves had turned choppy and unfamiliar around him. After all, it usually wasn't Soda who was the source of anger. As the curtain yanked between them, and Soda was alone in the shower and in pain and tired, Steve's anger was scaring him to death.
"You won't leave?"
It was a childish thing to ask, but he could suddenly imagine Steve slamming the bathroom door and walking off into the night with his fists shoved in his pockets. The porcelain tub was as cold as that damn well.
He heard Steve take a very slow, deliberate breath in, and out. Like he did when he was trying not to make a scene somewhere respectable.
"No, I won't." The words were gentle. A tone of voice only granted to a very, very select few. "I'm right here."
"Okay." Soda felt a bit more settled in himself.
The shower was annoying. Getting his clothes off and then washing the dirt off was a painful ordeal. He did the best he could, but knew that he probably wouldn't feel fully clean until he could actually stand up and have full use of both of his hands. Oh well.
Tense quiet filled the bathroom, mixing with the sound of the falling water and Steve tapping a fingernail on the old vinyl countertop.
"Are you mad?"
"Yeah." Steve responded simply, honestly, like he always did. "More worried, though." The admission made Soda's heart hurt. He scrubbed at his arms a little harder than necessary.
"About the drinking?" It felt a lot easier to talk with the curtain between them, in the half-dark of the weak bulb above the sink fighting off the night. It felt safer. Less real.
He could hear Steve shift, the toilet lid squeaking quietly. "That's part of it."
"I didn't want you to see. Or Pony, or anyone."
"I thought you didn't like drinkin'. That's what's eatin' me." It was a question, of a sort.
"I don't."
"So, why?"
Most of these types of conversations between them had gone the other way around. The gang hadn't even known what a bastard Steve's dad was until Soda had gotten it out of him in frank, short questions. Sodapop had unique ways of talking to plenty of people. He and Ponyboy could talk for hours about everything and nothing. Darrel and Sodapop could have whole conversations in a look and a nod, like they didn't even need words. Soda could pry the serious, thoughtful out of Two-Bit when it was just the two of them. He could even convince Ace to act girly if he met her halfway at it, to get past the front she had to put up to be respected.
He could get calm, levelheaded, and honest out of Steve. Soda was only just realizing that the special communication he had with everyone went both ways.
"It's just… Bein' drunk doesn't make me feel like myself." Somehow, he was more able to honest with Steve than he was with himself. "I didn't feel like doing it tonight. Being me. I thought I could have that, just for a couple hours. I dunno. "
"Being you?"
The words pieced together as he said them, like they came from nowhere. The howling void inside of him. "I didn't want to be him tonight."
Steve didn't say anything. It felt like a question anyways.
"I didn't want to fix anything. I didn't want to sit around waitin' for there not to be anything to fix no more. Y'know."
Quiet. He scrubbed his good hand over his face, clearing some of the clinging water out of his eyelashes. The skin of his cheeks didn't feel gritty with dust and grime anymore, which felt like a small miracle. Words kept creeping out of his throat.
"I even was trying to fix the damn firefighter's car troubles while he was draggin' me out. It's like I can't help it. I dunno what else I am- Sorry, m'not makin' sense…"
It was what he was for. Fixing. What would he do when he ran out of stuff to fix? Would he just start breaking things? Is that all that would be left, at the end?
"No, I think-" Steve sighed. "I think I'm gettin' it."
"Good, 'cause I don't."
That got a little laugh out of his friend. "I mean, it makes sense. You wanted to be the problem tonight, right? I mean, Hell, it's only fair. You never get to be the problem."
It didn't ring totally true, but it was close enough to it. His eyes stung. Maybe he did want to be the problem for once, but... "I didn't wanna be this much of one."
Steve snorted. "Well, we can hardly blame ya' for the weather. Though I think Superman might try when he stops worryin' 'bout you long enough to remember how pissed he is."
Ugh. He definitely wasn't looking forward to that. He had washed all the soap out of his hair, finally, and the water had gone pretty cold. Soda turned the faucet off as he began to shiver.
"Ponykid still havin' nightmares?"
Steve always asked things like that, keeping tabs. He only ever asked Soda. "Yeah. Worse than before." He didn't need to elaborate past that. Everyone in the gang knew what was before, and what was after. "Can you get me somethin' dry to wear?"
"Sure."
A lot of awkward hopping and shuffling later, Soda was in some of his Dad's old pajamas and curled on the couch, still shivering. The brace for his ankle was discard on the floor for when he'd need it the next morning. For now, he had no reason to walk around. With the last of his energy, he dragged one of the folded-up blankets Darry had dug out for them over his shivering body.
"Glory, you're pathetic." Steve sounded more amused than annoyed, which was another miracle to add to the pile. Soda was too tired to even argue.
The still-folded blanket straightened out in Steve's hands, draping better over his body and actually doing something to warm him up. Like a saint, his friend threw another one on top of that. It kept all the cold air at bay. Maybe being the problem for the night wasn't so bad. "You're a good friend, Stevie." He said, half in a dream already.
"Jus' had a good teacher. That's all."
Soda fell asleep with Steve's steady hand on his calf, warming the spot where it rested like a brand.