Chapter Text
Soda woke up to sunlight hitting him square in the eyes. It slipped right through the bent blinds like it was pickin’ on him on purpose. He groaned, threw an arm over his face, and stretched till his joints popped. The house was too hot already, Tulsa heat sneakin’ in before breakfast. He could smell bacon, Darry must’ve been up early again.
He sat up, hair stickin’ every which way, and squinted around the room. Pony’s shoes were in the middle of the floor, a shirt was hangin’ off the chair, and his own jeans were halfway under the bed. Pretty normal. He rubbed his eyes and muttered, “Mornin’, world,” before swingin’ his feet to the floor.
He found a clean shirt, clean enough anyway, and pulled it over his head. The collar was stretched, but he figured Steve’d get grease on it before noon, so it didn’t matter none. He ran a hand through his hair, grinned at himself in the cracked mirror, and headed to the kitchen.
Darry was at the stove, spatula in hand, wearin’ that look that said he was half annoyed, half proud to be feedin’ ‘em. Pony sat at the table with a bowl of cereal, nose buried in some old copy of Great Expectations. Typical.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” Soda said, clappin’ Pony on the shoulder as he passed.
Pony wrinkled his nose. “You’re late.”
“For what?” Soda grabbed a piece of bacon straight outta the pan. Darry swatted at him with the spatula.
“I dunno. For life, probably,” Pony said. “And for work. Steve came by ten minutes ago lookin’ for you.”
Soda nearly choked on the bacon. “He what?”
“Yeah,” Pony said around a spoonful of cereal. “Said if you don’t show up soon, he’s gonna replace you with the gas pump.”
“Ha ha,” Soda muttered, shovin’ Pony’s head gently. “You’re real funny, kid.”
Darry turned, arms crossed. “He ain’t wrong. You’re runnin’ late again, Soda.”
“Yeah, but I make up for it with charm,” Soda said, smilin’ big. “Right?”
Darry shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Charm doesn’t fix cars.”
“It keeps the customers happy though,” Soda said, grabbin’ a piece of toast. “Gotta use my strengths.”
“Your strength’s talkin’ too much,” Pony said.
“Exactly!” Soda winked. “At least I know my talents.”
Darry sighed. “You keep talkin’ and that toast’ll be gone before you hit the door.”
Soda stuffed half of it in his mouth in one bite and mumbled something that sounded like “Love you both,” before boltin’ outside.
He jogged down the street, sun beatin’ down on him, sweat already stickin’ to his shirt. Tulsa was loud that morning, kids yellin’, radios playin’, some dog barkin’ three houses over. It felt like home. He liked that. He liked normal.
By the time he reached the DX, Steve was bent under the hood of a Chevy, elbow-deep in the engine, grease streakin’ his arm. The air smelled like oil and dust and cigarettes.
“You’re late,” Steve said without lookin’ up.
Soda leaned against the doorframe. “You’re bossy.”
“Someone’s gotta be,” Steve shot back. He wiped sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “You know what time it is?”
Soda grinned. “Time for me to make you look bad?”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Grab me the half-inch wrench, Romeo.”
Soda grabbed it and tossed it overhand. Steve caught it clean, fluid as anything. He always had quick hands, hands that fixed things when nobody else could. Soda watched him for a second too long before catchin’ himself and lookin’ away.
“You gonna stand there or help?” Steve said, not even glancin’ up. He must’ve noticed.
Soda jumped in beside him, sleeves rolled up, the two of ‘em fallin’ into rhythm like always. They didn’t even need to talk half the time; they just knew what the other was reachin’ for. It was easy. Familiar. Like breathin’.
After a while, Soda whistled low. “You hear about the new Mustang comin’ in next week?”
Steve’s grin flickered, quick and sharp. “Yeah. Customer said it’s cherry red. Gonna make that old Chevy look like a junkyard scrap.”
“Hey, don’t insult her,” Soda said, tappin’ the hood. “She’s a beaut, just… tired.”
“Kinda like you,” Steve said, smirkin’.
Soda laughed, loud and free. “You got jokes today.”
“Gotta keep things interestin’.”
“Guess I should be flattered.”
“Guess you should,” Steve said, and that grin lingered just a little too long.
They finished the tune-up before lunch, shirts stickin’ to their backs. Soda leaned on the counter, fanning himself with a rag. “I swear, this heat’s worse than last summer.”
Steve cracked open a Coke bottle. “You’re just soft.”
“Soft?” Soda raised an eyebrow. “You try workin’ as hard as me, see how soft you feel.”
“I do work as hard as you. Harder,” Steve said, taking a long swig. “You just talk more while doin’ it.”
“That’s called multitaskin’.”
“Uh-huh. You call it that. I call it distractin’.”
Soda laughed, and the sound filled the garage. The kind of laugh that made other people smile without knowin’ why.
They took lunch outside, sittin’ on the curb with the Coke between ‘em and a sandwich Darry had packed. Soda took a bite and groaned. “Man, Darry can cook.”
Steve smirked. “Darry could boil dirt and you’d say it’s the best thing you ever ate.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I just got good taste.”
“You got somethin’, that’s for sure,” Steve said, eyes crinklin’. Then he looked down quick, messin’ with the bottle cap like it suddenly got interestin’.
Soda glanced at him, a small smile twitchin’ at the edge of his mouth. Steve always did that—say somethin’ half serious, half jokin’, and then act like he hadn’t. It was one of the things Soda liked about him. Not that he’d ever say it out loud. That’d just make things weird.
They finished lunch in comfortable silence, watchin’ cars roll past. The air shimmered with heat, cicadas whinin’. It was the kind of lazy peace Soda wished he could bottle up.
“Hey,” Steve said after a bit, voice softer. “You been okay? Since, you know… Sandy?”
Soda blinked. “What about her?”
Steve shrugged. “Just… you don’t talk about it.”
“Nothin’ to talk about,” Soda said quickly. “She’s gone. Florida. End of story.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t even--”
“Drop it, Steve,” Soda said, firmer than he meant. The look Steve gave him made his stomach twist, so he forced a grin. “Ain’t like she’s the only girl in the world, right?”
Steve hesitated, then chuckled. “Right. I mean, you could probably have half of Tulsa if you wanted.”
“Yeah,” Soda said, laughing again, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
The afternoon dragged on, the heat thick enough to choke on. They worked through it anyway, hands movin’ automatically, sweat drippin’ down their necks. Soda caught himself thinkin’ about Steve’s words, about Sandy, about nothin’ all at once. By the time they closed up shop, the sky was turnin’ pink.
“You comin’ by the house later?” Soda asked, grabbin’ his jacket.
“Maybe,” Steve said, lockin’ the garage. “Depends if I get roped into helpin’ my old man fix the fence again.”
“Well, tell him to give it a rest. You ain’t a carpenter.”
“Yeah, try tellin’ him that.”
Soda grinned, slappin’ Steve on the shoulder. “See ya later, grease monkey.”
Steve smirked. “Right back at you, hotshot.”
Soda laughed, the sound echoing down the street as he walked home.
By the time he got to the Curtis house, the sun was gone and the streetlights were flickerin’ on. He could smell Darry’s stew from the porch. Pony’s voice drifted from inside, probably arguin’ about homework or somethin’.
“‘Bout time,” Darry said as Soda walked in, hair damp from the shower he’d grabbed at the DX. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Aw, you waited for me?” Soda said, grinnin’ as he sat down. “I’m touched.”
“You should be,” Darry said. “I was this close to eatin’ your share.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” Darry said, but his tone was light. He handed Soda a bowl, and for a second, things felt like they used to. The three of them around the table, no noise but clinkin’ spoons and the soft hum of the TV in the corner. Pony had that dreamy look he always got when he was half listenin’, half thinkin’ about somethin’ else.
Soda liked seein’ him like that. It made him forget that their parents were gone, that things had been hard. It made it feel normal again.
Then Darry reached for the mail stack on the counter. “Let’s see… bill, bill… huh.” He frowned. “This one’s for you, Soda.”
Soda swallowed a bite of stew. “Me? I don’t get mail.”
“Well, you do now,” Darry said, turning the envelope over. “Selective Service System.”
“What’s that?” Pony asked.
Soda blinked. “Ain’t that--?”
Darry’s eyes met his, and the smile faded from both their faces.
“Wait,” Pony said. “What’s it mean?”
Darry didn’t answer right away. He opened it carefully, the paper cracklin’. His voice was low when he started readin’. “You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States…”
Soda’s spoon dropped.
Pony stared between them. “No,” he whispered. “No way.”
Soda sat frozen, breath stuck in his chest. He wanted to laugh, to say Darry was jokin’, that it was a mistake. But Darry wasn’t jokin’. Darry never joked about things like that.
“It says you report next month,” Darry said quietly. “They’re callin’ you up.”
Soda’s chair creaked as he leaned back, tryin’ to take it in. “That’s… that’s gotta be wrong, right? They can’t mean me.”
“They mean you,” Darry said. His voice cracked halfway through.
Pony shot up, eyes wide. “They can’t take him! He’s my brother, he can’t go fight in some stupid war!”
“Pony--” Darry started, but Pony was already tearin’ up.
Soda just sat there, the words poundin’ in his skull like hammer hits. You are hereby ordered for induction. It didn’t sound real. It sounded like somethin’ that happened to other folks, in other towns. Not here. Not him.
Pony’s arms were around him before he could think, full on sobbin’ into his shirt now. Soda blinked and realized his own hands were shakin’. He put an arm around his kid brother and tried to smile, like that could fix it.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t cry, Pony. It’s okay. Probably just paperwork, that’s all. Some dumb mix-up.”
Darry looked at him then, looked right at him, eyes full of fear he was tryin’ hard to hide, and Soda knew it wasn’t no mix-up.
But he smiled anyway. Because that’s what he did. He smiled so Pony wouldn’t see the tremble in his jaw, wouldn’t hear the pounding in his chest.
“It’s fine, kid,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
But it wasn’t
The house felt different after Darry read that letter. Like all the air had gone out of it, and no one knew how to breathe right anymore.
Dinner sat half-eaten on the table. Pony’s fork clinked against his plate as he pushed his stew around. Darry was staring down at his own hands, knuckles white from gripping that notice like it’d bite him if he let go. Soda tried to keep up that grin of his, cracking small jokes about how the army probably needed someone to teach ‘em how to fix cars, but his voice kept shaking at the edges. It sounded wrong, even to him.
“Guess they figured I’d make a real good grease monkey out in the jungle,” he said, flicking a carrot at Pony.
Pony didn’t even smile. Just blinked, eyes red-rimmed. “You can’t go,” he said, real soft. “You just can’t, Soda.”
Soda gave him a lopsided grin, even though his chest hurt so bad it felt like something was sitting on it. “Ain’t got much choice, little buddy. Government wants me, they get me. That’s how it works.”
“It’s not fair,” Pony said, voice cracking. “You didn’t even finish high school, Soda, you can’t--” He stopped himself, looked away fast, like the words were burning his tongue.
Darry sighed and set down the letter, folding it real careful. “Pony,” he said, tone low, warning. “Don’t start again.”
Pony pushed back his chair hard enough to make it screech on the floor. “Why not? Nobody’s saying it! It’s not fair, Darry! He’s not! He shouldn’t be the one going!” He turned on Soda again, chest heaving. “You can’t go!”
Soda swallowed hard, wishing he could tell Pony it’d all be okay, that he’d be home before he knew it. But he couldn’t even make himself believe that. So he smiled again, habit, reflex, shield.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out and tugging Pony’s sleeve. “You keep that face up, you’re gonna scare Two-Bit next time he drops by. He’ll think someone died.”
Pony’s lip trembled. “Maybe someone will.”
That shut everyone up.
The sound of the kitchen clock ticking filled the space. Soda stared down at his plate, appetite gone. He could feel Darry’s eyes on him, heavy with worry and guilt, but Soda didn’t want to meet them. Darry already had too much on his shoulders. He didn’t need to see his middle brother cracking too.
So Soda pushed back his chair, stood, and said, “Think I’ll head to the DX for a bit. Steve’s probably still there.”
Darry frowned. “It’s late.”
“I’ll be fine. Gotta keep busy, y’know?” He forced another grin, tossed Pony’s hair, and grabbed his jacket. “Don’t wait up.”
The night air hit him cold and clean, a little too quiet for his liking. Tulsa had that heavy stillness sometimes, where you could hear your own thoughts if you weren’t careful. And tonight, Soda didn’t wanna hear a damn thing his thoughts had to say.
He kicked at a rock as he walked, hands shoved in his pockets, the weight of the letter folded in his back pocket like a curse. The streetlights buzzed, making halos in the fog. Every shadow looked like it was about to whisper something mean.
When he got to the DX, the lot was dark. The pumps were quiet, lights out except for that one flickering bulb over the office door. Steve’s old Chevy was parked crooked, hood up. Soda could see a shape under the car, Steve’s legs sticking out.
“Hey, greasehead,” Soda called, forcing some pep into his tone. “You fall asleep under there again? Thought we broke you of that habit after last time you near about suffocated yourself.”
Steve’s voice came muffled. “Screw you, Soda.” He slid out from under the car, shirt streaked with oil, hair plastered to his forehead. “I was fixin’ the carb. You know, like someone who actually works for a livin’.”
Soda grinned, automatic. “Man, you been fixin’ that carb for weeks. You in love with it or somethin’?”
“Yeah, well,” Steve said, standing and wiping his hands on a rag, “at least it don’t talk back.”
“Aw, you’d miss me if I quit talkin’,” Soda said, leaning against the hood. “Who’d keep your sorry butt company?”
Steve looked at him then, really looked, and something in his expression softened. “You okay, man? You look kinda--” He hesitated, searching. “--off.”
Soda shrugged, that same old grin plastered on. “Just tired, is all. Pony’s been hoggin’ the blankets again. Kid kicks like a mule.”
Steve smirked. “That kid’s a menace.”
“Tell me about it.” Soda nudged him with an elbow. “But he’s ours. Wouldn’t trade him for nothin’.”
Steve’s smirk turned into a grin. “You’re full of crap, Curtis.”
“Yeah,” Soda said quietly, “I know.”
They fell into easy rhythm after that, talking about cars and girls, laughing about Two-Bit trying to hustle some Socs at pool earlier. For a while, it almost felt normal. Soda let himself believe it was. He wiped down the counters, tossed Steve a greasy rag, and they started stacking oil cans like they always did, arguing about who worked harder.
But it was late, and the grin was getting harder to hold.
Around midnight, Steve finally said, “C’mon, man, let’s call it a night. You’re dead on your feet.”
Soda hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess I should.”
“You sure you’re good?” Steve asked, eyes narrowing a little. “You been quiet all night. And that’s sayin’ somethin’ for you.”
Soda chuckled, though it came out shaky. “Don’t you worry about me, Stevie boy. I’m fine.”
Steve didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it either. He tossed Soda his jacket. “Alright, but if you keel over tomorrow, I’m not draggin’ your carcass home.”
“Fair deal.” Soda gave him a two-finger salute and started walking toward home, the night air colder now, sharper. He could feel the tremor starting up in his hands again, no matter how tight he clenched them.
He didn’t sleep. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Pony’s soft snores beside him. The draft notice sat folded on the dresser, looking innocent under the moonlight. Just a piece of paper, really. But it had torn his whole world wide open.
He kept hearing Pony’s voice in his head. Maybe someone will.
He bit his lip hard enough to taste copper. He couldn’t cry here, not where Pony could hear. That kid had already seen too much hurt for his age.
So Soda waited. Waited until the house went still--Darry’s deep breathing from the next room, the pipes settling, the street quiet. Then he swung his legs off the bed and stood, heart pounding like he was sneakin’ out for a date. He grabbed his jacket, the letter, and slipped out the window like he used to when he and Steve would ditch curfew to go drag racing.
The cold hit him square in the face. He didn’t care.
Steve’s place wasn’t far, just a few blocks down. Soda’s boots scuffed the pavement, echoing too loud in the stillness. He kept his hands jammed in his pockets, every step heavy.
The little apartment over the garage was dark, but he knew Steve never locked the window. Soda climbed up the side like muscle memory, palms scraping the old wood siding, breath fogging the glass. He knocked once, soft.
Inside, there was some shuffling. A lamp flicked on, weak yellow light spilling across the room. Steve appeared, bleary-eyed, hair a mess.
“Soda?” he said, squinting. “What the hell, it's two in the morning.”
Soda opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. His throat was dry, tight. “Can I--” He swallowed. “Can I come in?”
Steve frowned, stepping aside. “Yeah. Sure, man.”
Soda climbed in through the window, boots hitting the floor with a soft thud. The room smelled like motor oil and cigarette smoke, familiar and safe in a way that made his chest ache worse.
Steve rubbed his eyes. “You look like hell. You sick or somethin’?”
Soda shook his head. “Nah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Steve dropped onto the edge of his bed. “You wake me up ‘cause you’re bored, I swear--”
Soda pulled the letter from his jacket, fingers trembling. “I got drafted,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Steve froze. “What?”
Soda’s voice broke. “Got the notice today. Darry read it out loud at dinner.”
For a second, Steve didn’t move. Then he stood up fast, eyes wide, like he hadn’t heard right. “No. No, no, no--” He ran a hand through his hair. “That can’t be right. They can’t just, hell, you’re--” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “You?”
Soda laughed, but it came out wet, broken. “Guess Uncle Sam wants the good-lookin’ ones first.”
Steve stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “Soda, this ain’t funny.”
“I know.” The grin finally cracked. All that false light drained out of his face, leaving just the scared kid underneath. “I know, Steve.”
The silence that followed was thick. Then Soda’s shoulders started to shake, quiet at first. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but it didn’t stop. The sob just tore out of him before he could stop it.
Steve moved before he even thought about it. “Hey--hey, come here,” he said, catching Soda by the shoulders, pulling him in. Soda went without fighting it, burying his face against Steve’s shirt, shaking so bad it rattled both of them.
Steve didn’t say anything else. He just held him, one hand fisted in the back of Soda’s jacket, the other resting on his head. The only sound in the room was Soda’s muffled, uneven breaths.
After a while, Soda choked out, “I ain’t scared of dyin’. I just..Pony, Darry, they need me, Steve. I can’t--” His voice cracked again. “I can’t leave them.”
Steve’s throat worked. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, man.”
Soda stayed there a long time, until the crying turned to hiccups, then quiet. And Steve didn’t let go.