Work Text:
No matter how many times Steve had wished time would tick by faster, the afternoon dragged on.
Each time the bell above the door rang, his head throbbed. Each greeting to a customer burned his throat. Each breeze rushing through the door sent chills down his spine. He shifted back and forth on his feet, wishing anything would make the time go faster.
Soda leaned on the counter next to him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked for what might have been the fifth time that shift.
Steve just shrugged. “Okay enough, just tired.”
Each time Soda asked, he’d changed his answer: “I’m fine”, “I don’t know why you’re so worried”, a gentle punch in the shoulder, “I’m not dead yet, Soda.” But none of those answers seemed to alleviate his friend’s concern. If anything, it grew with each remark.
“Yeah right,” Soda said, pulling a pack of tissues out of his pocket and placing it on the counter.
Steve couldn’t look him in the eye as he tugged one out of the package and blew his nose.
“Yeah, but I’ll live,” he decided as he stuffed the tissue into his pocket.
Soda gave him a look that suggested he didn’t believe him. He drew a quick breath and opened his mouth, ready to argue, the sharp jingle of the doorbell cut him off.
Steve flinched at the sound as Ponyboy and Johnny came barreling in through the front door like they’d just narrowly evaded capture.
“Hey Soda, Steve,” Ponyboy said, panting. He paused for a second as he looked at Steve. “Gee, you look awful.”
Steve shot him a lethal glare.
Soda slapped Ponyboy on the shoulder as he walked over to a nearby shelf. “That’s what I’ve been saying,” he said, grinning.
Steve jumped when he heard his boss’s voice behind him.
“Hate to say it but the kid’s right, Randle,” he said.
Steve straightened his shoulders. Soda stiffened like he’d just been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
Their boss continued. “I run a gas station, not a hospital ward. Clock out.”
Steve looked around. Soda offered a sympathetic look and a small nod; Ponyboy, a ridiculous smirk.
“I’ll be okay,” Steve said, sniffling.
“Get out of here before you pass out on my floor,” his boss deadpanned. “I ain’t filling out paperwork because you’re too stubborn to go home.”
Steve sighed as his shoulders slumped forward and he felt exhaustion creep into his bones. “Yeah, okay,” he said quietly.
He gave Soda a half-hearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You sure you’ll be alright without me?”
Soda held his jacket out to him and walked him to the door. “Don’t worry about us. I got it.”
“Thanks,” he muttered as Soda opened the door.
____________________
He hadn’t expected the front door to be locked.
Soda didn’t know why it surprised him. Of course Steve locked his front door, they lived on the east side of Tulsa. Yet he’d grown so familiar with being able to walk right into his own home that it slipped his mind.
He couldn’t help but feel a little bad that now Steve was going to have to get up to come let him in. When he’d left work, Steve looked exhausted. No matter how many times he tried to focus on pretty girls in the passenger seats of cars or charming the elderly ladies who stopped by every day to pick up another pack of cigarettes, Soda’s mind kept wandering back to his best friend.
And that’s how he found himself standing on Steve’s front porch waiting for the door to open.
He shifted back and forth on his feet, trying to shake the worry that Steve might be worse off than when he left work. He waited for what felt like an eternity before he heard a lock click and the door creaked open.
Steve appeared before him, looking a little worse for wear—pale, ragged, rough around the edges. His tired eyes met Soda’s as a small smile appeared on his face.
“Hey,” he croaked.
“Hey, Stevie.” Soda held up the grocery bag in his hand like an offering. “I brought snacks.”
Steve’s face lit up. “You don’t say?” he said slowly, stepping to one side of the door with a short cough. “Come on in.”
Soda followed him into the living room—a dark space illuminated only by a small lamp on the table and the dim glow of the afternoon news of the television. Steve collapsed on the couch, throwing one arm across the top of it and leaning into the cushions. Soda sat beside him, enough space for the grocery bag between them.
Soda dug through the bag. “Got all your favorites,” he began, placing a box of oatmeal creme pies and a Coke in Steve’s lap. “Or whatever I could find on such short notice,” he smiled.
Steve ripped the box open and tossed one to Soda. “You’re a saint, Sodapop Curtis. I swear, I’d kiss you right now if I weren’t contagious.”
Soda froze. Just for a second.
The words had felt so easy. Effortless. Light. The same way Steve always spoke when he was trying to be funny. But he didn’t look away fast enough.
Soda laughed half-heartedly like that would make the newfound canyon between them shrink. “Yeah, probably for the best.” His eyes didn’t quite meet Steve’s.
Steve tilted his head back and let out a soft laugh that quickly turned into a cough. “Yeah,” he agreed.
Soda shifted a little, unsure of what to do—what to say—next.
“You’re watching the news?” he finally asked as his eyes fixated on the TV. “Willingly?”
Steve shrugged. “It always comes on when I turn the TV on and I didn’t feel like screwing around with the dial.”
“You wanna watch something good?” Soda was already on his feet and moving toward the TV.
“Mission: Impossible is on in a couple minutes,” Steve suggested.
Soda turned the dial. “Whatever you want.”
He wasn’t going to mention that he’d rather watch paint dry than watch an action show. Besides, Steve seemed tired enough that he wasn’t going to make it through the full episode anyway.
Soda returned to the couch, sinking into the cushions beside Steve.
Steve spoke first. “You can change it when you get bored.”
“Nah,” Soda smiled. “I’ll change it when you fall asleep.”
The theme song filled the silence that had settled—no longer awkward or unwelcome, just what happened when you spent ten years attached at the hip. Their conversations ended before they became dull. They got to skip the pleasantries and catch-up because they’d shared every moment. It had grown to feel incredibly… comfortable.
“Do you need anything?” Soda asked after a few minutes had passed. “Water or something?” He started to stand up.
“Nah,” Steve said, catching the cuff of Soda’s sleeve without thinking too much about it. His fingers dropped as quickly as they’d reached out—as soon as he realized what he’d done.
“I’m fine, really.”
Soda nodded, adjusting his flannel.
The show progressed exactly how he knew it would: slinking through spy passages, dramatic music when they were almost caught, giant explosions, a victory for the hero in the end.
He stole glances at Steve every few minutes, his glassy eyes locked on the screen and his fingers tracing the side of the Coke in his hand.
“You know,” Steve spoke, voice hoarse, “you didn’t have to do this.”
“Hmm?” Soda asked.
“Come over today. Cancel whatever you were supposed to do to babysit me.”
Soda shook his head. “I’m not babysitting. We’re just hanging out.”
“But I know I’m not great company right now,” Steve whispered.
“Doesn’t matter,” Soda said casually.
“Soda?”
“Hmm?”
“You don’t have to stay, you know.”
Soda frowned. “I don’t mind, Steve.”
Steve ran a hand across his face. “I know you don’t. That’s the problem.”
Soda opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t escape.
“It’s just—“ Steve continued, closing his eyes. “I don’t want you catching whatever I’ve got and my dad… I don’t want you dealing with him.”
He paused before finishing, quieter. “And I don’t want you stuck here on my account.”
Soda shifted in his seat and swallowed hard. “I’m not stuck.”
Steve hesitated, then finally opened his eyes again. The words seemed to get stuck in his throat.
“You should go home, Soda. My old man’ll be back soon.”
Soda looked over at Steve one more time, taking in the dark bags beneath his eyes and the slight desperation that hung in them.
“I’ll be fine,” Steve added quietly.
Soda’s eyes lingered for another beat.
“Alright,” he said finally, the word hanging heavier than it should have. He stood up, brushing the crumbs off his jeans and grabbing his coat from the coffee table.
“I’ll try to come back tomorrow,” he said, almost asking permission.
“If you want,” Steve replied casually, trying to hide how much he would enjoy the company.
Soda made his way over to the door, wrapping his hand around the knob. But he didn’t turn it right away. He hovered just a second longer, like he hoped Steve might call him back.
Steve didn’t ask him to stay. Instead, he called as the door closed, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Soda.”
____________________
[three days later]
“Bless you.”
Soda rolled his eyes as he blew his nose for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
Ponyboy looked up from his book. “You know, you look worse than Steve did. Which is pretty impressive since he looked just about ready for the morgue.”
Soda tried to respond, but was cut off by another sneeze.
“Go lie down, Soda,” Darry said sternly, arms crossed at the kitchen table.
Soda shook his head, wiping his nose. “I got work in an hour.”
Ponyboy huffed out a laugh. “Yeah right.”
“Are you sure that’s a smart choice?” Darry asked, raising an eyebrow. They all knew the answer to that question.
Soda just shrugged. “I have to. Who else is gonna be there?” He said, sniffling. “Steve already called off.”
“So you’re willing to go to work like this but you won’t let Steve do it?” Ponyboy asked.
“I guess.”
Darry pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re ridiculous. You’re gonna get worse.”
Soda groaned and fell into the armchair. “I’ll be fine. Really. I’m just a little—“
Darry cut him off. “A little? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, little buddy, but you’re so far past ‘a little’. “
Ponyboy chimed in. “Yeah, your voice is shot, you’re basically Rudolph at this point, you’re—“ he paused, eyes narrowing. “Soda, are you shivering?”
“No,” he muttered through chattering teeth.
Darry yanked a blanket off the couch and threw it around Soda’s shoulders without a word. Soda couldn’t help but pull it a little closer.
“I’ll call your boss then,” Darry said nonchalantly as he walked over to the phone.
Soda glared at him. “Would it make you feel better to say ‘I told you so’?”
Darry looked at him, shocked. “What?” No.” But he couldn’t conceal the mischievous grin on his face fast enough.
Soda raised an eyebrow.
“All I’m saying is,” Darry paused, “well, I hate to say ‘I told you so—“
“No you don’t,” Soda laughed.
Darry shrugged. “I don’t.” He put his hands on his hips. “I told you so. Spending three days straight at Steve’s place when—“
“We get it, Darry,” Ponyboy stepped in, “you don’t gotta kick him while he’s already down.”
Darry threw his hands up in mock-surrender and went back to the phone.
“Glad you could get that off your chest, Dar,” Soda said.
“Was it worth it?“ Ponyboy taunted.
“What?”
“Spending the afternoon at Steve’s.”
“Oh…” Soda thought for a second. “…probably.”
Darry perked up from the other side of the room. “Really?”
“Yeah. I guess. It’s Steve.”
Ponyboy blinked, then leaned back in his chair as a smirk crept onto his face. “It’s Steve? That’s all you’ve got?”
Soda sniffled, flustered. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know, it’s just that…you spent an awful lot of time fussing over him.”
“I was just helping. He’s my best friend.”
Darry crossed his arms. “Helping, huh?”
Soda shifted in his seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Darry and Ponyboy exchanged a quick glance before Darry spoke again. “Pony, can you come help me with the dishes real quick?”
Ponyboy got up and followed Darry into the kitchen.
Darry smirked. “Well, kiddo,” he whispered to Ponyboy, “looks like you owe me a dollar.”
Ponyboy grumbled while he dug around in his pocket. “I just can’t believe anyone would actually like Steve.”
Darry shook his head slowly as Ponyboy placed the bill in his hand. “He’s gonna be the last one to know, isn’t he?”
“Who?” Ponyboy asked. “Steve?”
“Not Steve,” Darry said quietly as he glanced around the corner to where their middle brother sat curled up in the chair, eyes glazed over and chapped lips parted just enough to breathe.
Ponyboy followed his gaze. “Ohhhh,” he whispered. “So are we gonna tell him?”
Darry raised an eyebrow. “Tell him what? That he’s wrapped around Steve’s finger?”
Ponyboy nodded.
“Nah,” Darry said, “we gotta let him figure it out. And in the meantime, we get front row seats.”