Chapter Text
There was something wrong with Steve Randle. That was the only explanation for whatever this thing was inside of him. There was something fundamentally wrong in his brain, something that ruined the good things—the only good thing in his life: the gang, and more so, his relationship with Sodapop Curtis, his best friend.
It was just another lazy day at the Curtis house. Pony had decided to screw around late with Curly, so it was just Steve, Soda, Two-Bit, and Darry at the house. The latter was off puttering somewhere in the kitchen, leaving the rest of them to sprawl around the living room, watching TV. Two-Bit had taken a seat right on the floor, right in front of the screen, and was babbling nonsense in between sips of beer. This left Soda and Steve on the couch together, which led to his current predicament.
He looked over across the couch, to where Soda lounged on the opposite arm rest with Steve’s feet resting in his lap. His mouth was quirked up slightly as he watched whatever cartoons were running on the TV, his brown eyes endlessly amused. It should have been nothing. Steve should have been watching the TV, thinking normal thoughts about work or girls or anything but what was going through his head. Who was going through his head. And yet, it was impossible for him to look away. He had known Sodapop since they were just six-year-olds in grade school, and yet he had never gotten tired of seeing his face.
The sunset streaming in through the windows outlined the angles of his movie-star face, making him look like one of those gods from Pony’s books. Untouchable, radiant, beyond human comprehension. Everybody knew that Sodapop Curtis was handsome, handsome enough that girls walking across the street had walked into telephone poles staring at his face on more than one occasion. But somehow, it was different. Steve had never been the religious type, but looking at Soda in the evening light sure felt like something holy. Sitting there, his feet resting in Soda’s lap, the world felt so right. That thing inside of him was silent for once, and suddenly, Steve didn’t feel so wrong.
Then, of course, that voice that was always lingering in the depths of his mind that he had tried so hard to repress had to speak up and ruin everything. I want to kiss him. It said, taking over his brain. He nearly flinched at the thought. Soda? Kiss him? Kiss his best friend since the first grade, his best friend who had been with him his first time being jumped and their first rumble, his best friend who had been there for him through thick and thin? He couldn’t. Soda loved him, but in a brotherly way, the same way the rest of the gang loved each other, although they’d never say it. What Steve felt was wrong, a horrific abomination sitting heavy on his chest. Acting on it was completely out of the question. It would ruin everything they’d built between the two of them—ruin what might be the best thing in his life.
Or, it could complete it, that same old voice taunted.
If Steve were to take that first step, if he were to reach over and do what his mind was telling him, maybe it might just fix that constant wrong feeling deep inside of him—No. He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. Ever. Soda didn’t even know he was… was like that. While it was no secret among the gang that Soda liked to flirt with guys just as much as girls, they had never addressed it. Soda was Soda; he was their friend no matter who he flirted with at the DX counter. But for Steve, it was different. He wasn’t his best friend, not even close. Steve was tough. He hated crying and hated the tag-a-long, loved cars and movie nights and hanging out late with the gang. He wasn’t no damn fairy. The thought of the word made him flinch, causing Soda to cast a questioning look his way, a look that made him want to vomit.
“Ya good, Stevie?” Soda asked, his head tilted slightly.
Steve nodded painfully. “‘Course,” he choked out, turning back to stare at the TV.
I’m an idiot. He took that feeling, those thoughts, the image of Soda in his head, and he pushed them away, as far away as he could. I’m no damn fairy, he repeated to himself. And I sure as hell ain’t Soda either. The gang could accept Sodapop because everybody loved him, but what about Steve? Would they treat him the same, or would he be outcast and hate crimed? Life as a greaser in Tulsa was bad enough, it would be torture if he had an extra target on his back, if he lost the gang, if he lost Soda. The idea stopped his mind cold, imagining how miserable his life would be if he lost that one good thing he had. He refused to find out. I can’t. I just can’t.
And so, Steve settled back down into the couch, forcing those thoughts and feelings away. He ignored that sense of wrongness in his heart, the one that demanded he stop lying and denying who he was, silencing all of those thoughts. He looked at Soda again, how he was laughing at something stupid that had happened in his cartoon. Sparkling brown eyes met his, and Steve’s heart twisted painfully. He forced a smile, following along with whatever Soda did, just like he always had, and shut down those feelings forever. I can’t, he thought over and over. I can’t.
His silent affirmations were interrupted by the sound of the TV channel switching, followed by booing as the cartoons were replaced by some government broadcast. From his spot on the floor, Two-Bit complained at the change, whining that it was “interrupting his Mickey Mouse time”.
Steve focused on the TV for once, watching a balding man drone on and on about the state of the war in Vietnam, something about how they were implementing a new system so that they could get more ‘honorable young men’ to fight for their country overseas. Steve rolled his eyes. While the war had been raging on for a few years now, none of them had particularly cared about it. Who would even want to fight all the way across the globe against enemies that they didn’t even know existed? That was until the man said something that stopped him cold.
“Our new drafting system will assure a completely unbiased selection system. All American men born January 1st, 1944 through December 31, 1950 will be drafted into the army by their birthdates, which will be picked shortly. 195 dates will be drawn, and all with those birthdays are to join the army for our country.”
At those words, the Curtis house went silent. Upon hearing the distant announcement, Darry joined them from the kitchen, only to freeze like a statue seeing the TV and all of their slack-jawed expressions.
The bald man’s words whirled through Steve’s head, his thoughts moving too fast for him to grasp. Join the army. January 1st, 1944 through December 31, 1950. 195 dates. He instinctively looked to Soda, who wore an expression of shock and confusion. Steve didn’t doubt that the numbers were also wrecking havoc in his head too. He silently ran through the birthdays of all the gang in his head, trying his best to calculate the odds of any of them getting drafted. 1945, 1947, 19—No, not Dally. 1948, 1948, 1951. Everybody but Ponyboy could be drafted.
“Wait, Steve, I don’t—How does that work? What does all of that mean?” Soda’s brows were furrowed and his eyes jumped from surface to surface, thinking hard trying to understand the draft system. Shit, he thought. While Steve wasn’t exactly the smartest, he knew how numbers always seemed to run circles around his best friend’s head, how he had trouble keeping them all straight and understanding how they all went together.
“They’re gonna put all the days in a box and they’re gonna draw out 195 birthdays,” Steve explained, making sure to explain it as simply as he could. “Whoever has those birthdays and was born between 1944 and 1950 has to go to ‘Nam.”
Soda nodded slowly. “Pony’s safe.” He stated. Relief flooded through the two of them, although Steve would never admit it. As much as the tag-along irritated him, he knew that being sent to war was quite possibly the worst fate for the kid. A silent truth echoed between them, though. Pony was exempt from the draft, but nobody else would be. Darry was an unlucky year off from aging out, and Steve, Soda, and Two-Bit were all stuck right in the perfect age to be drafted.
The four of them stared at the TV, watching as a man reached into a glass jar full of little capsules, each one carrying a paper death warrant. None of them spoke as he pulled out the first birthday, and opened the capsule. “Number one: September 14,” He read, before discarding it to pull another out. Steve thought he would be sick. All around the country, some unfortunate men had just been signed on to fight some hopeless war in the Pacific, and there would only be more drawn, more boys sent to fight and die. The man didn’t falter at all, just kept reading out birthday after birthday, unfeeling to all of the boys he was dooming to death.
January 5, June 20, November 9, April 15, October 8, March 1, July 22. Not those days, please. Anything but those, Steve prayed feverishly. Don’t draft them. You can’t. He didn’t even realize that in his nervous rush he had included Johnny and Dally’s birthdays too.
The gang stayed in that frozen state, listening as dates were rattled off, counting how many left, praying that fate wouldn’t twist, and their birthdays wouldn’t be read out. All of them instinctively flinched as November 9 was called, searching for a boy with blond hair and ice-chip eyes, waiting to hear a scoff and simple “Like hell they’re getting me in ‘Nam.” A silent oh went through them all when they remembered; Dally’s gone, before turning back to the TV with rapt focus. By the time they had read out ninety-five birthdays, Steve began to relax. They were almost halfway through, and nobody they knew had gotten drafted. One did. That irritating voice in his head reminded, but Steve shoved it away, no point in dwelling on what—who—was lost. He started to lighten up, started to think that maybe they were all overreacting, that their odds of getting drafted were minimal anyways, that this wouldn’t mean anything in a week. Then the ball dropped.
“Number 101: January 5,”
If they had been frozen in fear before, the gang was now frozen in shock, the date echoing in each of their heads. Steve, Soda, and Two-Bit all turned to look at Darry. He was staring at the TV, eyes wide and terrified in a way that they hadn’t seen since the fateful day the Curtises had lost their parents. January 5. That was his birthday. His birthday had just been called, for the draft, the draft for the war. Darry had just been drafted. Darry was going to ‘Nam.
***
Their stunned silence broke with a thousand questions, all rapid-fire shot at Darry.
“Are you actually going to ‘Nam?”
“What are we gonna do?”
“They can’t take you too—”
They all got up, clamoring to find some sort of guidance in the situation. Even so, Darry didn’t leave any room for argument. “Soda, you oughta get to bed, I’ll stay up till Pony gets home. Two, Steve, y’all wanna go home or crash on the couch?” He shut off the TV and began herding them out of the living room, ignoring their collective shock and gaping mouths. No shock lingered on his face, his mask of older-brother seriousness and responsibility slipping over like it always did.
“Wha… What are we gonna do?” Soda asked, clinging onto his older brother’s arm in a way he hadn’t in years. His head was spinning, a thousand times worse than when he tried to do his math work. How could Darry be so calm despite the obvious predicament at hand? He couldn’t go to war, the gang wouldn’t survive without him. Soda couldn’t fill his shoes, he couldn’t even keep his brothers from fighting, how would he be able to carry the weight of the family on his own? Without Darry’s job, Soda wouldn’t be able to pay the bills, and Pony might have to drop out of school—But he couldn’t drop out of school, he was the one who would make it out, they couldn’t let him do that—Pony didn’t even know about the draft, someone would have to tell him. Soda’s throat felt like it was closing off at the idea of having to tell his kid brother that Darry had just been selected to die in the war. We can’t lose anyone else. First, it had been their parents, then Sandy, then Johnny and Dally. Losing Darry too? Soda couldn’t take it. “You can’t—No, we can’t lose you too… I can’t—” His words came out choked and stuttering, his thoughts all jumbled up and messing with his system. For a moment, he swore that a look of sorrow or maybe even fear crossed his older brother’s face, before that mask slipped on again and it was gone.
A gentle hand pulling him from where he’d been unconsciously gripping Darry’s shirt brought Soda out of his spiral. Steve was grabbing a hold of him, tugging him away from his brother and to his room, gruffly mumbling something about letting Superman figure it out and needing to get into bed. Soda fought his guidance until he was sitting on his sheets. That was when the panic took over. “Stevie, he can’t—He can’t go overseas, he can’t.” Soda gripped his best friend’s shirt desperately, his lungs aching as he struggled to breathe. His expression was unreadable in the low moonlight, but he could see furrowed brows as Steve tried to pull his hands away. “If he goes to ‘Nam, we’ll lose him too, just like Johnny and Dally and Ma and Pa and I can’t do that again, and Pony won’t be able to take it, and I can’t take his place—I’m not strong enough…” He was shaking now, his breaths coming in short gasps. Air wasn’t quite making it into Soda’s lungs right, and his head began to spin.
Steve gripped his arms firmly, kneeling in front of him. He began to move them up and down his biceps in an attempt to comfort Soda. The steady motions and the way that they locked him in place helped slow down his shaking, but it did nothing to stop him from hyperventilating. Black spots were dancing in Soda’s vision now, fading in and out as his mind moved at lightning fast speeds. I’m not strong enough, if we lose Darry I won’t be able to take it and I can’t step in and keep this family afloat because I’m not smart enough and I’m not good enough—A gruff voice cut through his tortured wondering. “Sodes, you’re not breathing; you have to breathe.”
Steve. Soda forced himself to look at his best friend. His dark eyebrows were pressed together in a look of concern that made him want to cry. “I can’t…” Soda managed to force out, his voice coming out in a high, almost whimper-like pitch.
“Yes, you can,” Steve coaxed. His hands moved to grip Soda’s tightly, working them out of the painfully clenched grip they’d been in. He hadn’t even noticed that his nails were digging into his skin, not until Steve’s hands were wrapped around his. Steve guided him to breathe, gently squeezing his hands to inhale slowly, then releasing them when he had to exhale. “That’s it, keep goin’,” He encouraged softly, rubbing his thumbs over Soda’s. “Just like that, yeah, you’re doin’ good…” It took Soda so much effort, but eventually the dark spots went away, and his breathing—although hitching and raspy—began to even out.
Once he was satisfied with Soda’s breathing, Steve sat down on the bed next to him. That was when Soda finally broke down, sobs tearing from his throat violently as hot tears began to pour. “Stevie, we can’t lose him—we need the money and I can’t pay the bills and I can’t take his place—”
Steve pulled him into a tight hug, muffling his cries and letting him soak his shirt with tears. “It’ll be okay,” Steve’s voice was softer now as he ran his hands through Soda’s golden hair. Soda leaned into the touch even as he sobbed. His best friend normally wasn’t one for sweet nothings and warm embraces. That meant that what was going on was really bad, that Steve was becoming caring and gentle. Soda wanted to scream, so he did, stifling his whines in the soft fabric of Steve’s shirt.
This isn’t real, he thought. It can’t be.
“It has to be okay,” Steve said firmly into his hair, the words meant for the both of them. His words brought back a strange, unwanted memory. That night they had lost both Johnny and Dally, Steve had cried under the streetlight, desperately stumbling towards their friend despite his broken ribs and the police surrounding them. Soda hadn’t hesitated to grab his best friend and console him. It hadn’t mattered then, his own heart splitting in two. All that had mattered was that he couldn’t lose Steve too, and so he had held him and refused to let his own tears fall. The similarity of the memory and current events unfolding stung.
Soda fought to get his words out, all of his past breathing control flying out of the window. “Darry can’t go to war, we’ll lose him just like my Ma and Pa and Johnny and Dally—” Steve pulled him in closer until Soda was practically in his lap, silencing his feverish begging in the crook of his neck.
“I know, Soda, I know.” Steve rocked Soda back and forth slowly, and he curled into the touch. Everything hurt; his eyes, his head, his lungs, his hands, his heart. Soda buried his face just a little closer into Steve’s neck, like it could hide him from everything that waited outside of the door.
Once all of Soda’s shaking and sobbing evened out, and his eyes became heavy with exhaustion, Steve eased him into bed. The two of them didn’t speak, trying not to shatter their tentative respite and lead to more tears from either of them, until Steve moved to leave the room. Soda reached out, and clutched the hem of his DX shirt. Don’t go, he begged silently.
“I’ll stay here tonight,” Steve assured. He took the hand grabbing at his shirt and gently coaxed it off. “Go to sleep, Pepsi,”
Stay with me, Soda wanted to beg. He wanted to grab his best friend and pull him down onto the bed, right beside him, and for the two of them to fall asleep together. He didn’t want to sleep alone, in silence. He wouldn’t be able to bear it. “Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered, his voice strained and pleading.
Through the cracks of moonlight, Soda watched as Steve chewed on his lip. “I’ll stay till Pony comes home, or till you fall asleep, whatever happens first, savvy?” He compromised, kneeling down next to the bed. “And I’ll sleep on your couch tonight.”
The couch. That wasn’t far. Soda could bear that. If Steve stayed until his kid brother came home, or till he fell asleep, he wouldn’t really be alone. That was okay. That’s okay. I’m okay. It’ll all be okay, he told himself repeatedly. Steve said it would be okay, so it will be. It has to be. He said this motto again and again, in his mind while he faked sleeping and watched Steve exit the room, under his breath as Pony came in softly crying—no doubt over the news, whispered to his brother as he held him, as they cried together until passing out from exhaustion, physical and emotional. It’ll all be okay. It has to be.