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If there’s one thing that everyone knows, greaser or Soc, it’s that Sodapop Curtis doesn’t drink.
He doesn’t get high. He doesn’t get stoned. He rarely touches the weeds. Ponyboy once mentioned to him that it’s probably because “he gets high on just plain living” and, really, Sodapop would have to agree. Life is enough. The world is beautiful, and there’s no point seeing it through glazed eyes and wobbly steps.
However.
If there’s another thing that everyone knows, it’s that Soda and his best buddy Steve Randle are real tight. And Soda will basically do anything for Steve. He’s sure Steve feels the same way, though Soda's never gotten a vocal confirmation of that. Sodapop’s been mad at Steve once in his entire life. He really loves his best friend. In a platonic way, of course, ‘cause he couldn’t imagine anything differently. It’s like Johnny with Soda’s little brother Ponyboy; they have this quiet friendship where they understand what the other wants without having to speak. Soda doesn’t really get it because he’s stupid and dumb and a drop out. Well, he knows that Johnny and Pony have a friendship and nothing more despite the snickering and the slurs the Socs sometimes throw their way. Words like “faggot” and “queers.”
Johnny and Pony might not have something, but Soda sees the way Dally looks at Johnny. He doesn’t think anyone else sees it but it’s there, in the eyes and the quirk of the mouth and the shallow breathing. It’s so sad, a mix of sorrow and beauty; Soda’s a hopeless romantic, but god, it’s so sad because he knows he’s the only one who realizes how Dallas feels about Johnny. In fact, Soda’s a hundred percent sure that Dally doesn’t know it himself. Pushes it down. He’s a tough guy with a tough broad and a tough life who doesn’t even know what the word love means. It’s enough to break Sodapop’s heart.
Soda knows what love means. Soda’s in love with a girl and her name is Sandy and she’s real pretty. Gorgeous eyes. Soft voice. Tangled hair. Tuff girl. And he knows Sandy ain’t in love with him because she doesn’t look at him exactly the way he looks at her. He cares, of course he does, but as long as he gets to kiss Sandy, does it matter? Shoot, she’s so lovely, and shoot, she’s so tragic. He’d never talk bad about her. He’d rather die than talk bad about Sandy. She’s such a doll.
It’s a beautiful day.
Soda lets out a big breath. He’s at home, tired outta his mind after a long day hanging out with Steve at the DX. He’s not tired of Steve; he’s never tired of Steve. Steve’s right beside him now, and that just makes it better. He’s tired of…everything. Being a greaser. Being expected to understand everyone but no one tries to understand him. He turns to Steve.
“Steve,” Soda says.
“Soda,” Steve replies, grinning at his best friend. Soda lifts the expensive looking cap atop Steve’s head and puts it on his head. Backwards, because he thinks it makes him look cool.
“This ain’t from the Dumpster. Where’d you steal it from?” asks Soda, somewhat appreciatively.
Steve raises an eyebrow at him, not even bothering to reply. Then, out of nowhere: “Say, Soda, how’d you like to go get stoned?”
“No,” replies Sodapop immediately. He doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol; doesn’t need to.
“Just this once,” pleads Steve, and Soda’s attention is caught. Steve isn’t the type of person who pleads. If Steve is begging, there must be a reason.
“Did your broad break up with you?” asks Soda. Steve grunts in response.
“Yeah?” presses Soda.
“Drop it,” says Steve, and Soda does. He knows perfectly well when enough is enough. And he knows when it’s not okay to push. Like right now, for instance. “Sodapop.” Steve presses into Soda’s side, cheek rubbing against Soda’s shoulder. His eyes swivel upwards, making eye contact with his best friend. “Please."
Sodapop groans. “What the hell do you want me to say when you look at me as if I’m refusing you the world? Of course I’ll get drunk with you. Let’s go right now before I change my mind. Or Darry finds out.”
“What you gonna tell him?” asks Steve, brightening visibly.
“That I’m going out to find Ponyboy from God knows where he is. Darry!” Soda yells.
The reply comes a few seconds later, sounding distant. “What is it, Soda?”
“I’m gonna go find Pony and hang out with him till late, kay?”
There’s a prominent pause. Then – “Fine. Be responsible.”
“Superman is one responsible guy,” says Steve, slinging an arm around Soda’s shoulder. Soda raises an eyebrow at him but can’t find it in him to even pretend that he’s annoyed.
“Ain’t that right,” Soda sighs instead.
How could he ever be annoyed at Steve?
They walk the way, until they’re far away from the East side, but far from the West too. They’re basically in middle class territory. The nearest bar smells of fish, but Steve drags Soda in, eyes shining like the stars, and Soda has never been able to say no to that. And he doesn’t particularly want to. He never wants Steve to stop smiling. He feels like he’s drunk already. His head’s spinning like it does with Sandy as he sits onto a filthy looking chair, Steve plopping next to him. They can’t exactly afford the drinks they want, but Steve pulls the nearest waitress over, whispering something into her ear, and flushed red, she hurries off. She shows up a few minutes later with a tray of shots and two large mugs of some disgusting looking alcoholic drink.
“They’re free,” Soda hears her mutter quietly. He turns to Steve suspiciously, but he looks away with a smirk on his face, grabbing the tray. “Drinks before shots,” Steve says. The two of them take a mug each from the tray on Steve’s lap.
“Cheers,” Steve says, clinking his mug against Soda’s. “Enjoy it, you ain’t getting another one.”
“And what a disappointment that would be,” Soda mumbles, not even attempting to hide his sarcasm. Bracing himself with a wince, Soda took a large gulp.
“Whoa,” says Soda, the effects kicking in right away.
Steve squints at him disbelievingly. “Don’t tell me you’re drunk already.” He’s two-thirds done with his own mug, not even wobbling in his seat a tiny bit. Soda takes another large gulp, before dizzily handing the drink to Steve.
“Okay,” Steve says, finishing his own beer. “Time for shots.”
Soda doesn’t even try to hide his groan. “Do we have to?” He somehow manages words through his hazy thoughts.
“I’m not even slightly drunk yet,” Steve declares. “Of course we have to.”
“God help me,” Sodapop says, grabbing a shot and swallowing it. Steve takes one too.
They keep going until all the shot glasses are empty. Soda is giggling all over the place, falling off his chair. Even Steve is the farthest from sober imaginable.
“Sodapop,” slurs Steve. “I’m so jealous of you.”
Soda giggles, barely able to drink in the words, too intoxicated from drinking something else. If Soda had known that this was how it felt to be drunk, he would’ve done it years ago. Ponyboy’s age. Younger, even. Though Darry practically killed Ponyboy when he found out that Ponyboy had drank alcohol. Heh, heh. Alcohol is such a funny word. It’s so long.
“Steeeeve,” Sodapop says, in hysterics, barely able to say the word. “Steeeve, why’re you…” He frowns. “Jalos?”
“Jealous,” sighs Steve. “Ya got your broad, and you’re so good looking.”
“I’m good looking?” giggles Sodapop. “Really, ya think so?” As if someone else is controlling him, he grabs onto Steve’s hand. “You’re soft,” he informs the other boy, shocked by the realization.
“Am I?” says Steve mournfully.
“Like Sandy,” Sodapop continues. “But a bit softer.”
Steve’s head jerks up. “More soft than Sandy?” he says. “No way. That broad is one sweet lady.”
Sodapop only giggles in response, falling off his chair again.
As he clambers up, he says, “Steve, let’s leave.” That sends him into another fit into giggles at the rhyme. Steve takes his hand and they leave the bar. The night’s arrived. Sodapop wonders vaguely exactly how mad Darry is, but finds that he doesn’t particularly care. Oh, he’ll be mad, though. Especially when Sodapop wakes up tomorrow – with a headache! The thought of a headache makes Soda start giggling again. About four times louder than before.
“Shhhh,” says Steve. He’s so boring when he's drunk. Soda wonders why he even wanted to get drunk if he’s just gonna be BORING. Then he realizes he can just ask! And Steve will tell him the truth! The world is so mysterious.
“Steve,” drawls Sodapop as they walk, not even trying to avoid Socs. “Why did you wanna get drunk?” Steve turns around. There are stars reflecting in his eyes, bright and beautiful.
“Why did you agree?” counters Steve. Neither of them are breathing. For the first time, Soda registers that Steve maybe isn’t entirely as drunk as Sodapop is.
“How could I not agree?” says Soda.
“What do you mean?” The world has stopped.
“I’d do anything you wanted me to,” Sodapop says. “You’re my best friend.”
There are tears on Steve’s face. Sodapop doesn't understand them. He reaches out and touches Steve’s cheek with one hand, his fingers creeping up and pushing his fringe away a second later.
“Why are you sad?” says Sodapop, a childish note in his voice.
“I’m not,” says Steve.
“Why did you want to get drunk?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“Cause you never answer,” says Soda.
“Sometimes,” Steve tells him. “There are things I just need to forget.”
It’s so intense. The only noises in the background are the noises of nature. They’re far from the club and the terrible music and smell of fish.
“Like what?” asks Sodapop.
“Like…” Steve gulps. Then he shakes his head. “Damn it all, Sodapop. Why'd you gotta be so…” Soda sees him struggling for words.
“Handsome? Beautiful? Pretty? Good looking? Attractive? Sexy?” tries Soda, giggling, but his laugh is a hell of a lot quieter than before.
“No,” says Steve, shaking his head. “You’re more that that, Soda.”
“Am I?” says Soda. They stand, staring at the water fountain right in front of them. There’s no money in it. No one on the East side of things has money to waste. Soda isn’t entirely sure how the fountain got there, especially not in his drunken haze.
“You’re…”
“Steve,” says Soda. “Do you want to kiss?”
Steve stumbles over his own feet, falls, hits his head on the water fountain, and makes no move to get up again. He stares up at Soda, looking incredulous. “Uh, what?”
“It’s empty around here,” whines Soda. He’s so loud. “I don’t think we’ll get arrested.”
“Sodapop,” says Steve slowly. “I am not a homosexual.”
“Neither am I,” says Soda with a grin that says, I’ve made up my mind. He drags Steve up. The two of them sit side by side on the edge of the water fountain.
With a final giggle, Sodapop grabs Steve’s face and smashes their lips together.
Ouch. It’s painful. Soda’s nose hurts. Is this what drunk kissing is like? Soon enough, though, Soda forgets about his nose. Steve melts into the kiss, a portrait of beautiful. His eyes are closed too. His eyelashes are really thick. Why hasn’t Soda noticed that? Maybe because he’s usually not drunk. That must be it. With a deep sigh, Soda goes on kissing Steve, his own eyes closed. Their mouths move. Soda’s hands move, one around Steve’s neck and one around his waist. Vaguely, hazily, he remembers that he has a girl already. A girl who doesn’t care about him nearly as much as he cares about her. Sure, Sandy has to love him (right?) but she’s never kissed him like this. Like she means it. With an intensity that’s somehow quiet but also passionate and dark. Soda bites down on Steve’s lip, but neither of them make any sound.
They both taste the metallic blood. It’s fine. Blood isn’t exactly uncommon to them. They both love to fight; Soda for fun, Steve for hatred. Why does Steve have so much hatred in him? Soda wants to giggle, but he doesn’t know why.
They fall asleep right there that night. Holding hands under the stars. On the edge of the water fountain. And Darry is going to slaughter them in the morning, but Soda doesn’t care because he sees the smile on Steve’s face, and that just makes everything okay, doesn’t it? Is he foolish to think like that? Probably, but…
He giggles. It doesn’t matter, does it? In the morning, the two of them will remember this as the time they were drunk and kissed and laughed and felt things. Or maybe they won’t remember. Soda’s seen Two-Bit get drunk at night, forgetting everything in the morning. What a joke that is. It’s actually kinda funny. A cause for more laughing.
Despite his continued giggling as he falls asleep, Soda feels a longing in his chest as he falls asleep, a silent mourning party for himself and the knowledge of what could have been if they weren’t drunk because God, he is screwed, and God, he doesn’t care, and God, he loves Steve Randle.