This is a new idea I had based on reading about draft dodging and hearing stories from the era. I can't promise it's 100% historically accurate, but I've tried my best.

Warning: this story will contain homophobic slurs, institutionalised homophobia... all the bad stuff that is characteristic of the era. You have been warned.

It wasn't an unusual occurrence by any means, but on Saturday Soda and Steve came home roaring with laughter.

They were hanging off each other, looking a little drunk, and Steve looked like he couldn't get enough air. His grip on Soda's bicep relaxed enough that he slid down and landed on his ass on the ground, still choking on laughter.

"His face – his face –" gasped Soda, and he pulled a comically disgusted face that had Steve bursting into another peal of laughter.

Pony and Darry were sitting next to each other on the couch, Darry explaining a calculus problem Pony had been stuck on. While Pony began grinning at the unexplained spectacle that had appeared in his doorway, Darry frowned. Darry was smart enough to know that glee of that level could only have come from some form of wrongdoing.

"And just what have you two been up to?" Darry demanded, standing up. He had an intimidating frame, and he knew it.

"Oh – nothing!" Soda sniggered. "Just – I got drafted."

It was the last thing either Pony or Darry expected to hear, so far out of left field that Pony continued smiling uncertainly and Darry assumed he had heard wrong. "You what?"

"Don't worry, it's not a problem!" Soda insisted. "Stevie here took care of it good."

"Yeah I did," Steve interjected, giving Soda a slow wink that could only be described as lecherous. Then, inexplicably, he reached up and slapped Soda's ass, causing Sodapop to burst out into giggles again.

Darry put his hands on his hips. "Explain. Now," he demanded.

Soda swaggered over and thrust the bundle of papers he had been carrying into Darry's arms. He didn't bother waiting for Darry to read them, just walked over to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of chocolate milk. Pony hollered at him when Soda drank straight from the bottle without bothering to get a glass, but Soda acted as though he didn't hear him.

Darry sat heavily in his armchair, mind buzzing as he sorted through the papers Soda had given him. There, sure enough, was a notice of draft that Soda had never told Darry about. The knot of anxiety that had a permanent home in Darry's belly twisted as he read over the letter. Soda was supposed to report for a medical evaluation and interview today.

But Soda had told Darry there was nothing to worry about. And sure enough, in bold black ink, glaring up at Darry on the next page over, was the official stamp marking Soda 4-F, ineligible to serve.

But the knot of worry in Darry's body didn't let up any. "Pony, would you mind giving us a minute?" he asked.

"Come on, Darry –"

"Pony, please!"

Pony muttered some choice phrases that Darry chose to ignore, gathered up his calculus homework, and slammed his bedroom door.

"Guys, I need to tell you exactly what happened," Darry said, his voice tired.

"Says right there," Steve explained, shrugging. "Soda got drafted, he didn't want to go, so we pretended to be in a couple so he could get a medical discharge."

Darry's icy eyes turned on Soda. "You couldn't ham up your knee injury?" he asked, referencing the last time Soda had entered a rodeo and had been violently thrown off. His knee didn't bother him usually, but there were days it was a real problem.

Soda shrugged. "This way was funnier."

Darry eyed him. His clothes were tighter than normal – Darry was fairly certain that shirt actually belonged to Pony – and he had foregone grease in his hair but had still brushed it until it waved around his head like a soft little halo. No doubt about it – Soda had dressed for the occasion. Darry rubbed his temple.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he asked.

"Soda told me he got drafted, and I heard you didn't have to go if you were a homo," Steve said, finally getting up from the ground. "So we went along to the physical together holding hands and doing all that shit."

"He kissed me when it was my turn to go in," said Soda, smirking.

Steve affected a high voice. "Good luck, sweetie!" They both dissolved into laughter again.

"You done?" Darry demanded.

"I made a couple of comments to the doctor when I was in there," said Soda. "Said I was looking forward to all the built guys in army fatigues, asked if he had a brother. He failed me and recommended I undergo treatment for sexual deviance."

"Soda, this isn't funny!" Darry snapped suddenly. "Both of you guys could be arrested if they find out you lied, and Soda you'll get sent to Vietnam anyway. But the kind of crap you've opened yourselves up to – people get killed for homosexuality!"

Soda frowned. "Darry, no one's going to find out!" he insisted. "It was just a bit of fun!"

"Yeah well that bit of fun's gonna cost the both of you!" Darry cried. "You can't date girls anymore, not 'til the heat's worn off. And if you think no one'll find out…" Darry shook his head. "I wish you had've come to me, Soda. I could've gotten you out of this."

The smug grin had entirely been wiped from Soda's face, and he was glumly avoiding Darry's eyes. "You couldn't have," he said. "I couldn't ask you to go to Canada for me."

"I'd go to Russia for you."

It wasn't often Darry said anything that betrayed his emotions, and when he did, it was like this: deadpan, and it took a bit of processing to work out he'd said anything touching at all. Soda bit his lip.

"Just keep your heads down for a little while," Darry advised. "And don't mess around with girls – I don't want the army board finding out you lied. But Steve,"
he said, turning his attention solely on his friend, "thanks. I don't know what I would have done if he had to go."

Steve gave Darry a weak smile, but he said nothing in return. He'd been petrified when Soda had told him he was drafted, too. If this hadn't worked, Steve would have done anything to help him, including signing up himself.

The next week went by quietly. Feigning bravado, Soda and Steve had both brushed off Darry's concern, but were being cautious nonetheless. They kept their heads down, didn't go out except to work, and didn't brag about how they had fooled the draft board. The only ones to know were Darry, Pony and Two-Bit (whom, if anything, had been offended they had not invited him along to pretend to be a third member of their "couple").

Nothing happened to indicate that Darry's concern had been necessary until the following Tuesday. Steve had spent the night on the Curtises' couch, as he did more and more frequently nowadays, and Darry had been running too late to give them a lift to work. They walked together, as they had done hundreds of times in the past, chatting about this and that and nothing at all.

A car, a mangy old dustbucket that was making a disconcerting squeaking noise, tore up the street behind them. It slowed as it neared them, just enough that there was plenty of time for the person riding shotgun to wind down his window, scream "FAGGOTS!" and be sure they heard. Then the car went screaming up the street, disappearing around the corner ahead.

The two boys stopped sharp. "That was different," remarked Steve. Soda made a noncommittal humming sound in response.

Naively, they both hoped it was a one off occurrence. They were used to abuse and expletives being thrown their way – it was commonplace when you looked like hoods. But the nature of the comment had a sick worry burning in both of their guts.

Two days later, Soda went out to pump gas for the car that had just pulled out. He was excellent at customer service – even when someone was complaining, Soda was so polite and friendly that it usually ended in the disgruntled customer apologizing to him. He never failed to put on a smiling face for a customer, and it usually paid off in dividends.

This time, however, he only lifted the gas pump from the bracket when the door of the car swung open and a tall, thin middle aged man stepped out, snatched the pump from Soda's hand, and growled, "Not taking anything that comes from a filthy cocksucker."

He unscrewed his own gas cap, filled the tank, and when an uncertain Soda held out a hand for payment, the man hung up the gas pump, spat on the ground at Soda's feet, and drove off.

"The hell was that?" cried Joe, the manager, emerging from the garage. "You get his plates?"

"Er – no," said Soda.

Joe shot him a filthy look. "The hell, Curtis? You just cost me seventeen dollars! That's coming out of your pay!"

Soda hung his head. Steve poked out of the garage and shrugged at Soda helplessly.

Before long, it became clear the news was spreading. Each boy noticed the change in attitude from those around him differently. Steve began to attract more and more dirty looks, which he happily returned in kind. Soda, who had always enjoyed attention and admiring glances from the members of the fairer sex, suddenly found the same pretty girls who used to flock to him turn their eyes away, embarrassment clouding their features.

But all this, they could deal with. They were tough. Steve had lived with his father's verbal abuse for more years than he could remember, and Soda was unpleasantly reminded of his many years failing to meet expectations in school, being told what a disappointment he was. Being told he was a disappointment because people now thought he was gay wasn't so different, really.

But he couldn't deal with what happened next. He was replacing the battery in an old Plymouth, an easy job, when he looked up at the clock. It was five past eleven, and Steve wasn't in yet. It wasn't unusual for one of them to come in late, and Steve had been awfully grumpy yesterday, so Soda assumed he was just sleeping off a hangover. It really was getting a bit late in the day, though.

He finished with the battery and slammed the bonnet shut, wiping his hands on a rag and walking over to Joe's office. The door was open, but he knocked anyway to be polite, and Joe beckoned him in.

"Did Steve call in sick?" he asked.

Joe eyed him, one hand rubbing at his temple as though to try and iron out a headache. At length, he spoke. "Sit down," he invited.

Soda sat.

"Listen, Curtis," Joe said, leaning forward. "I'm going to have to let you go."

Of all the things Soda expected Joe to say, this was not it. He had been working at the DX since he was fifteen. When he was seventeen, Joe had gotten rip-roaring drunk and declared he'd be mad to ever let Soda go – he was like a magnet for customers. Even if none of the mechanics who worked there knew their axle from their headlights, people would still come flocking to the DX because Soda had an innate trustworthiness about him. "Why?" Soda sputtered.

"Been getting complaints," Joe said. "No one wants a poof's hands in their car. Dirty, see. And I can't have the two of you off with your hands in each others' pants when you should be working. It's costing money."

Soda's eyes were wide, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Pony was starting college next year. Soda needed this job. And he hadn't been having sex with Steve. He opened his mouth, ready to insist that they weren't a couple, when he heard Darry's voice in his head. If it got back to the draft board that he was straight, he could go to jail – or, worse, to the front line.

Fighting back tears, he bit back his retort. "Please," he said instead. "I need this job."

"Business is down since the two of you decided to prance out of the closet," Joe insisted. "Randle's not so bad. He's utter shit with the customers, and no one has to know he's working here. You… you're the face of this place. I can't have a homo in charge of our image. Don't want that kind down here."

Soda lost his battle with tears about halfway through that speech, and he angrily wiped them off on his oil stained shirt sleeve.

Joe ignored him, and picked up the phone when it rang. "Yeah," he barked into the receiver. There was a few moments' pause as the person on the other end of the line spoke, and finally Joe said, "Ah, so that's where he is. Good to know." He hung up, picked up a pen, and began writing something in his account book that Soda couldn't read. "Your boyfriend's in the hospital, in case you're wondering," he said. "Your last paycheck will be ready to be picked up on Monday."

Open mouthed at the rush of bad news he had gotten and feeling the beginnings of panic in his chest, Soda stared, dumbstruck, at the man who had just torn apart his life.

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