Darry's POV
When he was little, he used to be outside all day long. Especially in the summer. The sun turned his skin to a light bronze and bleached his hair to a shiny wheat gold. When he hugged me, what he used to do sometimes when we were younger, I could smell the sun. His slim feature was due to his overactive life style, which never changed until today. Nothing could hold him down, he would roam about Tulsa's streets until dusk. A character trait that cost me a lot of nerves. But you couldn't be really mad at Soda, no matter what. He could eat a lot- like a tiny horse- but he needed the energy you could tell. Soda has always been the life itself, in full person. You always felt that spark when you were near him as if anything could happen anytime. And if it wasn't his vivid character, it was his attractive appearance that marked him out. Pony once said, that he looked a bit like mum and when I think about it, I would agree that he at least had her eyes. But his smile was the same smile dad used to wear upon his face. Creative, funny, smart, sometimes devilish reckless- that was Soda and careless, but never about other people, just about himself. That part of his character always bothered me, though I would never admit it. He always came home with a few bruises or scratches, he never cared about. He just shrugged it off like it was nothing. They were the battle scars of his adventures. When he started riding rodeo, those injuries became more frequent. Even when he tore a ligament, the only thing he could think about was getting back into the saddle. Action was the only thing he was interested in to such an extent, that Soda was and still is unaware of recognizing his own exhaustion. He just seems to never notice when it is too much he forces his body to or when he used up all his energy. Most of the time when he was little he used to collapse right where he stood when he had worn himself completely out, which was nearly everyday. At the beginning it had worried us, one moment you talked to him and in the next he was out- and I mean not only asleep, he really seemed completely unconscious. But we got used to it, since you could see the warning signs, even though Soda never recognized them.
Soda could take a lot, you could say. No matter if it was stress or pain, he could handle it. He could use his head, I trusted him on this point. Never afraid of a rumble but always smart enough to make it home in time and in one piece. It seemed that nothing could scare him. The only thing he wasn't capable of was someone of our family or friends getting hurt. He always was more concerned about others than about himself. And watching someone he loved getting injured, no matter if it was physically or mentally, always hit him hard. But no one of us would have ever thought that we would be confronted with the early death of our parents. I think, if it wasn't for Ponyboy and me, his brothers, he wouldn't have taken it as good as he did. Soda was really easy to handle, outgoing, happy-go-lucky. You wouldn't expect him to have deep philosophical thoughts like Ponyboy, but he has that incredible skill to understand everybody. I think empathy is the right word to describe it. Some kind of social intelligence. He can handle Ponyboy like no one ever could, even mum and dad maybe never had that kind of deep understanding for him. That founded an undistructable bond between them.
There is just one thing, only Ponyboy and I are aware of: He hates needles. And when I say hate, I mean he really freaks out when he sees them. Only the sight of needles was enough to panic him. I don't know where this fear came from. But it never went away. Surely it wasn't for the pain they caused, cause he had taken on a lot worse than that without the slightes whimper or complain. I don't know why, but maybe that's the thing about fears: often they aren't rational.