Haven't written any fanfiction for so long. Title from the lyrics of It Ends Tonight by the All-American Rejects.

S.E Hinton owns the Outsiders. I only own what the book left in me.

Lest we forget.

XXXXX

Cool gusts of wind shake the last stubborn leaves to the ground. Every step he takes crunches on the frost-bitten grass, so carpeted with red and orange that barely a hint of green shows through. It's the end of October. Almost winter. Less than two months 'til Christmas.

Not that it means anything to the majority of his soldiers, the lieutenant thinks regretfully. Most are still in 'Nam. Even through Christmas. He, though, is being given a two-week break and you can bet he's been counting down the days. Finally, he'll be able to see his family again. His wife. His kids.

The mere thought makes his heart beat faster in anticipation. Then he remembers where he's to be going and the excitement in him dies.

Truth be told, he'd rather be going anywhere else. But he insisted on this job.

He has to do something. Unlike many of his colleagues, he can never pretend as if the dead soldiers he was in charge of never existed, forgetting them completely the moment their heart stops beating.

He can't treat human lives as if they're disposable. Even though he knows that in war... they are.

Every death hits him like a punch in the gut. Every single one. And he keeps a tally which keeps growing. And this afternoon yet another mark was added. Strike number 431.

This particular kid- Because when you're fifty-seven, seventeen is just as much a kid as seven is- had a name you'd be hard put to forget. Sodapop Curtis. The lieutenant only met him once personally but that was enough for his name to tattoo itself into his memory. The kid died two weeks later. Today, to be exact.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he reaches his destination alarmingly quickly. The lieutenant swallows; puts his hand on to the handle of the bunk room's door and opens it. The kid's bed is exactly the same as he left it that morning. No one's touched anything.

Clothes are thrown all over the place; cards in the position he left them in from his last poker game; half-smoked cigarettes; a couple candy wrappers; letters. Everything the kid owned that's not home in Tulsa. It's not much. The rest of what made him Sodapop Curtis is unknown to any of his comrades. The real essence of him isn't here. It's never been here.

Sodapop left his soul with his family when he went off to war.

The lieutenant jerks himself out of his reverie.

"I just don't know how to stop poking my nose into things that don't concern me, do I?" he mutters to himself, straightening up. Then he proceeds to fold clothes, throw away garbage, and organise the letters into a pile.

In a matter of minutes the bunk is impersonal again and ready for the next soldier to occupy. And this new soldier never know the story behind the bed's last occupant. He wouldn't care- All he'd care about would be when he'd be able to go home.

The lieutenant is about to leave to eat some dinner when he happens to glance at the first letter in the pile. Maybe it's God telling him something or maybe it's just coincidence but he catches the words "be home for Christmas".

A lump rises to his throat and the lieutenant feels an ache in his chest. Because the kid's family doesn't know yet. There are so many deaths each day that it takes a few days for each relative to be sent a letter. A letter as impersonal as a bank statement, telling them their loved one's dead but it's alright because they died for a good cause. As if that's any consolation.

Sometime later the soldier's body would be sent home to his family in a black box.

The lieutenant curses under his breath, hating his need to read just one letter even as he pulls them closer towards him. He sorts them automatically by date, then begins reading the first one. It has loopy, thin handwriting, the thin paper crammed to the brim with words.

Dear Soda, it read, I dunno how long it'll take for this to reach you 'cause Darry said mail takes weeks to go through nowadays when everyone's sending letters. Are you doing okay? Two-Bit keeps joking 'bout how nobody'll shoot at you so long as you smile at them but even he's worried, you can tell. And as for Darry- He's wearing a hole through the floor with all his pacing. I miss you a lot. We all do.

It's just me, Darry, and Two-Bit around the house now and it's real hard to get used to. Too quiet, even with Two-Bit here even more than before. He said once that it's to keep the house from dying. Darry about knocked his head in for saying the "d" word. Says it's bad luck. Who woulda thought Darry's that superstitious? Two-Bit's jokes are all really forced these days anyway. He tries to be careful with what he says and that's not working well for him. And no one ever laughs.

How's Steve? Is he in the same unit as you? Tell him we said hi, and that we miss him too. Golly, it sure is strange not to have him annoyed at me all the time. At least he'll be able to see some tanks and stuff that we don't have over here. I was wondering, do you guys still grease your hair? I heard they also make you cut it real short, do they really?

Anyway, Darry told me to remember to ask if there's a chance you could be home for Christmas. Or... at least New Year's Eve. It's the second anniversary, remember? I'd hate for you to miss it. Especially to miss it for killing people. Sorry. I shouldn't be sayin' this stuff. But just try to come home? For us. Or what's left of us, anyway.

Be careful and write back soon.

Ponyboy.

There are splotches of ink and small rips in the paper where the pen pressed down too hard, he notices, and doesn't let himself think about it anymore. He feels like he's intruding on private grief-to-be and the awful feeling gnaws on his insides.

Apologizing silently, the lieutenant puts down the letters carefully and tears himself away from the bunk that's no longer the temporary home of Sodapop Curtis. He would like to do more but he knows he can't, so he simply goes back to the main area and eats his slightly-late dinner like he does every evening.

At the end of the day, it's just another rather unfortunate casualty in the eyes of the public.

XXXXX

Dear Ponyboy, Darry, and Two-Bit,

Sheesh, you guys've sure buried me with letters the last couple of weeks haven't you? The guys over here keep teasin' me about some naggy sweetheart back home. They wouldn't even believe me when I told them the letters were all from my brothers and a buddy of all people.

Anyway, sorry 'bout not writing sooner but they've really kept us busy. At least the girls'll all have something new to stare at when I get home all tanned and toned, huh? I bet you guys won't even recognise me.

Don't worry, I'm bein' careful. Did I mention I learned how to assemble a gun in less than a minute? You wouldn't believe it if ya saw it with your own eyes.

I barely see Steve except sometimes when we're doin' some sneaky work and we're in the same group but he's okay. I miss you all lots. But I'll be home soon.

Which reminds me. Keep dreaming, Pony. I'll be home before you know it. Just don't get so stuck in your own little world that the real one doesn't seem as good, 'kay? Stop worrying your hair white, Darry. I'll be okay. Two-Bit, keep cracking jokes. Before you know it I'll be back and you won't be the only one wisecrackin'. Be a buddy and keep Darry and Pony off each other's back for me while I'm gone won't ya?

Cheers,

Sodapop.

XXXXX

The red and white delivery truck arrives at the poor side of Tulsa, Oklahoma about three weeks too late. The deliveryman has no idea of what that letter addressed to the Curtis residence from a certain Sodapop Curtis says, nor does he care in the slightest.

And the tears that spilled onto the paper afterwards? Of course he has no idea about that either.

Apologizing in advance for all the things I know I got wrong about the Vietnam war. I don't really like the ending, but can't do much about that. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.