Author's Note: Thought I'd give you a little something to tide you over between stories. Also, I just can't seem to stop writing right now. I guess that's a good thing? This is a 5+1 sort of story, which I've never done before, so I hope it goes over well! I don't do enough with the Curtis boys, so fingers crossed!
I don't own anything. Obviously.
Happy reading :)
XXXXX
One.
The first time Steve smokes, he makes Sodapop try it with him. Of course. That's how it is – when one of a pair does something, the other half of that pair is bound to do it, too. It's some Best Friend by-law, or something.
The boys are eleven years old. After school. Sodapop has just come over from his house. Darry's being annoying – all he wants to talk about is baseball and football and how annoying his little brothers are. Pony's a little hurt by that, but Soda just pretends he isn't a shrugs it off. Just hollers to his mama that he's heading over to Steve's and leaves the rest of them to sort out that problem.
As he approaches the house, he sees Steve sitting on the railing of his front porch, scowling at the horizon and fiddling with something in his hands. Soda smiles when he sees his pal – how could he not? Steve must recognize Soda's footsteps, or maybe he just saw him in his periphery, because without looking at him, he says, "Hey, Sodapop."
"Hey, Steve. What's up?"
Steve shrugs. "Not much. You had the same day I did. You think you did okay on that grammar test?"
Sodapop shrugs happily, pretending not to be concerned. "Dunno. Guess we'll find out, huh? Think she'll grade 'em quick?"
"She always does."
Steve's always kinda moody, but he seems particularly moody this afternoon. He'd been fine at school. Well, as fine as Steve got. (Steve's kind of a grump.) Sodapop hops up next to him on the railing, keeping his distance so he doesn't scare Steve off. "Somethin' up?"
Steve hesitates a moment and throws a brief glance over his shoulder towards his house. Sodapop just waits patiently, knowing prodding him won't do much good. "You know. Mom."
He doesn't have to say anything else. Soda understands. Mrs. Randle is a really nice lady. She didn't deserve to be so sick. Soda didn't really understand what diabetes was, and he wasn't sure if Steve really knew, either, but he knew his mother had good and bad days. He guessed that today was a bad day.
"Was your dad home when it happened this time?" Soda asked quietly.
"Yeah. It's fine," Steve says hotly.
Soda knows to leave it alone. He instead focuses on Steve's hands, finally noticing what he's fiddling with. "Those cigarettes?"
Steve glances down at his hands. "Yeah. Dally gave 'em to me. Says they're good for calmin' nerves." Steve finally looks at Soda. "Wanna try one?"
At first, it hurts. Burns. Makes them cough. Soda didn't know how his father (everyone's father, and most everyone's mother and third cousin) could stand it. But after a while, it looks cool and Steve's hands are calm, so he guessed they were alright.
Two.
Both Darry and Two-Bit chew tobacco. Has to be a baseball player thing, to always have to have to be chewin' on somethin' – tobacco, bubblegum, sunflower seeds – like a cow chews cud. But Darry hasn't played baseball since he was fourteen, so it must be a holdover from his junior high days.
It's gross.
Two-Bit's saving grace is that he smokes more than he chews. But Darry's got his football career to worry about, and everybody knows that baseball players ain't athletes – they're baseball players. There are subtle differences. But Darry's an athlete, so he has to be in peak condition if he's gonna maintain that and get a scholarship – get the hell out of here. So he chews more than he smokes.
Sodapop isn't worried about such things.
What he is worried about is this big west-side soc standing in front of him. Swearing at him. Squaring up. Soda knows what they say about guys like him. Not just greasers, but pretty boys. And he remembers what Dallas told him.
"Ya know, you look pretty tuff, smokin' like that." Timmy (no – Tim now) Shepard nods his agreement.
So Sodapop lights up.
"Really?" The soc sneers. "You're gonna smoke? Right now?"
Sodapop blows smoke in his face and smirks. "Really."
Three.
It's late. They've had dinner. They've reminisced. And now, Pony's asleep on the couch, Johnny sat up next to him with his head craned back and staring at the ceiling. Dally is gone, leaving quickly after dinner with a dark and dangerous expression on their face. Mrs. Mathews is helping Darry and Steve put away leftovers.
It's all so normal. But it's really not. It just looks that way. It's not normal because their parents are six feet under. And that's…that's fucked.
Two-Bit has his little sister in his arms, Sadie heavy with sleep, and is heading out the door. He finds Sodapop leaning against the front porch's railing. There's smoke curling into the cold January night in front of his face. Two-Bit doesn't quite know what to say at first, seeing his buddy like this, but he takes a deep breath and forges ahead.
"We're headin' out, Soda."
"'Kay."
"You need anything?"
Soda shakes his head. "No." He takes a drag off his cigarette. It's the only thing keeping him from losing it right now, being able to focus on just the inhale and exhale of smoke. But his hands were still shaking. And Two-Bit knew he was lying – you don't just lose both your parents and not need anything.
Four.
"Hey, did the mail come in yet?"
He did everything the same as usual. Came in and yelled for the mail, threw his jacket at the sofa (a miss, as always), took off his shoes, and grabbed a glass of chocolate milk. But then he headed for his room, where Ponyboy was lounging in bed, drawing something or other, and flopped down beside him.
And lit up.
"How was work?" Pony asked.
"Okay."
"Something wrong?"
Sodapop shrugged, and Ponyboy accepted it. It was a lie, of course. Something was horribly wrong. Because the mail had come, and Sandy had sent back his fucking letter, unread, return to sender. Soda thought shit like that only ever happened in an Elvis song.
Sandy had never loved him. And he always had. That was what was wrong.
And things just kept going wrong. After a dinner of food that was much too normal for Soda to have made it (but he did, he had, but maybe he shouldn't've, maybe he should've just tried to keep things normal, but how was that fair?), Darry and Pony were at each other again for what was probably the billionth time since Johnny and Dallas had died, and the trillionth time since their parents had passed.
"What's the sweat about my schoolwork? I'll have to get a job as soon as I get out of school anyway. Look at Soda. He's doing okay, and he dropped out. You can just lay off!"
"You're not going to drop out. Listen, with your brains and grades you could get a scholarship, and we could put you through college. But schoolwork's not the point. You're living in a vacuum, Pony, and you're going to have to cut it out. Johnny and Dallas were our buddies, too, but you don't just stop living because you lose someone. I thought you knew that by now. You don't quit! And anytime you don't like the way I'm running things you can get out."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like me just to get out. Well, it's not that easy, is it, Soda?"
Pony looks at Sodapop with an imploring look, not knowing he was asking for support that Sodapop wasn't able to give. Not just then. "Don't...Oh, you guys, why can't you..."
Soda jumped out of his seat and bolted for the front door, away, just away. From Darry and Pony and Sandy and the letter and every horrible thing he could imagine. The pack of Kools thump-thump-thumped against his body through the fabric of his flannel pocket, and Pony crushed them between their bodies when he tackled him.
Five.
When his letter comes in the mail – the postman never had done him any favors – he sits on the front porch and waits for Darry to come home. His brother instantly knows something is wrong when he sees the cigarette dangling from his lips. Darry stops short of the porch on the front walk, tool belt hanging low on his waist and his face reddened from the sun. He looks exhausted, so Sodapop feels guilty. But he holds up the letter, marked with the official army seal.
Darry just closes his eyes and lets out a slow sigh through his nose. Soda holds the end of his smoke up to the tip of the letter, then thinks better of it.
and One.
"Smoke, Curtis?"
Sodapop looked up. There was a tall guy standing over him, his helmeted head blocking the moonlight. He was holding out a pack of cigarettes, army-issue. Sodapop had seen this guy before – it's just that usually, he was wearing sunglasses. Soda wished he could wear sunglasses. But this guy wore 'em even when it rained. And Soda had no idea where he'd gotten them in the first place, out here in the middle of the jungle.
"Smoke?" Soda repeated.
The tall guy scoffed. "Yeah, man. Got fuzz in yer ears? That's what I said."
"What's your name, again?"
The tall guy heaved a sigh and sat down next to Soda. He already had a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was sitting a little too close, but it was cool out now, unlike during the day, and the extra body heat was welcome. "Jacobs."
Sodapop raised an eyebrow. "Jacobs," he repeated.
"Yeah. Jacobs. You a parrot, kid?"
"Nup. Just makin' sure I got it right."
Jacobs laughed again. "Alright, then. Seriously, you want a smoke?"
Sodapop shakes his head. "Naw, I don't really smoke."
Jacobs hums thoughtfully. "Really?"
Soda shrugs. "Nup. Just when my nerves are on end, I guess."
Jacobs just stares at him. The silence settles between them. "You mean you ain't nervous now?" Jacobs asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
And when Soda thinks about it, for some reason, he isn't lying when he says, "No."
XXXXX
AN: Just a little somethin'-somethin'. I know it ain't much, but I just haven't been able to stop! Thanks for reading :)