notes: as always, characters' views and language are not a reflection of mine, but of the time period :)

On Thursday, instead of heading straight to the hospital like you should, you wake up to the sound of Darry's truck rumbling down the street. You move like you're underwater, movements slow and methodical. You shave, shower, try not to look at yourself in the mirror; afterwards, you hop on a bus that takes you further into the Eastside, and when you get to your stop, you find yourself hunching your shoulders up the same way Darry did the night before. You could have driven but it felt important, suddenly, to hop on the bus the way you did ten years ago, when everything about this city's familiarity was comforting.

When you knock on the door labeled Apartment 12, a familiar voice asks, "Who is it?"

"Ponyboy," you say, exhausted suddenly despite having nearly just woken up. You lean your forehead against the door and try to breathe. The speaker hesitates, repeats your name like a question, and then you're inside with a ghost.

Steve looks better than he did last you saw him, which would've been at your wedding two years ago. You write letters, sometimes, call even less. You think Steve was more like a brother than either of yours, even if he's long since stopped associating with what remains of the Curtis family. At your wedding, he and Soda talked with their heads bent close, like a lifetime of friendship was unspooling between them. By the end of the night Steve was pale, though whether the pain was physical or emotional was unclear.

He needs a shave, and his hair is shorter than he used to keep it growing up, but beneath the tiredness he's still Steve. The familiarity is a relief.

He says your name like he can't believe it. "What're you doin' back in town?"

You flinch. He realizes his mistake immediately, expression twisting up into something mournful.

"It's Soda, ain't it," he says, not even pretending to be a question, and when he heaves himself to his feet you move to stop him. "I'm fine," he says, and grabs at his cane to limp towards the kitchen. "You want somethin' to drink?"

"No," you say, but Steve busies himself getting you both water. He leans up against the counter while you linger awkwardly in the doorway, feeling fourteen all over again, back when you were convinced he hated you. You were a dramatic kid, it's true.

Last you heard, Steve was in too much pain to do the kind of work he used to, before he shipped out—taking care of cars, whether it was in the shop or stealing hubcaps on the Westside. Today he looks mostly like himself, without the sheen of pain that once seemed permanent.

You say, trying to be cautious, "How've you been, Steve?" and he rolls his eyes.

"Cut the bullshit, Pony," he says, but there's no bite to his words. "I know you're wonderin' what a cripple like me does all day."

"Steve," you say, scolding, and blink at how much you sound like Darry.

Steve cracks a grin. "They had to rebreak my leg." You hiss, and he laughs. "You're tellin' me."

"What'd they do that for?"

"Didn't heal right," he says, and shrugs. "Knew that, on account of I spent I dunno how many years with it. Evie'd been tellin' me for ages to get a specialist to look at it, you know, 'cause she knew it wasn't right to still be hurtin' so much after so long. 'Course, she was right, and now I'll never hear the end of it."

"You oughta listen to your wife more," you say, remembering too late that they haven't gotten married yet.

He must notice your embarrassment, though—he says, looking just as sheepish suddenly, "Ah, we ain't picked a date yet."

"No kiddin'," you say, and maybe the surprise is too obvious, because he scowls, even after you correct yourself and congratulate him.

"Yeah, yeah, kid," he says, "not all of us can snatch up the first freshman to blink twice at us."

It's a bold claim, considering he and Evie are high school sweethearts. You can't keep yourself from grimacing—either from the reminder that Velia was just a kid when you met, or the fact that you won't be a married man much longer. Steve, unfortunately, picks up on that.

"Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise already," he drawls, "ain't the two of you still newlyweds?"

"Two years last week," you say, voice clipped, "we, ah. We're splittin' up."

Steve looks surprised. "Nah, you're pullin' my leg. What for?"

You clear your throat. "Just ain't workin' out, I guess."

"Shit, kid," he says. He sounds surprisingly mournful. "I'm real sorry 'bout that."

"Don't be," you say, and wave a hand like it'll make the weirdness of this moment—of admitting aloud to someone else that you'll be getting a divorce, and wouldn't that break your mother's heart if she were still around to hear this news—up and disappear. "It's been a long time comin'. I just dunno how to break it to Darry."

Steve nods. He's probably thinking the same thing you are: that this news can't be any worse than anything to do with Soda.

For a long moment, neither of you say anything. Then Steve, who has always been braver than you, says, his voice soft, "How is he?"

You shake your head. It takes you two tries to speak. "He ain't gonna wake up this time. There's no way."

"They tell you that?"

"Just about," you say, and look down at your shoes. They're scuffed but comfortable. Velia thinks you ought to clean up better, has been saying for ages that you won't be getting a real teaching position if you show up to interviews covered in paint. You always tell her you know how to clean up just fine, that there's no point to wearing good shoes to studio. She used to like the artist look. You're not sure when she realized she didn't.

"How'd Superman take it?"

"He hasn't," you say, and when you look at Steve he seems confused. "Won't even think about it. Pretty sure it's comin' real soon but he ain't ready."

Steve nods. He looks almost understanding. "Shit, kid, can you blame him? He's spent the last few years cleanin' up your brother's mess. I dunno how I'd take it."

You meet his gaze. "How you takin' it now, Steve?"

He flinches, then shakes his head. "Don't do that, Ponyboy. You know just as well as I do that…shit."

He rubs a hand over his face. He turned twenty-eight in April; you never could forget anyone's birthdays, even if on the day of it always slipped your mind, your mother scolding you for the half-wrapped presents hidden under your bed and your father laughing all the while. Steve was there for plenty of birthdays—his own, Soda's, yours… You remember him pushing your face into cake more than once, remember chasing after him and catching him, because no one was ever faster than you. He was there for your middle and high school graduation, shook your hand at your wedding. He was there for a lot of things. He was family, too.

Today Steve says, gaze too serious, no longer seventeen but a grown man, telling you what you don't ever want to hear, but least of all now, "My best friend died in that jungle. Your brother did, too."

The next bus leaves you at the cemetery. There's a lonely phonebooth next to the stop, and you pause to count how much change you have on you.

Velia picks up on the first ring. "Ponyboy?"

"How'd you know?"

"Who else would call?" She sounds annoyed. You don't know her new man's name, but it lingers in the silence between you now, and it's obvious.

You say, "I just wanted to tell you what's goin' on up here."

"And?"

You used to find her interruptions cute. Like being a kid again, trying to listen to a story and feeling too impatient. Soda did that, even after getting back from the war. It was one of the few things that remained the same before and after. He got along with Velia like a house on fire.

You say, "Soda's dyin'."

She gasps like she didn't know the reason you were out of town in the first place. "What did the doctors say?"

"You know he's sick," you say, because saying a heroin addict hurts something fierce. The words stick in your throat anyway. "Heart's bad, kidneys are bad, lungs don't work…they think if they turn the machine off he's done for. He ain't woken up at all since they took him in."

"What happened?"

"Darry found him," you say. "He didn't tell me anythin' else."

Over the line, you can hear Velia take a deep breath. "What all is there to do?"

"Doc thinks we should take him off the machines."

"Are you gonna?"

"I dunno. Darry won't talk about it."

Velia sighs. Maybe you should wish you were there with her, so you could face this like a team, the way husband-and-wife should. Mostly you find yourself wondering how much longer this call is going to take.

She says, "You tell Darry yet?"

"Tell him what?"

"What I told you," she says, impatient.

You let your own frustration slip into your voice: "Yeah, Vel, I told him while we watched the machine breathe for Soda. Christ. I ain't had the chance."

"Don't take this out on me," she says. You can picture her clearly: eyebrows screwed up, the perfect pink moue. She could never get her mouth right when she drew self-portraits, charcoal smearing over her hands and page alike; back when you were still calling her your muse, it was your favorite detail. Then she says, "Should I head on up, then?"

"Why would you—"

"Ain't Darry gonna wonder why your wife's at home instead of helpin' out her husband?"

"I won't be your husband much longer," you say, sharper than you mean to, and she quiets.

"Well," she finally says, and you can't make sense of her tone, "you still are. Call me soon as you know what you're doin'. I'll head up after."

"Could you bring me—"

"No," she interrupts. She's probably got her nose in the air, like she knows exactly what's going on. She used to argue about any points marked off on a project, sitting in your office hours like it was her domain and not yours. Her hair was always pulled back with a little headscarf that was color-coordinated with her outfit. Her daddy paid for her classes and wedding and then told you to take care of his little girl like you had any idea what that meant. "You ain't moved out yet. You can pick up what you need whenever you come back."

You don't tell her you're not coming back anytime soon. Instead, you say, "Fine," feeling fourteen again, and then she hangs up first, because it would be too much to expect anything else.

You can't bring yourself to see your parents today. Instead, you walk over to the section where you know Dally and Johnny are buried, a few rows away from one another. It still hurts to know you were too sick to send them off properly, but there's no fixing that either. The headstones are barely that, low to the ground with just their names and birthdates-slash-death dates underneath. It makes you a little sick to remember. Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat, Velia leaning over you, her eyes huge with worry.

You were havin' a nightmare, she would say, and you always told her it was nothing, that you were sorry for waking her, that you were fine. You could never really remember the dreams, anyway, but you could guess at them. The way Johnny looked in the burn ward, the way Dally called out your name as he died. You're grateful you can't remember but it's not good enough. Sleep hasn't come easy to you in years.

You find Johnny first, and you wonder if you should have brought flowers or something. Maybe a book to leave. You rub at a clot of dirt that's settled in the O of his first name, and then lean back on your heels. You debate lighting a cigarette, but between it likely being disrespectful and your umpteenth effort to quit, you decide against it. It's quiet, the middle of the day. Steve comes out here regularly, he told you. He doesn't know about Darry or Soda—and of course, you never asked them. Just came by with one or both when you visited, quiet while you stood there trying to remember the exact color of Dally's eyes, the way Johnny used to grin at Two-Bit's jokes.

You hate to think of them all alone out here. Dally's grave isn't too far up, and you linger there, too. Maybe Tim Shepard comes by to see him sometimes—Curly's not buried here, though, in a Catholic cemetery instead. You remember the oddness stillness of the church on the day of his funeral, the way Angela looked young again, hand on her rounded belly, gaze fixed on her dead brother's casket. You remember being children and then not-children, when she tried to get back at you for not being interested and put Jennings in the hospital. Sometimes, you think you might dream of her eyes.

Dally would probably tell you to get your head out of the clouds, if he were to see you here just thinking at his grave, and it almost makes you smile. You want to ask him to keep an eye out for Soda but speaking it aloud feels like a mistake.

Instead, you make your way back to the bus stop, and wonder if there's really nothing else you can do.

At the hospital, it's more of the same: Soda unconscious with machines breathing for him. The sight makes you ache, but you have to look at him, have to recognize the truth. Steve said Soda, the one you love, the one who was once a toddler cradling your newborn self like in the picture that still sits in the living room, the one who used to give you girl tips and then laugh when they'd make you blush bright red, is gone. This can't go on any longer, and you know it. It's not fair to any of you, least of all Soda.

You try your best to get Darry to talk. On Friday, after a grocery run while Darry's at work, you make dinner for the both of you. It's his favorite: pork chops with turnip greens, sides of cornbread and pickled onions. It was your father's favorite, too.

Darry seems to know what you're getting at, unfortunately.

"Darry," you say, exasperated, and aren't sure if you sound more like he used to when he'd scold you for breaking curfew or like your mother when he would do the same. "We gotta talk about—"

"What's there to say," he says, finally, after twenty minutes of one-word replies. Dinner is mostly finished, though your beer is largely untouched, Darry's finished by now. "You wanna give up on him."

You take a deep breath. He's picking a fight and it's obvious. "The doctor said he ain't gonna wake up."

"He might still—"

"He ain't breathin' on his own," you say, louder, and Darry looks at you with hurt eyes. You try not to flinch away—it feels like staring into the mirror, the color washed out to the same gray-green as yours were this morning, the color of the sky when a twister's fixing to spring to life. "He can't breathe without the damn machine. That what you call livin', Dar?"

He swallows. "You want me to let him die?"

"He's gone already," you say, remembering what Steve said. Your voice breaks on the second syllable. "We can't do this to him…keepin' him here when he's ready to go."

"And how d'you know he's ready to go," Darry says, tone steely. You flinch a little despite yourself—the memories come back at inopportune times, 1965 a blur you don't care to remember. Darry says, and you wonder if it hurts him to say as much as it hurts you to hear it, "You ain't hardly been a brother, these last few years. What d'you think you know that matters more than what me and Soda've had to deal with?"

You stare. You sound like your younger self when you say, "I left for school."

"And I stayed for Soda," Darry says. He looks unfamiliar, suddenly. "Least we can do is stay for him."

"Here again, huh, Curtis?"

You look up. You slipped away while Darry got working on the dishes, the silence between you two overwhelming, and have sat at the bar alone for nearly an hour now. Tim looks the same as he did two days ago, though the shirt is a different color.

You raise your drink to him like a toast, and then finish the last bit of beer there. You'll order a third one shortly. "You ain't on call? Thought workin' the fields meant you had to be ready to go soon as they need you."

"'S a rotation, kid," he says, like you ain't been paying your own bills for years now, and takes a seat next to you. "Two weeks on, one week off. Back to work in a few days."

"How're the girls?"

Tim rolls his eyes a little. "Y'know, at least Superman has met 'em before. You barely know who you're askin' about."

You feel yourself flush a little. "Seems rude to not ask, I guess."

"Nah," Tim says, and pauses to order beer for the both of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, the cigarette smoke layered over it. Your heart starts to race. "'S like me askin' after that wife of yours. What's her name again?"

"Velia," you say. You wonder how obvious it is that you've gone red.

"She Mexican?"

"Italian," you say, and nod at the bartender when he comes back with two bottles, "from McAlester. Her daddy's a warden."

"Shit," Tim says, and takes a swig, "I prob'ly know him. Been what, a few years since you got married? Wasn't no big thing, was it."

You shrug, say, "It was two years ago, out where her folks are." You take a deep breath, stare at the bottle in your hand. Say for the second time in as many days, "We're splittin' up."

You can feel Tim look at you. "That so?"

You steal a look at him. You remember him at rumbles, not a hair out of place, nothing betraying his emotions. He was always a striking, threatening figure. Even the one time you found him in your living room, comfortable as can be, he seemed like more. It's odd to be able to compare the two—the Tim Shepard in your memory, busting heads as needed, and the one in front of you, a father working the kind of job your own daddy never wanted for you.

You clear your throat, say, "You and your girls' ma, the two of you…"

"Split ages ago," he says, and takes a swig from his beer, "'fore my Vivi was born."

"How come?"

"Wasn't workin'," he says, and glances at you. "Figured I'd leave 'fore I stepped out on her with someone I couldn't explain."

You hide a shiver. You don't know why the words get to you.

Tim lights a cigarette, says, "It the same with your Velia?"

You hesitate, say, "Somethin' like that," and he tilts his head.

"Your brothers get along with her?"

"Yeah…Soda most, I'd say." The two of them would spike the eggnog together, giggling behind Darry's back like it wasn't obvious. She made him panna cotta special for his birthday every year since you started dating. When he called you to check in, he'd spend at least twenty minutes catching up with Velia. He always said you found a good one.

You think, maybe, that you should have asked her to come up with you the night the news came. Not for your sake, but for hers.

Tim nods. He's still watching you, something intense about the curve of his body as he slouches next to you at the bar. When he presses his knee against yours, you don't move, just keep your gaze steady.

"Your brother take the news alright?"

You grimace. "Ain't told him yet."

Tim whistles, shakes his head. "Guess that's why you ain't here together. Figured you two was peas in a pod with all'a that goin' on."

"Right," you say, and take too long of a pause to drink more of your beer. This bottle is half-empty now. You say, not looking at him because it might hurt if you do, "How'd, uh. How'd you deal with it, after?"

He says nothing. When you turn to him his eyes are on you, and you want to recoil at the recognition there. He swallows a mouthful of beer before he speaks, expression hard like how you remember it before rumbles.

He says, "I didn't. Wanted to kill the sonuvabitch who was drivin' the car he was in, 'cept he was dead already, too. Hell, I barely made it to his goddamn funeral." He shakes his head. "Lu let me come see her and the girls and kept me company 'til it was time for me to hit the rig again. The liquor didn't help, and neither did the brawls."

He fixes you with a look that pins you in place as much as it makes you burn. You wonder what it means, that your lungs are failing you, too.

"It'll hurt like nothin' else in this world," he tells you, and you take a deep breath.

"Goddamn," you say. You look at him looking at you and exhale. His knee is still pressed to yours, body close enough to touch if you weren't afraid of getting killed for it.

Tim puts his hand on your shoulder, the touch friendly from the outside looking in. The heat bleeds through your shirt—a button-up, your jean jacket left in the passenger seat of your car. You shiver and hope he doesn't notice. From the way his eyes meet yours, he did.

His fingers curl over your shoulder. "But some distractions work a li'l better'n others, I'd say."

You swallow. If you weren't looking, you might not have noticed how he followed the movement. You thought him fascinating, years ago. Maybe the feeling never left. "That so?"

His smirk still reads like a threat. "I'll show you," he says, and you wonder if this is how Velia feels when she's with her man, the thrill of it deep in her bones.

You know better than to think on it. Just follow Tim out to his truck, instead, wondering if it'll make any difference at all.