warning: open discussion of depression, suicidal ideation, and PTSD, but for medical reasons only. please read at your own risk.

I'm baaaaack! Two in one day? I haven't done this in such a long time.

Enjoy. :)

-endless

half of my heart

A warm hand presses mine.

Hi, Darry.

I'm here. And I'm so sorry.

Pony flinches in Steve's arms at the sight on his brother. Darry's face twists and loosens with each shuttering breath. He practically collapses onto the floor next to the bed, with one hand wiping at his face and the other wound tightly around Soda's.

"I'm sorry, Soda," he manages the words through coughs and gasps for air.

On the other side of Pony, I can see Steve trying to muster the courage to go and touch Darry, to comfort him. My heart swells as he finally shakes the fear and carefully tiptoes across the room. I shakily take Pony's shoulders and move him next to me. It's my turn to shield Pony from this, but even so, I allow him to cast glances at his brother, knowing that it will ease his anxiety.

If I know anything about Steve, it's that he won't leave someone to fight by themselves.

"Darry..."

The eldest Curtis doesn't seem to hear him. He simply takes Soda's hand and intertwines their fingers, and I think he's grateful that it's the hand that doesn't have an IV in it. He presses their laced hands against his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, as if trying to see if his tears will wake Soda. He holds Soda's hand against his pursed lips, murmuring a muffled apology.

Steve reaches out and runs his hand through Darry's hair, and quietly, I hear him say, "He's strong."

"We aren't letting him go that easily." My voice joins Steve's and I shuffle Pony towards Soda's bedside, aware that his grip tightens on my jacket. I feel Pony move just a little so that he can take Soda's other hand, also threading their fingers together. Tears well in my eyes, and as I look across the small bed, through the haze of wires and machines, I see Steve's quivering lips and his hollow gaze.

And then we're collectively sobbing, our hearts molding into one heap of pain, when the door to the room opens and the doctor is yet again standing in the corner.

"I...I can see your distress," she says quietly. "And I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a few questions." She glances at Darry, who is still staring blankly at Soda, still sobbing, still lost in his own grief. She opens her mouth, about to ask him, and then decides better of it and looks directly at Steve and I.

"Would you two be able to answer questions? It's just about his history."

We immediately turn and look at Pony for approval. It's not like us to talk about Soda outside of our own gang. Hell, it's not like us to say anything about Soda or his brothers unless they tell us themselves. Pony nods, a small smile growing on his face at the way we stand completely still until he gives the okay.

"We'll be right back," the doctor says, then quickly exits the room. Steve and I hurriedly follow, going a little ways down the hall to make sure that no one can hear us. She doesn't hesitate in getting right to it:

"How long has he been depressed?"

"Their parents died when he was a teen, and then he got drafted," I say, racking my brain to try and find more examples. "I'd say losing your parents at twelve and then getting sent to war at seventeen would make anyone depressed."

"Do you know the extent of his depression?"

"I know it was real bad right after he came home from 'Nam." I look to Steve, who hasn't said anything, but now isn't the time to question him. "He started shutting us out. Wouldn't leave his room, barely ate. One time I was goin' to piss and I found him on the floor with a switchblade."

I'm glad Darry openly told this to us in order to keep watch for symptoms. Sadly, we weren't that good.

"Do you think that the aftermath of Vietnam contributed to his depression and suicidal thoughts?"

Steve and I nod, and that's all she needs for an answer.

"Did he ever tell you things like 'I want to die', 'I wish I wasn't here', or 'I'm better off dead'?"

We shake our heads no.

"Do you know if he ever had nightmares after coming home from the war?"

Steve nods and I stare at him for a second. "There were times that I told Darry and Pony to go to a hotel and I'd watch over him." I wasn't aware of that, and some part of me is angry, but given the circumstances, I'm not surprised. Other than Pony, Soda told Steve everything.

The doctor nods along with our answers, scribbling stuff onto a notepad. She hugs it against her chest and looks at us pitifully. "Thank you. This will be helpful in his recovery." She glances past us down the hallway, as if we're about to make the longest walk of our lives back to that room. She says nothing more, only turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

We stand there for one more moment and then head back to the room. Steve murmurs absentmindedly, "He has to live."

My shoulders sag and I focus on the ground. "Only Soda can do that now."

Our footsteps are the only sound when we enter the room, and I shut the door quietly in case they're asleep. Darry is in the same spot we left him, but has since pulled up a chair, and Pony has curled up by Soda's feet. Pony brushes the hair out of Darry's eyes over and over again, shushing his cries. He looks up as we come into view.

It's weird seeing them on opposite sides of the fence. Pony has always been more openly affectionate, while Darry is selective, never quite sure when it's the right time. But watching them, I know that Darry is forever grateful for this moment, this time when he doesn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Steve and I stand in the corner, watching, and I think Soda smiles.