Thanks for 31 reviews! That's insane.

I didn't think this story would receive so much love and positive vibes, but thank you.

this one is a long one. just felt like getting it all out there, i guess.

uh, this miiiiiight make you cry? sorry gang. just know it made me tear up.

-endless

patience

I'm not sure what they want from me.

I don't know if they want me to live for them or for myself. I don't know if they want me to wake up now, because it's been nearly a fucking month and I haven't done a goddamn thing. Have they given up on me? Sometimes, I think so. And it's a thought I know I shouldn't have, an impulse I shouldn't run to, but it's enticing. It's fun. It's crazy and good and bad all at once.

They miss the old me. It doesn't take rocket science to figure that out. When I came home, I think we all thought that I'd adjust well - that I would learn to cope with all of the shit that happened back there easily. And, unfortunately for all of us, that didn't happen.

Do I miss myself from before? Fuck yeah. The old Soda was high off of life. Everyone knew that parties didn't start until I showed up. Everyone knew that I fought like hell in any rumble, getting my hands on whoever I could and knocking them out cold.

The old Soda wouldn't have done this.

He would've learned how to cope. He would've put all of the gunfire, the grenades, the screaming behind him. He would've soaked up the joy from his friends and family like a sponge, holding it never letting it go for as long as he stood on this Earth.

But here he is. Here I am. A fucking half-dead, half-living piece of shit. A soldier held hostage by what I saw, heard, felt, breathed.

Genetically, I was the same. I was composed of the same DNA that I had been born with. Ponyboy and Darry were still my brothers. Steve and Two-Bit were my brothers in their own way.

But mentally, emotionally? I don't think I realized that I was the guy standing in the mirror, with scars on his body, wrists, gunshots lacing his back. But I know who I am now.

Momma used to say that patience is a virtue. She also used to say that I would be fine if I ever got hurt.

I guess it's hard to live when you have limited time.

As soon as I see Steve, I know something's wrong.

"What's up, Steve?" My voice echoes across the long hallway, and his gaze locks with mine, telling me that he's heard. He sinks to the floor as nurses file out of the room, and then the assistants, and then the doctors. I see him breath a sigh of relief, as if he wasn't supposed to be snooping. They all shuffle past me with grim faces, and my blood pressure spikes. I catch one of the doctors by the shoulder as they pass, my heart beating wildly.

"Is he okay?" Darry asks from where he stands at my shoulder. There's a pause that seems to stretch a mile long, and I have a feeling I know what it means. Darry grips my hand and I look up at him, seeing how his entire body is shaking and fighting for control. The doctor simply looks from Darry at my right, to Two-Bit on my left, and finally at me. She even glances back at Steve, who stares at her so intensely that I feel the ground shake.

"We've done all we can," she says, her eyes shining. Her hand is warm as she places it on top of mine for a moment before adding, "You might want to prepare -"

Two-Bit cracks a wrist as if ready for a fight, and the sound booms in my ears. "No way in hell are we doing that yet."

Yet. The word makes my blood run cold.

The hallway stretches three thousand miles long. Two-Bit and Darry press close like I'm going to collapse, and no matter how hard I try to put space between us, it doesn't work. As Soda would say, "Karma's a bitch."

Steve rises to his feet as we reach him. No one runs for the door. No one rips it open. No one busts their hand open from slamming it on the wall in agony. We all just stand there with lead feet and numb bodies.

To my own surprise, I reach for the door. The click of the handle releasing the door, letting us pass, is deafening. My body isn't mine as I walk towards him, looking exactly as he did before they'd kicked us out. Looking clean, quiet, and totally not himself. My hands aren't mine as I pull up a chair to sit at his bedside. My back isn't mine as Darry pulls me to him, letting it rest against his side. My lungs aren't mine as I fight for air.

But my eyes are mine. My heart is mine. My thoughts are mine. My emotions are mine.

And through my own eyes, I can see Steve and Two-Bit on Soda's other side. They almost mirror Darry and I: Two-Bit has an arm thrown around Steve's shoulders while Steve rests against him. Our grief steals all of the air in the room, and we look at each other with sadness. Steve and I move away from our barrier and grab both of Soda's hands, still looking at each other, still holding on to a hope that has nearly ceased to exist.

Do we let him go?

The question doesn't need to be said. But it hangs in the room nonetheless, as if we've spray painted it along the blue walls. It's clear, at least to me, that nothing will happen. Nothing will bring him back, and as much as that drains my blood into the floor, I think it's been the answer for a long time now.

Painfully ironic, the life support is on our side. Darry and I stare at it for what feels like years. Yet again, my body isn't mine. My hands aren't mine as I delicately hold my brother's life, literally, in my hands. To think that a month ago, we had him bleeding on a riverbank, shushing his cries of wanting to die. Telling him that he would be okay, that we weren't going to let him die by our hands. We were going to save him from himself.

"Not yet." Darry whispers, his words hitting me like a ton of bricks. Thankful, I lean back and let him put an arm around me. I take Soda's hand in my own and lace his fingers with mine, totally numb. But, yet again, my eyes are mine, taking in everything. Taking in Darry, who won't give me room to move even the slightest bit. Taking in Steve and Two-Bit, who fight the sleep that shines in their eyes. My body thanks Darry as he finally lets me go and I immediately sit up. Then, like we're somehow connected by magnets, Darry's chin rests on my shoulder as he leans on me. Like a mother cat, he nuzzles the side of my head.

Like always, we sit there until the sun rises over the clouds.

And then I feel the weight of what I'm about to do. The haunting realization that we're about to do this. We're going to let Soda have his wish, his last words to us before he fell unconscious.

"I love you." All four of us echo one another.

There's a tug at my hand. I immediately look behind me, but Soda's hand is loosely in mine. I turn back to Darry, who stares blankly ahead, as if trying to throw himself out of his body. I stare directly at Darry's hand, knowing that the tug was him trying to convince himself not to do this. But my head fills with confusion and my eyes fill with tears as I realize that Darry's hand is completely still.

It's quiet, barely audible. It's probably not meant to be heard. I swear on my life that I hear, "Hi."

And when I turn towards my brother again, I find that his hand is tight with mine.