honestly, i'm not sure what's come over me with writing Sandy and Soda fics, but hey, i'm going with it

enjoy.

mentions of postpartum depression, s*cidal thoughts. please read at your own discretion. no offense is taken.

-endless


songs that inspired this piece (in order of section):

"falling" by harry styles

"turning page" by sleeping at last

"sorrow" by sleeping at last

"sunnyland" by mayday parade

"a thousand years" by christina perri

"we're gonna be alright" by sleeping at last

"touch" by sleeping at last

"to build a home" by the cinematic orchestra


to have and to hold

It's like we're machines. Robots. Bodies that have no purpose other than taking up space.

If we were a massive storm, everyone would be dead by now. All that would be left, any sign of life, would be us. A reminder of what we have lost. A reminder that we will never feel anything again. A reminder that, despite everything, we will never feel love again. I feel as if my sole purpose on Earth was to give Sandy the life I knew we could have. A child that I could watch her admire, love, and protect just as much as she's protected me.

We've pushed the family away. I guess that's expected after you lose a family member, let alone a child that you saw with your own eyes. Let alone a child that you held, kissed, quieted, loved, until that baby no longer breathed. I've wished for so long that I could trade places; that I had been the one to lose my life. And while I'm grateful that I didn't have to go through two losses, I'll always be regretful that she even had to go through one.


Each time I step into our bedroom, I'm reminded. I see the bassinet on Sandy's side of the bed. I see the random assortment of clothes in the dresser. I see a picture of Sandy and I holding our baby boy hanging on the wall above our bed. I feel my chest grow tight, my eyes water, my heart explode.

Part of me wants to fast forward to a time where this doesn't define our relationship. Where I don't sob in the middle of the night from a dream. Where Sandy doesn't have to constantly reiterate what I know to be true. When everyone's eyes don't focus on me as a broken, shattered father. When the world finally releases me from my guilt and my shame.

Except I can't. So I have to sit here and let reality take air from my lungs, take memories from my brain, and create a hold on my heart that I'm not sure will ever be released.


I am constantly reminded of what I gave to this family and what I ultimately, tragically, took from them. Fuck it: I am the reminder.

And then, like always, a voice comes up from behind me and says "It's not your fault."

I find her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "Sorry."

"Nonsense." My mother's eyes are full of concern and she takes hold of my shoulders, lightly spinning me around to face her. Like she used to when I'd have panic attacks, she holds my face in her hands and says, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

I do. I let myself fall in love with Sandy and got her pregnant. I killed my Momma's first grandchild.

And I'm about to say that, about to let her know all of my regrets, when the look on her face tells me to stop. Momma wipes a tear from my chin before stepping away, and the smile she gives tells me nothing. I watch as Sandy appears just outside the doorway, and my heart breaks a little at the way she stops in front of her, places her arms around her, and squeezes like Sandy has always been one of us. For a second, she's caught off guard, and I breathe her name into thin air as her eyes fill with tears.

When my gaze avoids hers, those bright blue eyes ignite with that fire of concern, constantly whirling in the background. It's a gaze I haven't gone on second without catching since the funeral.

I'd rather burn in that fire. Anything but have it come from the love of my life.


I've always had depression.

It ain't something I like throwing to the wind, but Sandy's always known. She has always taken it in stride, never letting me fall on my face.

But when we lost our baby, I saw her change.

Don't get me wrong: she stills holds me up most days. She still finds a way to show that she loves me, that we're fine, that our relationship still reigns strong.

I never thought that a man could have postpartum depression after a miscarriage. I always thought that was left to the women, the moms that actually carried. Not the dads. Not the men who would raise those children into a fine, younger generation. When it did happen, I thought the symptoms lasted for only a few weeks.

It's been three months since the doctor diagnosed me with it. And I see that Sandy has changed the way she talks, moves, and looks at me. I see how tender my brothers, my parents, and the rest of the gang is being, and it boils beneath my skin. And I used to say to myself it's just because it happened a week ago. It'll blow over. Only now, it just makes me angry.

Darry and Ponyboy know me better than I know myself, so they have to know I don't need to be coddled. I don't need to be looked at like I'm wounded, even if I am. I might need a good crying session here and there, but that's it. Ever since the first night our of the hospital, our relationship has been rocky. Our fights have become more frequent. The screaming matches have intensified. The ripping in my chest when she leaves, not telling anyone where she's going, just about kills me.

I wish it would.


Her love for me never wavers.

Each time she sees me in this state, she gingerly comes into the room, leads me to the bed, and sits me down. She forces our eyes to meet. She still wipes tears away like she's done for the last three months. And, unfortunately, she still has to ask, "Are you okay?"

She always knows what's wrong. I know she does.

She wouldn't be with me if she didn't.

"I'm fine." The smile I throw at her doesn't align with what she's just heard.

"I'm here." The words are barely audible, and she starts to look away, but I grab the side of her face and force her eyes back on mine.

"I know." You always are.

The next thing to come out of her mouth shakes me to my core:

"We never talk about him."

"He's gone, San." The words come out harsher than I intend.

Her response is full of spite. "You don't think I know that?"

"I know you do. But I..."

"What?"

I don't want to make things worse. I can feel the words rising like bile, and I try to hold it in, to not ruin her life more, but they leak through my teeth anyway. "I can't sit here and think about it. Think about him."

"We lost a child, Soda. That's what you do!" Sandy pulls away and stands up, only to get on her knees and look straight into my soul. We're still holding one another like we did when the doctor came. When I became the reason why she loses sleep, snaps at my family, and barely does anything other than sit here and console me.

When I became a child that she has to raise.

I gesture to everything surrounding us. The bassinet; the clothes; the picture hanging above our bed, that mocks me every single day. "Isn't this enough? Isn't this enough to remember him by?"

I feel her flinch against my hand, see her body recoil like I've struck a nerve."No, Soda. It can't be. It will never be."

And I hate the way her voice cracks as she talks. As if she's going through a war all over again. But this time, the war isn't overseas.

It's right here with me.


Sometimes, when I lie away at night, I think she's so done. She's gonna leave. She's gonna get outta this house and I'm gonna live on the streets and everything will go wrong. But I stop myself when I look at her. Feel the way she holds me, the way she touches me. Hear the way she talks about me. See the grin that tells me that she's absolutely in love with me, even after all that I've done. Even after all I've taken from her.

She stopped sleeping within hours of being home. I would wake up to her sitting up in bed, just staring into the light of a street lamp. I'd wake up more than once with her side of the bed cold, desolate, no trace of her being there at all.

And then it started happening to me.

There's a lot that goes through your mind when you're grieving. You wish you could take it all back. You wish you could just cease to exist.

I tried to take it back. I tried ceasing to exist. And each time, Sandy grounded me into a time warp that hasn't cracked under the weight of my misgivings.


I love her. I know she loves me. I know that we love that baby boy that sits in the stars and looks down on us each night.

It's been a few days since Sandy's been home. Our argument was particularly bad; made her pack a duffel bag and everything. And I listen to my parents and brothers wonder where she could possibly be. I listen to my mother crying and my father throwing chairs. I listen to Pony and Darry slowly making their way to their separate rooms in order to hide.

This shouldn't be a weekly thing. It shouldn't be a daily thing, even. She never tells me where she's going, how long she'll be gone, or if she'll ever be back. She just...leaves.

And maybe I'm the culprit. Maybe I'm the reason. I don't like talking about it; about him. About the child we lost, the child we never even named. In the cruelest of ways, I'm denying her of that as well. I'm denying Sandy of closure, or peace, of meaning.

I'm denying her the grief a mother should have; a grief that she can share. A sensation of feelings that we can drown in together.

She comes through the door just after dawn breaks. It's a cool, Sunday morning, where the light peeks through the curtains and creates rainbows on the carpet. I'm sitting in our bedroom when she arrives, and from how quietly she moves, she thinks I'm asleep. I feel her heart pounding as she debates whether to climb in bed or to just sleep on the floor. I can't stand the way that she avoids looking at me, even if I'm turned so my back is the only thing she sees. I know I should be flying into her arms, maybe crying because I was so worried.

I was worried. But it's common now.

I can't help but smile as she gets into bed and rests her back against mine. And as much as I kick myself, as much as I don't want to make amends, I turn and move my hand so that it barely overlaps hers. My heart about explodes at the fact that she grips mine in such a genuine, loving way that I can't help but forgive.

It's my turn to ask: "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Sandy murmurs. For a second I think about leaving it. She clearly doesn't want to share anything about the last few nights.

But we both know her better than that.

"Look at me." I tug on her arm, harder and harder, but it's like she's made of stone. "San, look at me, please." She doesn't fucking move.

I'm aggravated, and by the sheer force I use to leap out of the sheets and climb on top of her, I think I've scared us both. Her eyes are wide with surprise as I say, "Fucking look at me." The words are a pure growl of annoyance.

I'm not fucking playing around anymore.

It's enough for her to see how painful it's been to see her leave, come home, fight with me, and then leave again. It's enough for her to recognize me as a father who hasn't grieved his child. She stares at me through those blue eyes for what feels like years. She starts to sit up and I move with her, and that's enough for her to get a clue.

Enough for her to say, "I'm sorry, Soda."

I'm too pissed off to get lost in the way she holds my gaze, her hands tangled in my hair. "Where do you go?"

Silence follows the question. "Where the fuck do you go, San?" I smack my hands against the comforter with each word, and she finally grabs my wrists and pins them to my sides.

Her version of my 'cocky smart ass' grin appears. And at first, I want to slap it off of her pretty little face, but then her lips meet mine and I'm a goner. When she pulls away, she's got an excited glimmer in her eye that I can't figure out.

She pushes herself out of the bed and leaves me sitting there. The smile on her face has reached the point of no return when she turns back to me and says, "Come on."

And, like a dog, I obey.


I've been here before.

There's a lot on my mind as Sandy leads me through this dusty ass place. I know where she's taking me. I know what we're going to do.

But I'm still not ready for when we stand before our son's grave. I don't even need to see his plot of land before I'm sobbing.

I can't be here.

I don't want to be here.

I don't deserve to be here.

Sandy's reiteration of "you're okay, I'm here, it's okay" whirls in my brain enough to make me dizzy. I don't need to make a run for it before her face is close to mine, her arms holding me to the point where I can barely breathe. Together, we sink to the ground and just lose ourselves in the grass beside our child.

"We had a child." The words echo off of thin air.

My heart wants to rip out of my chest as I understand why we're here. For her to see me as a father; for me to see her as a mother. This is what we've needed.

This is what we've needed to see each other as more as teens. This is what we've needed to see beyond our first impressions.

We needed this to see each other as humans. As lovers.

As parents.

Sandy puts her shaking hands in mine. Her eyes are dull when our gazes lock, but her voice is strong as she says, "We have a child."

It's here that I realize my whole family has followed us. They're witnesses to me losing my shit, falling apart, no longer the tough guy I've made myself out to be. Momma and Dad calmly lean against their car, and the sheer amount of pity, of remorse, and of fucking pride shakes the ground beneath my feet. Pony and Darry sit at the edge of the treeline, almost like they want to come forward, but they won't.

Sandy and I are there for what feels like years. When the dew on the grass has dried to our clothes, we get to our feet and leave our son behind. I can feel everyone in the second car following us in a state of pride. A protection that I've never felt before.

It's a protection that won't stop until our sorrowful woods are burned to ashes.