Okay. Now it's a three-shot. But I promise I won't take another four years for the denouement. Like a lot of things in life, this is gonna hurt a lot worse before it gets better.

As always, please enjoy, and thank you for the reviews.

A buzz sounded, ringing heavy. I think it was in my head. I remained where I was, pressing my face against the gracefully cold surface. I heard a voice next. Incessant. Something shook my shoulders all too hard. "Come on..."

I tried to come up swinging, ready to pound whatever or whoever was waking me from my stupor. Arms flailing, my blurry vision quickly caught up to me. A hand hooked expertly around my waving arms and restrained me and I used all my strength (which wasn't much) to fight back.

"Steve!" a voice shouted. "Christ."

Finally, I was able to crack open my eyes entirely and my struggles ceased.

"What?" I mumbled, and I closed my eyes again. Having no sense of my surroundings, the cool surface I was laying against was painfully absent and my head made a quick beeline back for it.

"No, get up," the voice said again. The hand rested on the back of my neck. "Come on, man…it's only 6 o'clock."

It was only when the hand began to pull me back by my collar that I opened my eyes again. Awareness dawned. I was looking into the gray eyes of Two-Bit, whose face was clouded over in worry. The smile lines around his mouth and his eyes now made him look world-worn.

"I'm fine, man." I don't know why I said that here. "I'm okay."

Two-Bit leaned close. I could smell tobacco on his breath. "No, you're not fuckin' okay. You're passed out at the bar. Come on." He shoved me hard. Automatically, my eyes closed again. Even though I was weaving in and out of consciousness I could sense Two-Bit's anger, the storm brewing inside. My friend was not the type to lose his temper, but here he was. Something in his voice finally broke through to me. "Get up."

And I did. Slowly, very slowly, I raised my aching head, which in itself was a fucking Herculean effort since I had a horrible case of the spins. On shaky legs, I slid off the rickety barstool and let myself be guided out by Two-Bit.

I was tucked into the passenger seat of Two-Bit's beat up old pickup truck, not really sure where I was except there. I leaned my head against the window and tried not to be sick, focusing only on the way the vibrations exacerbated the pounding in my head.

"You can't be doin' that," Two-Bit told me. I could hear him fiddling with his radio and the click of a lighter. "...sendin' me to an early grave."

"Do what?" I tried to choke out. I inhaled some of his secondhand smoke. My eyes remained glued shut though I could sense the light from the street lamps behind my eyes.

"Your little benders. No more." There was a certain finality in his voice and at once I knew what he was getting at. I was about to say that he's one to talk before he continued: "I was with the kid—"

I groaned. "Uh uh, nope." I tried to shake my head as much as I could without puking all over the shitty interior of Two-Bit's ride.

"What?"

"I don't want to hear about the kid." I noticed then that the sun was setting. I'd had no sense of the time for the last few weeks, but this meant it was still early when I started drinking.

The radio started to play a Roy Orbison tune. "Running Scared". If I had been more with it at the time, I might have laughed. Two-Bit, however, remained silent.

He stayed real quiet like that for a while until: "I was with the kid, and—"

"Stop it, man." I was starting to get angry. I can be a real mean drunk. "Just shut the fuck up for once. Dig?"

"What the hell is your problem?" Two-Bit snapped. "I don't dig. I ain't been able to 'dig' in a long while." I realized then, with profound fear, that Two-Bit was actually upset. Not just busting my chops for getting drunk.

I didn't even say anything. I knew that I should have. I just looked at him expectedly and I waited. I never knew what to say in times like these.

"He ran into Johnny's dad at the grocery store. He and Soda did."

I cracked a window then, cranking it slowly as it rolled down. Whether or not I'd be sick from the swirling booze in my gut or the bomb Two-Bit's just dropped, I didn't know, but I was nothing if not prepared.

I focused on the easier part first. I said, "Surprised he took Soda out." Not only was Sodapop out for the count but people in the town already talked too fucking much for our liking.

"He thought it'd be good for him to get out some. See Tulsa again. We all did. Grocery store's somethin' easy. Nothin' too loud or flashy."

His rueful smile at that comment paralyzed me. I couldn't speak. I found it touching how he involved himself in the Curtises' problems. It hit me then that it was always Two-Bit who had to come get me, take pity on me, and bring me back. If it couldn't be Sodapop, I was damn glad I had Two-Bit. I would smile if it weren't so sad.

"It was tough on Pony to see him, and he apparently laid into him real good. And we all know Mr. Cade has always been a prick, but…Sodapop didn't know who it was. Or, at least, he didn't say nothin' about it." Two-Bit's head bobbed back in disbelief and he almost looked green. "He didn't say nothin' at all."

This whole shitshow was really hard on Two-Bit, who couldn't quite grasp why Soda was reacting the way he was. As in, not reacting at all. It's not like I was able to fully grasp it either, but at least I got it that he musta saw something fucked up that fucked him up.

"Fuck." It's all I could think to say.

"Fuck is right." Two-Bit turns the radio to an uptempo Rolling Stones song. "Why don't you wanna hear about the kid?"

"Because it's fuckin' depressing." I couldn't help but be honest at this moment. "Because it's shit." And because I couldn't think too long about this situation without spontaneously combusting, hence the booze. I almost slammed my head into the passenger seat window in my frustration.

"You did right by him, Stevie."

"No, I didn't."

"You and I, we might be the best thing for him right now." The car was parked, the engine idling. I didn't know how long it had been since we stopped moving. Two-Bit looked at me pointedly but I didn't say anything else. "We need to help them out. You can't be doin' this nonsense no more."

It's then that I opened the car door and ralphed my guts out. Two-Bit rested his hand on my back and waited it out with me. I was grateful he didn't say anything.

The next day I woke up with a pounding head and an aching nausea in my stomach. My room was a fucking disaster, piles of clothes and papers and shoes strewn about. Water damage in its familiar spot on the corner of my ceiling, and some paint chipping to top it all off. I just couldn't find the energy within me to give a shit.

The phone rang and it was shrill. I slowly trudged along, ignoring the room around me going topside as I went. I flung my arm out and blindly felt for the phone.

"'Lo?"

"It's me." Evie. "Not that I care, but I saw Sodapop's little brother at the strip with some hoods this morning. Looked real shady-like. Not part of your gang."

"I ain't his keeper."

I could almost see her roll her eyes over the phone. "Ain't you?"

"Not my fault he's a lost fuckin' puppy."

"Oh, Steve, come on," she said, all too knowingly. "Just 'cause Soda's…"

"Just 'cause he's what?" I shook my head, already sensing the vitriol flood my veins. It was a feeling I knew too well, and Evie brought it out of me in spades. Maybe that's why I stayed with her so long. "What, Evie?"

"Well, you know."

"If you want an excuse to call me then just fuckin' say so."

"I just thought you'd want to know, is all," she snapped. Then she paused. I resisted the urge to slam the phone into the receiver. She went quiet for so long that I assumed she hung up and I waited for the dial tone. She'd never been this quiet our whole relationship. Her voice was breathy, worried almost, when she next spoke. "I'm so sorry. I know how much they all mean to you."

I couldn't say anything then. My throat felt like an invisible hand had wrapped around it. A new wave of grief nearly knocked me on my ass.

Then she said, "I do miss you."

So regardless of how difficult it had proved to be, I did what I deemed the responsible thing and took the well known beaten path to what was once my second home.

The summer came fast. Blistering, the sun beamed down and the sweat poured in droves into my eyes. My shifts at the DX always seemed to last longer in the summer, when the nights stayed brighter and customers stayed out later. But I was grateful for the distraction.

I hadn't meant for it to become a problem. Guys like me, all we did was drink and smoke and race. It never dawned on me that it could mutate into something worse than that, something intangibly darker. But nowadays there wasn't a time when I wasn't either nursing a hangover or drinking it away. Two-Bit scooping me out of the bar and watching me hurl on the side of the road had become a new rock bottom. Back in the day, when we were stupid kids, there wasn't nothing wrong with drinking until 2 AM and maybe even passing out in the rose bushes, or the lot, or even at the bar, but it just gets sadder and sadder the older I got. The more I needed to drink to function.

Dreadfully, I made the ascent up the steps of the Curtis home, now doing double takes on everything I once took for granted. What I'd onced cherished so much about this place had somehow become what I hated the most. The way the front porch sloped inward like too much weight could concave it completely. The way the siding of the house never could stay repaired. I used to love the character it brought to the place, because what the exterior of the house lacked, it made up for on the interior–both literally and figuratively. Now, all I could be reminded of was how much they've lost, and how much I've failed all of them.

I opened the door and it was unlocked, so I very slowly and carefully walked in. Too much noise, the screen door slamming, boots loud on the creaking floor, was too much. We learned that the hard way.

Sodapop sat on the couch watching Gilligan's Island. His eyes were glazed over but he looked almost…happy. Or at least as serene as I'd seen him since he got back. I leaned over, real close to his face, and mustered up a roguish grin. "Hey, buddy."

He looked at me and almost smiled back. I couldn't believe it and nearly fell over right there. He gave a nod of acknowledgement which is more than I'd gotten basically since he got back. After his first night back, there was virtually radio silence and we didn't know what to do.

Darry, snapped back into the guardian role, had taken Soda to doctors, though no one really had a solution to his catatonia. The first doctor, the fucking hack that he was, was quick to write my best friend off as just another crazy. Darry's shoulders had been extra tight in that moment, and it was devastating to see them all flounder. To have their hopes dashed right before my eyes.

The second doctor was more kind; a woman this time, who said she specialized in therapeutic care. Darry still insisted his brother wasn't crazy, and didn't need therapy. So I'd bit my tongue. Normally I'd be the first to say that therapy's a crock of shit, but I was willing to try anything at this point to get Sodapop back. To bring him home, once and for all.

At the end of it all, this doctor had been helpful, prescribing medication and giving advice to lessen his stress and provide the care he needed. She'd even given us hope, probably false hope, saying that there was a good chance he'd snap out of it the more acquainted he got with home again.

Sodapop stayed in the upright position on the couch, even as I sat down next to him. Every so often I'd sit down and just talk to him, tell him about how the DX was going and how our prick of a boss was acting up. And every so often, he'd float to the surface of awareness and engage for a bit, even if he wasn't the same as before. Even though it felt like he was a stranger making polite conversation. He would smile or laugh or say something like, "I miss it" when I talked about work. I valued those moments, though, and clamored for them more than anything. Anything was so much better than the quiet.

But worst of all was his stillness. He hardly ever moved and when he did, it was slow and calculated. I couldn't conceptualize that this was the same guy who once upon a time couldn't even sit through a dumb movie.

"Where are your brothers?" I asked, making sure to keep my tone casual.

He offered a shrug. He kept staring at the screen. I kept the feelings of frustration at bay. I wished he could fucking talk to me something fierce.

"I guess Darry's at work, huh?"

Shrug.

I looked around. The house wasn't as sparkling as it once was and I feared the state would rear its ugly head. The sink leaked.

I thought I'd try a different approach. "How're ya doin', man?"

He didn't look at me. Didn't even move.

I knew then that I was going to do the wrong thing, but I truly couldn't help myself. I'd tried as long as I could to be the ever patient, saintly friend, but I was fucking sick of this, sick of everything. It wasn't fair but I wanted my best friend back. I needed him more than anything.

"Sodapop." I shook him. "Soda." And yet he was a goddamn statue. "Sodapop, talk to me. Please, talk to me."

Nothing. He looked at the TV.

"Damn it. Soda!"

His eyes finally reverted to me. His glassy gaze found mine and when he gave an almost-smile, I felt sick. "I hear you."

"Have you seen him today?"

The kid was hopeful. I'll give him that. Once upon a time, I'd have sworn that he'd become a real hoodlum, tougher and colder than any of us, but that didn't seem to be the case anymore. Sure, the kid was still more sensitive than most but he wasn't a bawl baby like he once was.

"I did. Earlier this morning." Pony sat across from me at Sweet Dee's. The air hung heavy with words unsaid. The grimy diner smelled like grease and fast food.

"And?" He leaned forward.

"And…he spoke to me, a little bit," I replied, hoping I didn't sound too destitute.

Ponyboy almost risked a smile. He leaned even farther into me eagerly. "He did? What did he say?"

Any word from Soda was the ultimate gift. "Not much, kid."

Before my eyes, he deflated.

The waitress, the same one who begrudgingly gave me those beers a while ago, set down our food wordlessly, and Pony's glass shook and some water spilled over. She rolled her eyes at us as she went back to the kitchen.

"It's on me," I told him.

He almost looked pissed at me. "What? No."

"Come on, kid. It's on me."

"Steve, you don't—I don't need your charity."

"For Christ's sake, stop it. It ain't charity." I started digging into my meal. "It's just what friends do. So shut up and eat."

A glimmer of a smile appeared, and it was crooked. Something so palpable in his sadness. Gratitude.

"He's been gettin' better," Ponyboy said to me, practically daring me to argue with him. "He's been talkin' more."

"Yeah." I couldn't say more. I couldn't say more because I was in a fighting mood and I knew I would say something I'd regret. Because he was far from better in my mind.

But Pony'd always been perceptive. "What? What is it?" he continued. He could tell I was off. I started stuffing more food in my mouth to combat my silence.

I stopped eating and treaded lightly with, "I just don't think it's wise for you to get your hopes—"

"Hey-yo! Thought I saw your greasy heads in the window!" Two-Bit bustled in wearing a swanky hat that he'd clearly nicked from a nice department store, nearly colliding into the diner chairs before sliding into my side of the booth. His grin was big and goofy. Before I knew it, he had me in a headlock.

"Aw, knock it off!" I shouted. I looked up and Pony was smiling that way he always did when he was both amused and vaguely embarrassed by our antics. It struck me as incredibly disingenuous, then, how we were doing something that seemed so normal – me pretending like I'm real pissed, ready to snap, Two-Bit laughing like a hyena, and Pony looking ready to bolt out of secondhand humiliation – when life was anything but.

Two-Bit finally relented and settled into his seat. His face softened when he looked at Ponyboy.

"How's it hangin', kid?"

"Good," he said. My head started its usual hungover pounding.

"How's, uh, how's Sodapop?"

"Good. I think." His attempt at a smile was a sad one. I couldn't help but notice that Pony's food was left uneaten. I don't think I'd seen him take a single bite. "We had a full conversation the other night."

"That's tuff, Pony. Real tuff. How's Darry?"

"Jesus, what is this, 20 questions?" I interjected.

Two-Bit turned to me at lightning speed. He said, so earnestly, "No. I wanna know, Steve." The softness left his features, clearly not reserved for me. "I haven't seen ol' Muscles in a while."

Ponyboy's eyes remained on the table, unwavering and unfocused like his brother's had become. "It ain't like he's home often." Then, obviously sensing the concern in our eyes, he amended his statement and changed his approach. "But he's fine. He's hangin' in there."

"Oh, Pony…" Two-Bit looked over to me with a horrible unsure expression. I merely shrugged, clueless of what to say. This wasn't exactly news. When the doctors weren't able to provide an easy fix for Sodapop, Darry threw himself into his work, into his research. He became determined to get to the bottom of this, no matter what. All we could do was let him do it.

"It's okay." Ponyboy finally looked up. "Soda's been talkin' some."

"So you said." Two-Bit raised his trademark brow, struggling to grin. "At this rate he'll be able to show me some of his combat moves before you know it." He faux karate-chopped the air, inches away from knocking our drinks over.

"Don't hold your breath," Pony replied, his cynicism burning.

The conversation lulled then. Pony didn't look too ready to elaborate. Two-Bit stole a handful of fries from Pony's plate.

"Who were the no-count hoods this morning?" I asked, cutting the shit. The charade. Two-Bit rested his head on his hand, leaning against the counter. I could sense the questioning in his face.

"What hoods?" Ponyboy feigned innocence. Seeing Two-Bit, he grabbed a French fry off his plate and numbly bit into it.

"You know the ones. You were with them on the strip this morning."

"I reckon I missed a chapter," Two-Bit said with a forced laugh. "Are there new hoods you're holding out from us? And here I was thinkin' we were enough for you, Ponyboy Curtis."

Pony ignored him, and I opted to as well. His voice took on a hardened edge when he spoke next and his eyes didn't leave my face. "You got spies all around town or what?"

"You better watch your back, is all I'm sayin'. You still ain't free from social services. And you can't be too careful."

He rolled his dull eyes at me. "Yeah, like I don't already know that."

Two-Bit smiled in that suspicious way of his. "You're soundin' an awful lot like Darry."

Someone has to, I thought to myself. But I still ignored Two-Bit and continued. "So, who were they?"

"Not hoods."

"Who, then?"

The kid went rigid, and sat quiet for a moment. I could tell he was weighing the pros and cons in his mind of spilling the beans to us. "Vietnam vets. Young ones. About Soda's age."

A heavy, awkward silence fell over the table. I suddenly felt like a jackass for pushing the kid. Two-Bit was sweating like a whore in church as Ponyboy fidgeted. He seemed like an insect under a magnifying glass.

"I thought they could help me," he told us, and I knew he really meant it. "I thought maybe they'd be able to give me some answers. Because Darry and I can't help him." His voice was strained with unshed tears. He wiped his eyes in a last-ditch effort to keep from falling apart right in front of us.

"Pony…" Two-Bit tried. He shifted and looked at me when he spoke. "Steve and me, we can—"

"It's okay." The kid swiped at his eyes again. His shoulders were set with a certain resolve.

"How's Superman?" Two-Bit attempted again. "How's he really?"

The kid pushed his plate of fries away from him and stilled. He took a deep breath in an effort to steady himself. He braced himself against the edge of the table and didn't look up. I could tell he was trying to wait to talk til he wasn't so choked up.

The world around us blurred, and the rest of the diner faded into the background as we watched him struggle.

"He just ain't home. Never. I have to take care of Soda and that house all by myself." The tears finally fell. "And I don't know what the hell I'm doin'."

He buried his face into his hands.

Two-Bit and I smoked a cigarette as the sun set. After I paid the waitress, we took the kid home and said our obligatory hellos to Sodapop. Two-Bit had started getting real antsy in the Curtis house and couldn't ever stay long. Now we were sitting on an abandoned couch in the lot that someone must have thrown out.

"You know, this ain't a bad couch. I oughta take this back. My mom'll like it, certainly."

I chuckled. "I'm sure she can just overlook the cigarette holes."

"Shit, it's an improvement from what we've got."

Two-Bit leaned back and took a deep swig from his beer bottle. His smoke rested gingerly between his fingers on the same hand he drank with.

When night finally came, it was dead silent apart from the buzzing cicadas, and I realized Two-Bit wasn't filling the nothingness with inane banter. I was so used to it that I'd started taking it for granted. We sat enjoying each other's company, blowing smoke rings.

"I don't know how to help them," he eventually said after a real long moment.

I leaned back against the couch as well, instantly knowing what he was referring to. "Maybe they're beyond help."

"Fuck you, Steve."

"I'm just bein' honest."

"Well, take your honest and shove it up your ass."

I reeled. "What's gotten into you?"

Two-Bit sat up ramrod straight. "They were…" To my horror, his voice broke. "They weren't supposed to be like this. I don't get how you can just stand back and watch."

"Well, none of us were supposed to be like this. And yet we are, because that's how it works. And it's shit, but there ain't shit we can do about it."

"For Darry to just bail…I can't wrap my brain around that one."

I knew Two-Bit was just needing an ear, waxing philosophical because he needed to talk. So I did what he needed and I listened. "I know he's tryin' but…him just leavin' the kid alone like that..." His eyebrows raised, like he couldn't believe what he was saying. "It's like pigs flew."

"Darry's a good man," I said, even though coming to his defense was the last thing I felt like doing and my voice didn't carry any conviction. "Pushed too damn far. He didn't leave them. He just needs time, like anyone…"

"Yeah, but where is he, man?"

"Workin'. Helpin' in the way he knows how. Who are we to say he's wrong?"

Two-Bit took another big gulp. Drowning his sorrows. I could dig it.

"That family's been there for us since we were fuckin' kids, man. I ain't gonna sit back and watch them waste away." I'd had a sinking suspicion that Two-Bit was fired up at me and now he wasn't hiding it. Usually easygoing, I felt scrutinized under his look. For the first time in a long time, I almost felt a bit ashamed at my indifference. But I just found over time that it was easier not to care. "I mean, Christ, Soda's your best fucking friend."

He shook his head at me and I felt the full extent of his judgment.

I somehow found it in me to defend myself. "Look, I…I-I can't do it." God help me, it was such a lame excuse that I felt the tears start welling up. But is it really an excuse when it's the truth? "I just can't stand to see him like that. I can't do it." I exhaled shakily. "And I'm well aware I'm leavin' the kid high and dry but I just can't."

My best friend is gone. Gone, gone, gone. And I'm not sure he's ever coming back, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I don't think I needed to. Two-Bit's ultra hard demeanor instantly thawed. "Aw, buddy." He put his arm around my shoulders and it stayed there for a while even as they shook.