A/n: I do not own The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton or Cut My Hair, written by Pete Townshend and performed byThe Who. Also, a big thanks to my beta, Marauder and the Q for all her help. Enjoy :)

I know I should fight

But my old man he's really alright,

And I'm still living at home

Even though it won't last.

The apartment wasn't so bad, really. If he'd opened up the curtains and maybe cleaned up, it would have been fairly nice. One bedroom, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. That was all he really needed, anyway. But he still resented the place, and for too many reasons to be sure of. Maybe because he'd moved in after the old man kicked him out; maybe because it reminded him of too many memories that he'd worked so hard to push back. There were a hundred reasons, none of which he wanted to admit. The only reason he could think of now was that it was his own prison.

The days seemed to melt into one. Wake up, go to work, get something to eat, go to sleep. And without drinking it was so much worse. No booze in the place whatsoever. There was no reason there shouldn't have been. They never even checked to see if he had any in there. But he didn't. Every day he went dry as a bone, just making it one day at a time.

What a life you're living, Stevie. When you ain't killing yourself drinking, you're killing yourself by simply not living. Good going.

Steve sat on his couch, speechless. The voices. He had finally placed their names.

"Why the hell are you doing this to me, old man?"

You ain't as dumb as I thought you were. I thought you'd never figure it out.

"Why the hell are you here? I thought you never wanted to talk to me again."

His father only laughed quietly. I guess we've got some things to settle out. First, you ain't as crazy as you think.

"I ain't crazy? I'm talking to my father, who's fucking dead!"

Did I say you weren't crazy? I said you ain't as crazy. And look, you gonna be hardheaded or are you going to listen to me? First, don't talk back. Just listen to me, otherwise people might just think you are crazy. Second, I ain't letting you waste your life like this. You're going to get off your lazy ass and do something with your life. That means cutting out the drugs, the drinking, and getting that girl of yours back.

"She don't want me back. We're done, anyway."

Fine. You were always hardheaded, just like the old lady. But you ain't gonna let me down. I mean it, boy. You'd better get out of this self-pity shit and make something of yourself.

Steve laughed quietly. What the fuck was that? He decided not to question it. He was crazy and that was that. Instead, Steve dragged himself into the tiny bedroom and rolled off to sleep. Maybe he'd sleep in tomorrow. It was Saturday, after all.

XxXxX

A loud knock on the door jerked Steve out of his sleep. He rolled off of the bed, dazed for a moment, wondering where the knock had come from. Another sharp bang on the door rattled Steve out of his daze. He made his way to the front door where Darry and Two-Bit stood, waiting.

"Hey, ol' buddy! Ain't seen you in a while!"

"I saw you last week, Mathews."

"Well, 'scuse me for missing one of my best buddies."

Steve rolled his eyes, but allowed his friends to pass.

"What are y'all doing here, then?"

"Well, you're not gonna live in this shithole anymore," Darry said, looking around. There were magazines scattered on the floor and the rug needed to be vacuumed. "You've got to get this place in better shape."

"So, what are y'all gonna do?"

"You're going to get this place in shape. We'll help."

Two-Bit walked towards the TV and turned it on, then sat on the couch. "Actually, Darry's going to help. I'm here for moral support ... Damnit, I hate this show. Whenever I come home, the kid has it on. What the hell is so damn entertaining about a rat and his girlfriend?" He got up to turn the TV off and then sat back down on the couch. "I guess I'll help y'all now." He bent over and began to pick up the scattered Playboys and car magazines before sitting back down to read one. "I helped."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Get up or get out, Two-Shit."

Two-Bit only laughed and began stacking more magazines.

"I think I've got a vacuum somewhere in the closet. I'll clean my room, I guess."

Darry raised an eyebrow, surprised that Steve was cooperating, but decided not to question it. "Sure thing, Steve."

Steve stalked off to his room, secretly annoyed that they had interrupted his sleep. He sighed at the sight of it. It was worse than the sitting room; the bed unmade, clothes on the floor, and drawers flung open. He hadn't even been this bad when he'd lived back home.

Look what you've turned into, kid. This place is a mess.

"You weren't exactly known as 'housekeeper' either, old man."

True there, Steve.

He began to sort clean clothes -- or what looked like clean clothes -- from the dirty ones until he came across a small box. What was this? He didn't remember ever seeing it before. Opening it, he saw several pictures. He smiled despite himself. There was one of Evie and him from when they were around sixteen; she still hadn't lost any of her looks. One of Sandy and Soda. He'd felt bad for her despite the fact that she'd left Soda.

Sorting through the rest of the box, he found an unopened envelope at the bottom.

Private Steven Randle - November 29th, 1967 - Da Nang, Vietnam.

Steve closed his eyes and groaned.

Open the letter, Steve.

"No," he whispered.

'No' isn't an option. Open the damned letter

Steve opened the letter and began to read. It had come four weeks after Soda's death.

Steve,

Well, you're out in 'Nam now. I ain't never been in a war, but I remember when the old man went off to World War Two. He came back with a Purple Heart. I guess that doesn't make you feel much better, does it? Well … I'm proud of ya, Steve. I know I don't act like that much, but I am, and you have to believe me. I just want you to come home alive. And I mean that in a lot of ways. Just don't turn out like my old man, okay, Stevie?

- Dad

Steve stared blankly at the letter before placing it back in the box. When he was done cleaning the rest of the room, he took the letter out of the box again and set it on his beside table. He'd have to make it right somehow. Just how, he wasn't sure.