Chapter 18.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders.

This chapter is pretty short, but very important, and I felt I ended it at the appropriate place. Most likely, I'll update soon, with a longer chapter.

Please review(:

The following evening, Steve called up Soda and invited him over. Since Steve had been fired about two weeks ago, him and Soda hadn't spoken much. Steve partially blamed Soda for him being fired, although he knew it technically wasn't his fault at all. Soda realized this, and though it was unjust, he gave his best friend the space he needed. So, when Steve was the one to suggest they hang out again, Soda was deeply relieved.

Soda went straight to Steve's house after being invited, knocked on the door - which was awkward, since he usually just barged in - and smiled when Steve answered. "Nice to see ya, stranger," he commented.

Steve snorted at first, but then grinned. "Don't go in. My old man's throwin' a fit. Let's go to the Dingo," he suggested.

"All right," said Soda, and they walked along the sidewalk in silence until they reached the infamous restaurant. Soda, over the two weeks him and Steve hadn't spoken, had done a great deal of thinking. Steve, some weeks ago, had offered to accompany him to Vietnam. Although it wasn't assured they would be together much, just Steve's partial presence would comfort Soda enormously.

Though Soda had refused the offer at the time, now… now he was considering even explicitly asking Steve to go with him. Soda wasn't a big reader - hell, he hardly ever cracked a book. But lately, he'd done a large amount of reading on post-war veterans, and their stories had worried him deeply. Some had had limbs blown off, suffered brain damage, been accidentally shot by their own side. But what was even scarier was the emotional trauma. Soda had read a story specifically about one man, who suffered from insomnia and had intense nightmares for years following his return from war. Also, he'd eventually turned to drugs. Soda didn't do drugs… nothing more than cigs, anyway. But - but what if… he was pushed so far as to become like that man? Soda didn't know if he could handle that. He hadn't had a particularly easy life, what with the death of his parents and dropping out of school. But Soda didn't know if he could deal with another event that was so traumatic. Didn't want to know, frankly.

Once at the Dingo, Soda and Steve sat down across each other in a booth near the door. A brunette with her hair pushed back behind her ears went over to them and took their orders. Soda was moneyless, but Steve happened to have some spare cash in his back pocket. He ordered them each a chocolate shake.

"So…" said Steve, eliminating the barrier of silence. Soda smiled one of his usual Soda grins, though it faltered quickly. Steve noticed this and added, "What's goin' on?"

"You mad at me, Steve?" Soda blurted out, a bit more bluntly than he'd meant to.

Steve thought about it. "Naw… guess not. I was pissed, I guess. But… I just needed someone to blame for me bein' fired and all." He sighed stiffly. "I know it wasn't your fault, buddy."

Soda shrugged, wanting badly to speak what was currently on his mind. After about a minute of awkward silence, he scrounged up enough courage to do so. "So, ya know I'm goin' off to war in about a month and a half?"

Steve winced, then nodded. "I know," he said softly.

"I, uh, I was gonna ask you something about that. But it's… it's kinda big."

Steve leaned forward slightly, suddenly very interested. "Shoot," he offered.

Soda took a deep breath, then, without stuttering or pausing, said bluntly, "I want you to go with me, Steve. I know I said I didn't want ya to a couple weeks ago, but things changed. I don't…" He swallowed painfully, finally pausing. "I dunno if I can do it on my own," he admitted.

Once Steve had fully digested Soda's words, an ache appeared in his chest and abdomen. Why did Soda suddenly want him to go? And why did it have to be… now? A jumbled mass of questions concerned with his and Soda's relationship hurried through his brain, but the most important was unrelated to that:

What about Friday?

"Soda…" said Steve slowly. "Buddy… I dunno," he muttered.

Soda's heart dropped to his feet. He had expected Steve to agree to his proposal instantly, but… I dunno. Was the possibility that Soda would have to go to war on his own actually… real?

"What?" said Soda hoarsely.

Steve shrugged. "Things changed since I last offered to go, buddy." He sighed, clarifying. "Friday… She's real important to me." Steve looked at Soda, and what his expression was saying was clear: And I'm not important to you? Realizing he'd worded his explanation wrong, Steve added, "Not that you ain't, Soda. But I just… I dunno anymore."

Soda chewed on his fingernails, stricken. Slowly, he considered what he was going to say next. But his choice of words still ended up being very… for Steve, heartbreaking. "You're choosing Friday over me," said Soda. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"I… no. Soda, no. No." No matter how many times Steve spoke the word no, it was still obvious to him that what Soda had stated was true. And for that, he hated himself.

But what caused him to hate himself even more, was that he felt that picking Friday over Soda was perfectly okay.

"Well…" Steve continued, when Soda said nothing. "I dunno."

Soda stood up from the booth. "It's okay, Steve," he said shakily. "It's okay…" he repeated. "I gotta go. Work tomorrow. Darry's gonna wonder where I went…" With that, he hurried to the exit, but not before he called over his shoulder, "It's okay, Steve. Really!"

But clearly, it wasn't.