always thankful for you, Happier. :)

of gunfire and bullet wounds

He arrives home at half past eleven, completely drunk off his ass.

I've only seen Soda drunk a handful of times, and all of those were unintentional. There was a time where he, Steve, and Two-Bit went out in the middle of the night––without my knowledge––and managed to get so tipsy that Dally showed up at our front door with all three of them in tow. There was a time where Soda snuck out to go visit some broad he was seeing and ended up stumbling into the house at the crack of dawn.

But this one was intentional. I know that from the moment the wave of alcohol mixed with smoke barges into the front door. I know that the moment I look up from dozing off to find him slumped against the closet in the hallway just adjacent to the door, completely on edge.

I know that the moment his eyes meet mine, and his face crumbles into such sadness, such agony, that all I can do is watch.

"Soda," I speak his name gently, but he doesn't look up. "Soda, kid... What––"

"I went and saw him," is all I manage to get out of the drunken slur of words leaving his mouth.

"You went and saw who?"

He scoffs and curses at me. "Who else?"

The image seems to click on his words, and I feel my heart skip a beat. "Oh, Soda..."

"He didn't see me," his small murmurs suddenly rise to a shout, and I cast a glance over my shoulder to see if Pony's standing there. He's not, but it's only a matter of time, so I have to act quickly. "He didn't wanna––"

"It's okay," I coax, trying to get him to quiet down. "Soda, it's okay. I'm sure he was just––"

"You shut up!"

"Soda, it's––"

"It ain't fine!" he screams, and that's when Pony appears at the corner of my vision, staring at the two of us. Staring at me in fear, and also staring at Soda, who cowers like a caged animal.

"Pony," I say harshly, keeping my eye on Soda with my arm outstretched to warn Pony to stay back, "Go back to your room."

"What's wrong with him?" he wonders aloud, and my blood boils beneath my skin.

"Go back to your room."

He steps forward, to which Soda lets out a snarl and I move with him. "Ponyboy Michael," I order, and from what his body language tells me, he knows this could get bad. "Go back to your room––now."

He flees; whether out of fear or exhaustion, I'll never know.

I turn my attention back to Soda. "Hey, hey," I murmur, noticing how he's about to start bawling, "It's okay, Soda... It's okay."

"He didn't wanna see me."

"I know," I'm moving closer as I speak, and I'm suddenly in front of him, taking him in. Taking in the reek of whiskey, the tinge of nicotine, the sharp and bitter look in his eyes as our gazes lock again. "I know."

"Why didn't he wanna?" Soda's voice cracks; the tears start clouding his eyes and then fall onto his jeans as he bows his head. "He was so cold to me, Darry!"

My heart shatters into a thousand little pieces, but even so, I take my hand and wipe a tear from his chin, forcing him to look at me. "I don't know, honey, but I'll figure it out."

"Promise?"

I smile at him, but it's out of sadness. I'm not entirely good at keeping promises.

That's why it surprises me when I say, "I promise."

But for him, for my Soda, I'd do anything.