SUPER SORRY FOR THIS BEING SUPER LATE.

With it being the end of my junior year in about two weeks, I have had a project to do for my AP World History class. I've been busy with that along with prepping for finals which are also in two weeks.

Again, so very sorry for the delay, but here we go.

of gunfire and bullet wounds

I hate lying to him.

Everyone lies every now and then, including me. There was a time where I watched Darry take the blame for Soda when he'd accidentally played too rough with him, and Darry ended up getting some nasty bruises and bumps. He told Mom and Dad he'd fallen when we were running back to the house. There was a time where Soda took the blame for Two-Bit when he came into our house completely drunk, telling Mom and Dad that Two-Bit was a good friend of his rather than an acquaintance, and Mom and Dad had been completely off their rockers. They didn't know him quite yet––not like they came to.

This, however, turned out to be the first and only time I'd ever lied.

"Where's the truck?"

I don't even bother looking up from my homework as I respond to his question. "Dunno. You had it last."

"I did––" he begins to defend himself, but silence falls on the end of his words; I take that as the realization dawning on him and shake my head.

"What's that for?"

I smirk, brushing off his question with a scoff. "Someone clearly isn't thinking with their good side."

"Jesus, Pone," Soda's T-shirt is suddenly at my feet, and his weight shifts the bed as he falls heavily onto his back next to me. "You sound like Dar." He reaches forward, the feel of his palm gruff as it's rubbing into my hair affectionately like Darry used to do to him. "Let's be honest: have I ever had a good side?"

Always. You always have. It's been there your whole life until this damn war.

Except something else comes out of my mouth: "Ninety-nine percent of the time."

"What happened to the one percent?"

"Doesn't exist," I murmur, seeing as he's trying to distract me. "Kinda like your sense of humor."

He snorts and shoves me roughly, almost making me fall off the bed. "Shaddup, you little––"

"Soda," Darry's voice calls from the living room. It sounds louder than usual; rougher than usual, like something's made him tense. "Come here."

I watch his head perk up and tilt to the side like a dog. I playfully slap him on the hand and tell him to go, to which he starts to mess with me, trying to get my hands away from his face.

"Soda!" Darry's booming voice makes us stop. "Get your ass in here."

Soda holds his hands up in a temporary surrender, rises from the bed and exits the room, his T-shirt hooked lazily over his shoulder. He doesn't bother to pick it up as it falls to the ground just before he shuts the door, causing a barrier. I dash forward and grab it before he can notice the door, and lightly push it close as his hand leaves the handle.

The only time I'd ever lied to my brother, and God, if only it had had a better outcome.