Back, yet again, after a break.

Enjoy!

of gunfire and bullet wounds

Soda's eyes freeze over the moment they find him.

He's standing at the door, the screen creating a barrier between the cold of outside and the warmth of our house. At the sight of Soda, he throws open the door and steps inside, rain dripping off of his clothes and onto the tile floor. I stand just beside him, ready to throw him out should Soda get angered, or step in front of Soda should he himself react poorly to a situation.

They're both like bombs; ticking, ticking, ticking, waiting to blow, the destruction greater than ever imagined.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Soda asks, and his voice is low, his eyes flickering with malice.

Steve smirks and scoffs under his breath. He holds up his hand; the truck keys dangle from between his thumb and pointer finger, and he lazily tosses them at Soda, who catches them without breaking their stare. "You left these at the DX."

"'Course I did. I remembered."

"You didn't seem too keen on coming back to get them." Steve grunts humorously, and Soda's jaw clenches in anger.

"I would've," he says, his voice hard and his eyes narrowing on his former best friend. "Just not when you were there."

Steve shrugs and turns his back. Soda's eyes flash with hurt as he says, "Guess I'm not needed here, then."

He's about to walk out the door, about to leave Soda behind, when I make a move. I step between Steve and door and, despite him putting up a fight, manage to not move from my place. I grab Steve by the shoulders and turn him to face my brother, whispering fiercely in his ear, "You're gonna sit here and talk it out. Everything goddamn thing, and if he still hates the living shit outta you––as he should––then I'm gonna have to send you on home." I shove him lightly in the direction of Soda, who moves to one side as Steve stumbles and stands upright before him.

The hatred that radiates off of Soda is enough to send me backward. It's in his eyes, smoldering and burning; it's in his body, rigid and tight; it's on his face, cold and dark. It's everywhere. Part of me hates Pony for wanting this; part of me hates myself for having this happen when I could very well send Steve on his way and forget about it all.

That wouldn't help Soda. It would only make him worse.

But this very well might make him just as bad.

Together, they move like nothing's wrong. Steve settles on the couch; Soda sits on the arm of the recliner. I lean against the door, rain soaking my back as I glare at each of them and order, "Well, get talking."

At first, nothing is said. They continue to stare at one another, each set of eyes scanning the other's face, trying to read the emotions that hide behind a layer of skin.

Then, as if the words were forced out of him, Soda's voice breaks the quiet. "This is bullshit."

"You're full of shit," Steve grunts. "You know this is what—"

"You remember the night we went to the bar and talked about war?"

Steve stops cold; his eyes flash. "What?"

Soda's voice is full of accusation. "Do you remember that night?"

"I ain't here to—"

"Do you remember?"

"Christ!" Steve shouts in annoyance. He covers his face with one hand. "Yes, I remember."

"You remember when you said you weren't gonna let me go?"

"Of course."

Soda's body slackens. "You let me go. Why?"

Steve suddenly rises to his feet and crosses the room, standing directly in front of Soda, looking as if he's about to start sobbing. Pain blurs out the rest of his hatred, forcing it to melt away as tears fall. "I know I did! I live every day of my goddamn life knowing I left you, left us, left everything! I know, Soda; it hasn't left my mind. Do you know how hard it was to leave you that night?"

"Didn't––"

"It was the hardest fucking thing I've ever done, Soda. I left you that night after we went out to the bar, drunk as a sailor, and I never looked back. God, Soda... It hurt, and you might not believe it, but I hated myself for not looking back. I cried when I got home that night––bawled like a baby, because I couldn't process the shit you told me. I didn't want to process it; I couldn't.

We enlisted at the same time, with the same hope: that neither of us would get picked, remember? And...and then you get a letter, and I didn't, and I'll be damned if I didn't go into that damn enlistment office and demand to replace you. I knew you had a family; brothers, even, to watch over, even though one of them can take care of himself. You have a family, Soda; I have no one. But they told me no regardless, and so I was forced out of there, screamin' and cryin', and sent home. I had to watch you grow up fast when your parents died; I had to watch you grow up even faster when you got that letter. You ain't got any idea how badly I wanted to beat the sense outta you when you started to accept the fact you might even die out there.

The news rolled the daily death count, and every morning"––he motioned to me with his head, and Soda glanced back at me––"I would come here and sit with Dar and Ponyboy, just hoping that you weren't gonna be named. Thank God you weren't. Thank God..." he trails off, staring at Soda hopelessly, his eyes pleading for my brother to understand.

And then Soda's spewing words and sentences out of his mouth not a moment later, and everything that comes out is brewing with memories. "Two-hundred and forty days I was in there, Steve. Two-hundred and forty days of watching people die, seeing light fade from their eyes––eyes once so beautiful with the pride of fighting for their country––and hearing their last words. Nothing is more painful to watch than someone dying, Steve; nothing is more gruesome. I had friends in there! I had friends who died in my arms! I can't ever get that out of my head. I prayed for death; I swear to God I did. I wished that I would die, or somehow get the courage to kill myself, so that I wouldn't have to wake up yet another day and wonder if I was gonna get shot or captured.

It was hell. I thought of home every day; I thought of you every day. I thought of how we always said we were gonna go home together, and God, Steve... was that ever the biggest letdown I've ever had in my entire life. You didn't go home with me that day! You left me and you didn't even turn around to see me before I left for war. You turned your back and left!

The end of the line, Steve! The end of the goddamn line, you promised me!"

"I know I did!" Steve cried, "How would I go on if I lost you, Soda? How the hell could I go on knowing my best friend died on a battlefield and I wasn't there to be with him? How could I go on knowing that I didn't go to the end with you?" His voice cracks, and as I look up, I see that they're both sobbing and screaming at one another. But it's not in anger; it's in pain.

He doesn't have any words left, and so he does the one thing they're both wanting, but neither will step up and do until now. Letting a saddened whimper fall from his lips, Soda pulls Steve to him and completely breaks down.

"I came home," Soda's voice is muffled by Steve's shoulder, and I watch as Steve blinks tears away from his eyes.

"I know," he says, and his eyes lock with mine. "Thank God you did."