Soda doesn't know anything is wrong, at first. It takes three months for it to become clear that something was wrong.
In the beginning, though, it was just the result of a rainy day — the sky opening up, Steve's car breaking down for the last time, and a rush to get somewhere, anywhere at all to find shelter. The shed at the side of the road was the closest thing they could duck into, Soda flicking on a lighter when the lights wouldn't turn on, the rain above hitting the rooftops in a hard spatter.
All he thought they'd do was wait out the storm together, in this garage with the rain coming down. Steve was right there with him, aggravated everything when the light had fallen on what was clearly a tarp covered car.
"Jeeze," Soda speaks first, bringing the lighter closer to the tarp, soaked to the bone, "Would you look at this? Who keeps a car in this good condition in a garage?"
Steve doesn't answer him immediately. He hadn't expected him to; Steve in a bad mood was a Steve who was either gonna say something or who was gonna keep stewing until it was over. He reaches over, tugging at the tarp without a word. Soda uses his free hand to help him, pulling it up until the entire car was revealed: a 1958, fire engine red, Plymouth Fury. A low whistle leaves Soda at the sight, eyes flicking up to meet Steve's own.
"This car's barely ten years old," Steve doesn't seem bothered about his hair being messed up, reaching a hand out to touch the side. He looks at the inside, eyebrows raised. "Inside could use a clean. And some detail."
Soda glances downward, moving the lighter as he goes. He can hear Steve flick open his own lighter as he looks at the rims. One rim is broken, and all the tires are in various states, none of them fully inflated. It gives the car a crooked slant to it, one that was easily fixable as Soda runs his hand on the tires, nodding. "Some tires too, just a little maintenance."
Thunder booms overhead. Steve opens the door on the driver's side and Soda follows on the passengers side. Even in the half dark, he can tell that the inside of the car was still in good condition too, with the mirrors needing a clean.
He reaches up to grasp at the mirror, adjusting it as Steve searches for keys in the overhead. He twists it and for a moment, Sodapop Curtis isn't in the car with his best friend in 1968, almost three days to the year that Dallas Winston and Johnny Cade died.
Instead, he's suddenly looking at a little girl in the backseat with blonde hair. She can't be more than five years old, her dress stained with ketchup and mustard, a burger in its plastic wrap with a bite taken out in her lap. Her eyes are bulging, her fingers clawing at her throat as she chokes. A song is playing on the radio, and the girl's eyes water, her mouth opens and nothing comes out.
I'm sorry, is what he says to the girl, and the words aren't his. The face in the mirror isn't his either: it's ten, twenty years older with a beard and double chin with straw thin hair on his head. His eyes are pleading with the little girl in the back. I have to keep her.
The girl gags again and Soda jerks his hand away from the mirror, fingers burning, the vision dissipating.
A wave of dread, sick washes over him, crying out, "What the fuck!"
The lighter falls out of his hand, onto the car seat. The horn gives an old, faded honk and Steve snaps out, "What the hell, Soda! You're gonna light us up!"
Panic makes it's way through Soda, his hand shaking, whipping around in the car to look behind him. There's no one there, except for a pile of dust that's half an inch thick. "I saw – there was a girl here, Steve!"
"The only girl in here is the car," Steve rolls his eyes, showing him the keys. "C'mon, Soda. Why would anyone else be here but us?"
"Steve, I swear I saw someone," Soda twists in the car again, but there's nothing, no one except them. He turns back around, narrowing his eyes. "What d'you even mean girl? Steve, this car ain't ours."
"It ain't yours. It's gonna be mine," patting his hand on the dash, Steve gives Soda a grin. "There's no way I'm walking out of here without this car. She's in damn near mint condition, and if the guy who owns her don't want her, I'll buy it."
An incredulous, confused laugh leaves Soda. "This car? With what money?"
"I got money for it," there's a stubborn determination in Steve's voice at that, one that Soda doesn't understand as he glances at the mirror again and back at the car. Something about the car that had been appealing at first is no longer there.
Every time he glances at the mirror, he thinks of the little girl and it makes his skin crawl.
No, Soda didn't get it, and he didn't like this car.
When Steve puts the key in, to test it, the car whines, but the radio comes on: Just promise me darling / Your love in return / May this fire in my soul dear / Forever burn.
The smile Steve gives is one that Sodapop hasn't seen often in the past three years. The bitterness on his face had seemed to settle there almost permanently after they buried Johnny and in this moment, Soda decides to keep his mouth shut at Steve's enthusiasm.
He was his best friend. He could let him have this.
"Did he actually buy the car?" Sandy's voice is warm over the phone. Sodapop misses her like a limb in that moment, in those pretty tones. "You've gotta be kidding me."
"Yeah, he's supposed to be bringing it around today. Business is a little low, so we've got room to keep it at the garage," Soda cradles the phone, looking at some of the hippies up front. They all reek of weed, and Soda wishes any of it appealed. It would make his jittery feeling about that car being here go away. "The owner was this old crank; sold it to Steve on the condition he'd come and do some work on his other cars, free of charge, for a year if he asked."
"Wow," a whistle leaves Sandy's mouth and Soda can hear her cradle the phone better. "Well, he needs something to focus on, I guess. Are he and Evie still together?"
"Off mostly, right now," there's an upkick of dust coming from the road. Soda cranes his neck up from the desk to see Steve and that Plymouth coming through the gas station, pulling up to the actual garage space. "I'll talk to you later, Sandy. He's here, and we need to start on some other stuff."
"Is it okay if Kelly calls back later? She misses talking to her uncle," her voice is soft, always apologetic whenever it came to Kelly, the baby girl who wasn't Soda's but still felt like it even with thousands of miles between them.
Soda smiles into the receiver, hearing the door swing open. One of the other employees goes to greet the guy and he wishes not for the last time, that Sandy were back here. That they could be in Tulsa together with her little girl, that they could be something more than maybe friends, maybe more over landlines.
There wasn't anyone he missed more than her at times, from her sunny smile to her pretty blonde hair in the sunlight.
Everyone said he should've moved on. Instead, he replies with, "Sure. I'll call from the house instead. Same time?"
"Same time. Talk to you later, Soda," for a second, he thinks she's going to say I love you the way they'd done three, four years before. Instead, she hangs up first. He grips the phone, sighs, and hangs it up. "I'm going to check up on Steve, Joey!"
"Alright!" Joey says, Soda moving to the door outback. The front of the DX is neat, orderly while the back is where most of the literal dirty work was done: the garage, the junkyard of cars too old to work on their own but good enough to strip for work, and some other space that was slowly being overtaken were there.
Steve's parked that old Plymouth in the most spacious deck, already getting it ready to be worked on extensively. Now that the tarp is off of it there are more visible dents on it, more little things that needed to be worked on. What was beneath the hood to be worked on, who knew at the moment.
As he gets closer, that flash of memory of the little girl comes back. It had been days, and every time he thought he forgot, it comes back to him. Soda finds himself walking a little more cautiously over as Steve gets his toolbox out, an excitement and determination to him that Soda hasn't seen in a long, long time.
None of them have stayed the same since 1965, and Steve has always been good at pretending for everyone else that he's been able to get through it all. Moments like this, though, remind Soda that he wasn't — that something went out of him a little bit after the funerals.
Stopping right at the entrance, Soda shoves his hand in his pockets. "You're gonna do all of that by yourself? That's a lot of work, 'specially with those rims."
"I got it, Soda, don't you worry about it," the confidence in Steve's voice makes Soda feel more at ease, seeing the friend he had before everything. Their closeness had shifted; there had been more care around each other, more of a distance.
Now that Ponyboy was gone, now that Darry was doing college during nights, now that Two-Bit had run off with Steve's cousin Molly, it felt like they were the only two of the gang still left that were close.
Soda glances at the car, and back at Steve as he pulls out a wrench. He catches Soda's eye, his determined expression still lit up with excitement. Soda thinks about how they'd been as kids, how they'd both learned how to make things run together. How he and Steve seemed to think together all the time, even if they never exactly came to the same conclusion the same way.
There's an ache in his chest for that, for that simpler time. For when they both knew each other, understood each other.
As if sensing it, Steve waves him over, expression softening just enough. "Quit giving me those eyes. Get over here, I'm gonna need you on the engine.
That, in Soda's estimation, is when the trouble really began.
Fixing up that Plymouth was trouble from the start. It was as if Soda could never do anything right, and everything that Steve did was.
That didn't add up. As they plugged along with the car, as they switched out parts, as they worked as hard as they could it felt as if Soda was slipping. Everything he replaced didn't work until Steve had a second eye over it; everything he suggested didn't seem to work unless Steve did it; every time the engine had trouble, Steve suddenly went from someone who never had all that much patience to an Einstein.
Over time, Soda felt that his feelings for that car kept getting sour. The radio seemed to always only find static with him, while Steve always seemed to find the best station he could. Whenever he ate near the car, he'd feel a flash of something turning in his stomach that didn't feel right, making him sit in the sun or somewhere else.
Every day that Soda felt unease, the more that car looked better. The paint was fresh, the tires were replaced, the inside detail good.
It's when they're on one of their last tests to be road ready that Soda begins to think that the car does have it out for him. You never pulled the radiator cap off without being totally sure the water was fine. That was one of the first things you understood.
The car had been off for over an hour, and he and Steve were sitting together, taking a break. Steve was rubbing at his cheek, exhausted, voice brittle, "You see what I saw today? Cades really are moving right on out."
"Yeah," Soda picks at his sandwich, his appetite not there. "I heard they're moving out north, New York or something."
"You'd think they'd have left right after Johnny died," Steve takes a swig of his beer, his eyebrows furrowed, his anger coming off of him in waves. "Now they're leaving cause all that pity money dried up. And still won't even —" he kicks out at the can in front of him. "You know neither of them ever visited his grave?"
"I know," Soda sighs, leaning against the car. "I..." he trails off, unsure of what to say. Thinking about Johnny's body in that casket, about how small he looked, the burns beneath the suit always upset him. "I don't know. I thought maybe they'd care after all of that and they just never did."
The subject is still sore, and the anger in Steve's face feels like a dagger in Soda's own chest. There were lots of things he didn't like to think about, just to get him through. The way Steve looks now, the things they haven't talked about for years eats at Soda in that moment. The things that keep him up at night, that skirt the edge of his nightmares after all this time...
"You think things could've been different, if we'd just gotten there earlier?"
As always, Steve says, "Course I do."
And as always, they fall into silence. A silence that Soda wishes weren't so suffocating, that he wishes they wouldn't always end up in, remembering that night. He hates thinking about it, about how awful it had been.
And there are other things about that night: how he and Steve had found each other while Ponyboy was admitted back to the hospital. How Steve had felt when Soda had broken down in his arms, sobbing on the pavement. How his arms had wrapped around Steve, spilling out everything he couldn't for everyone else. How sometimes, Soda wanted to go back to that, to a Steve who would hold him for just a few minutes, who set the world right.
Only, he knows he can't. He knows that Steve would never let himself be that vulnerable again even though their eyes meet and he can tell, the way he can tell when Steve will throw a right hook or say something Soda might not let anyone else get away with, that Steve thinks about that moment too. He can tell that Steve thinks of it maybe more than Soda does.
"I'm gonna check the radiator," Soda stands up, trying to avoid Steve's eyes, avoid those memories.
His hand doesn't even twist the cap; it seems to explode from near touch and Soda yells when the water hits his cheek. It's a shock both in how hard it is and how hot it is — instantly, Soda can tell that he's burned, twisting his body away, clutching at his face.
Steve is on him in a second, trying to drag his hand away, and Soda knows that's about when he passed out from the pain.
It's a second degree burn. Steve can't look him in the eye when he comes to the hospital bed, his finger clenching the end, the look of guilt on his face at clear odds with the rest of him. Those complicated swirls that he had abandoned from weeks are back in; the leather jacket he wears is one of his best, and Soda can smell the cologne he always wore before a date.
"I'm real sorry, Sodapop," Steve is apologetic, at least. "I thought that engine was off for long enough."
"It was," Rubbing at his eyes, Soda can tell the morphine they have him on is making everything move too slowly. His mouth tastes awful, and the patch on his cheek is uncomfortable. "I'm thinking that car of yours doesn't much like me."
"Aw, Christine's fine," the name just slips out of his mouth easily, as if she's his girlfriend, and Soda's stomach turns. "Just – was a slip or something. I'll make it up for you, Soda. I promise."
Soda locks eyes with him. He can tell that Steve's excited about something else, that he's here because he is apologetic...
But something in his eyes is different. Something in his posture makes Soda's hair stand up on end. He hates lying, and does it anyway, "It's okay Steve. I believe you."
Steve smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, though. Not really.
"Is that your friend?" The nurse checking Soda out is hardly holding in a giggle as she offers him the paperwork. "He looks kinda... outdated, doesn't he?"
"Outdated?" Soda turns his head and instantly sees what she means. Steve is standing against his car — Christine — with a leather jacket, his old swirls in his hair dressed up like he was still a greaser. A greaser from years ago, who looked odd with the current crowd here. He looked more like a greaser now than he ever had when they were kids.
It makes Soda all the more uncomfortable as he signs himself out. He walks out, boots clicking, able to fully take in the way Steve looks with Christine. The car is immaculate; she was good looking back when Steve had found her, but now every single detail makes her look factory new. Every detail is pristine, stop of the line and he guesses that if he sat inside, the car would smell new.
Which is all the more reason he hesitates to step inside despite Steve wrapping an arm around him in pride. "See, what I tell you? She's perfect now. Purred like a kitten getting out here."
"Steve..." Soda trails off, not trusting it. Seeing Christine — Christ, he was using her name now — was unsettling to him. The way the car was so gleaming, so new looking almost felt smug.
Which was stupid. It was a car, not a she, not a Christine.
The feeling doesn't get better as Steve pushes him to the passenger side. He slides into the driver's side, popping his collar while Soda reluctantly gets in. Immediately, he wants to get out once the door shuts with a snap. The seat feels uncomfortable, and when he puts on the seatbelt, Soda thinks it's tighter than it should be.
"Just take me straight home," he finds himself saying, voice shaky. "I don't feel too good for anything else."
"What?" Steve whips around, the car purring as he puts it in drive. "C'mon, Soda. I did all this work to get it looking good and you don't wanna go for a spin? It's just a burn."
"It isn't just a burn," his tone turns hurtful as Steve pulls out. The car drives smoothly, keeping up an even pace as Steve drives through the parking lot. "You know how much it's gonna cost, Steve? The bills, the burn cream! And that's with a scar."
"It isn't like you have an issue picking up girls," clenching the wheel, Steve continues on dismissively. "The only reason you don't have them crawling all over you is 'cause you're still hooked on Sandy —"
Soda shoves Steve for that, rough and angry. The radio turns to static as he snaps out, "I ain't hung up on her. We're friends now —"
"You ain't friends," Steve shoves him back, eyes flashing. "You're just some little dog begging for more attention from her and for what? She's in Florida with some snot nosed kid that ain't yours, spreading her legs like the two timing broad —"
Soda isn't thinking. He just punches Steve's shoulder, as hard as he can.
The car screeches to a halt. The door flies open and all of a sudden, Soda is on the pavement.
He spits at Steve rather than step back in the car, and he runs off before Steve can catch up.
It's easy to ignore Steve for a week when he doesn't come to work the entire time. Even easier when Steve up and quits on his own for getting into a fight with some hippie who dared scuff his precious Christine.
Soda ignores the ache in his chest over his best friend.
What best friend did he have anyway?
(Even if it felt just as bad as mourning over Sandy leaving.)
"I'll talk to him for you," Evie offers, leaning across the DX counter. Her hair is pulled into a half ponytail, her big eyes sympathetic. "He actually came by the other day; wanted to see if we'd give it a go again now that my Dad's gone."
Soda sighs, running his hand through his hair. He's been wearing it so it covers the top of his burned, still reddened cheek. Even though no one had actually commented much one way or another besides sympathy, it still eats at him. "I don't know, you don't have to do that Evie. He's all wrapped up in Christine."
She snorts. "You hated that stupid name too? He must really have been awful." She wrinkles her nose. "I'll talk to him. Don't worry about it."
Soda taps his hand on the counter. "Alright, Evie."
He expects not much from that. It's been depressing to think about, that his best friend wasn't his best friend anymore, that they'd finally been the last two to drift apart. That he couldn't turn his head and Steve would be there.
Soda goes home that night, waiting for Ponyboy's call from college. At least Ponyboy always had something nice to say from his time out in Oklahoma City. And he'd be home soon for Christmas.
When the phone rings, he picks it up, fully expecting to hear Ponyboy's voice. Instead, he hears a terrified sob on the other line and Evie's voice saying, "That fucking car tried to kill me, Sodapop!"
His heart plummets.