Soda steps through the door as quietly as he can. Unwilling to wake the boy on the couch. Ponyboy was so exhausted that he couldn't even manage to make it upstairs so he'd simply dropped onto the couch, practically guaranteed to wake up tomorrow with a killer hangover. He twists over in sleep, groaning a little and revealing a silver chain that slips out of his shirt to pool on the cushion below him.

Soda's dog tags.

Bile comes up his throat and tickles his taste buds as he sways. He puts a hand on the wall to avoid falling.

He didn't take those tags off for nearly a year. He couldn't. If he was killed they would need those same dog tags to identify his body. Those tags would be the one to tell his brothers he was never coming home. Those same tags that watched him defile his parents' memory of the sweet little boy they had raised. Those same tags that hung around his neck as he did horrendous things, things that he would never ever breathe a word of to his brothers. Even if it killed him.

Those same tags that he had hurled at Ponyboy nearly five days ago out of anger and frustration. Why couldn't Ponyboy just leave him alone about this? Growing up, Soda always knew when to push Pony or when to back off, why couldn't Ponyboy just return the favor?

Both Darry and Ponyboy knew he had come back different. Darry had noticed but never said anything about it, but Ponyboy had taken a crack at it a couple days ago. Accusing him of using drugs to escape himself or some bullshit like that. It was those damn psychology courses he was taking at his fancy university.

Then Soda had just laughed at him. Trying to crack a joke and say he should become a psychologist instead of a writer. Ponyboy had only gotten more upset, the tips of his ears going red as he tried again to push the issue, all while Soda deflected. Instead jerking past him to grab the chocolate milk out of the fridge, taking a swig straight from the carton. He had just finished a shitty day of work, he didn't want to have a conversation about how shitty he was at being a brother too.

Obviously frustrated, Ponyboy trudged on, trying a different tactic than the blatant observation of how Soda was killing himself with drugs.

"You can talk to me, you know Soda? About anything, you've always been able to talk to me, even when we were kids You can still talk to me, now isn't any different." Soda wanted to rip out his hair and scream and then maybe beat someone half to death because it was different. Of course it was different.

Ponyboy was different from Soda. He was good. Despite everything that had happened in his life, Ponyboy still found time to look at the sunset and read books and even write poetry. Despite everything, Ponyboy was still the same smart, talented, sensitive kid he'd been all his life. Losing their parents hadn't changed that, losing their buddies hadn't changed that, and Soda was sure that even if Ponyboy had to complete a tour in Vietnam, he'd still come out the same poetry-writing, sunset-watching kid he'd always been. And he would continue to be like that, no matter what happened.

So no, it was different. It was completely different.

Soda was different. Anytime something terrible had happened in their lives, Soda had changed. A piece of him was chipped away and a mottled scar was left in its place. His parents death made him into the family bawl baby. His buddies' death had made him into a manipulating bastard with a colder outside shell. His tour in Vietnam had made him into a lot of things. It had made him into a broken shattered mess of himself, unable to find the pieces of his personality scattered on the ground. But the biggest and ugliest thing it had made him into was a killer.

So Soda had tried to become some semblance of the person he was before this ugly stain on his life. He tried to say it kindly, he really did.

"Yes it is Ponyboy." He started gently. "I thought you were smart with all those fancy college classes you're takin' but you can't seem to see that everything is different now." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I'm going to bed." He decided with finality, having no desire to finish this conversation. Ponyboy gave a loud choked noise.

"I don't need those college classes to tell me something is wrong with my brother!" Pony shot back. "Why can't you just tell us! Why didn't you talk to me! Why didn't you tell me you got shot!?" The last question comes out as a desperate hysterical scream. Pony is crying, but he's trying so hard not to. Soda turned sharply from his spot on the stairs.

"How'd you find that out?" He said quietly, almost dangerously.

"I know when something is wrong with my brother Soda." Ponyboy says simply before relenting the rest of the details. "I got your medical records pulled from the draft office. The officer there told me." Before Soda can register what he is doing he is down the stairs eye to eye with Pony in some sort of stand off.

"You had no right to do that you little son of a bitch!" Ponyboy doesn't rise to the bait, insteading squaring his shoulders like he was expecting this sort of reaction.

"Why didn't you tell us Soda? Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you. I still want to help you." Pony asks, grabbing weakly at Soda's wrist. Instead Soda jerks away, shoving his brother a little as he bites out a curse.

"You couldn't have done shit!" He snarls.

"Is this what the drugs are for?" Pony asks.

Soda doesn't answer, instead biting out another curse while Pony keeps trying. They yell back and forth at each other for a while before Pony brings up their parents. How they wouldn't have wanted their little war hero turning to pot and heroin and god knows what else. Soda blanches, his fists faltering a little bit. Bringing up their parents was a low blow. Finally Soda does the only thing he can think of. He rips off his dog tags that had been hanging around his neck.

"If you and mom and dad up there think I'm such a war hero then you can wear them!" He hurls the dog tags at Ponyboy and before he can see the aftermath, he's trudging outside to the car and storming off.

Now he's still standing at the door. His eyes on Ponyboy's ungreased hair, flopping a little over closed eyes. This fight was five days ago, they had since made up. Soda didn't know he was actually going to wear those dog tags.

The same ones he'd rubbed while shooting at kids younger than Ponyboy. The same ones he stared at during the long rainy nights, nothing in his stomach, thinking of his middle name. Patrick, like his grandfather. His grandfather was buried at home. The same home he longed to be.

Those dog tags had been with him through so much pain and misery. They had sat on his chest while he watched unspeakable horrors unfold, stories of destruction, blood, violence, and death. He hadn't realized what those dog tags meant to him until he watched them tangle around Ponyboy's neck.

Because he was glad.

He was glad Ponyboy would never have dog tags of his own. He was so thankful that Ponyboy would never have dog tags sit on his chest as he witnessed destruction and death. And though he knew it would never change the kid, he was glad it didn't have to happen nonetheless. He was glad Ponyboy could go on reading poetry and looking at sunsets and writing books instead of sitting in an early grave. Or worse, coming back like him.

Soda was so glad that the dog tags around Ponyboy's neck read Sodapop Patrick Curtis instead of Ponyboy Micheal Curtis.

xXx

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