*I don't own The Outsiders.

He's just a kid, he knew this stuff happened, but not to him.

Steve and Soda are twelve years old.

(Steve's POV)

I whimpered as I hit the wall. The protruding frame, of the doorway that led to the kitchen from the living room, dug into my back. I could feel blood trickle down the back of my neck, under the collar of my shirt, from where I hit my head on that frame.

Dad sneered, "Shut up you little shit," before he punched me again in my stomach. The air whooshed out of me. What a horrible feeling, to wait for air that doesn't seem to be coming. I no longer had any air to make a sound. Dad pulled back and hit my face again.

I gasped, finally drawing in the much needed air.

Tears were running down my face. Mom died a month ago and now Dad hates me? I didn't understand. Dad never laid a hand on either of us. A sob broke through me as I felt the sting of his rough hand across my cheek.

He let me drop to the ground, "Pathetic," he sighed. He was kneeling over me and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I almost gagged from the stench. I was shaking hard.

I couldn't help but be proud of myself, I didn't pee my pants.

He, surprisingly gentle, ran a finger down my bruising cheek. A scared sob broke through me. I'd gotten into fights and got my ass kicked before, but never in my life has my Father acted like this towards anyone. I thought he was better than this.

He didn't only hurt me physically and bruise my pride, but he killed my dream. I always wanted to be like him.

"You look like her," he growled, sounded almost detached.

"Huh?" I crocked, confused.

He glared at me, leaving me there. He grabbed his wallet and walked out of the front door, leaving me.

Once I got my breathing under control, I closed my eyes and worked up the courage to move. 1…2…3…, I groaned as I heaved myself up into a sitting position. I leaned against the wall. I whipped my mouth of blood with the back of my hand. I nearly threw up when I saw my hand completely slick with red.

I don't have a problem with other people's blood, just seeing that much of my own coming from one cut. Usually, if I got into a fight, Soda or Darry would patch me up. I reached to the back of my head and lightly probed it with my fingers; they came back red as well.

I'm so fucked right now.

I slid up the wall, then checked to make sure I didn't smear blood all over the white paint. I did. "Mother fucker," I chocked, not sounding like myself. I pushed back tears that wanted to come. I quickly straightened the overturned chair and took the dish cloth from the sink and cleaned the wall and the blood drips on the floor.

I walked out the front door and was assaulted by the cool air. It felt good against my flushed face. I couldn't stay here tonight…So where do I go? Only one place came to mind: Soda's, of course.

Dad's angry, hate filled face came to mind. What did I do? I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. He never touched me or Mom before.

"Mama," I whimpered, wishing to feel her finger trace my face, push my hair back, and to hear her tender voice telling me to calm down. I shouldn't think about her anymore, she isn't coming back. She's dead. A wave of dizziness came over me, all I want is sleep.

I stumbled onto the Curtis' lawn. I suddenly realized how late it really was. Well, I couldn't just knock on the front door, Mrs. Curtis would freak out. I know her and Mr. Curtis wouldn't mind me staying at their house, or showing up this late, but they'd want an explanation. Shame washed over me, how could I tell them my Dad did this to me?

It was only a onetime thing. He won't do it again. He never did it before; I shouldn't judge him on it.

Right?

I walked past Mr. and Mrs. Curtis' bedroom window. The second window in the backside of the house was Soda's, I knocked on it softly. When there was no answer, I scowled. Soda could sleep through anything, but no way in hell was he tonight. I knocked louder.

There still wasn't an answer so I took the screen off the window as quietly as I could, I didn't want anyone to wake up and try to shoot me. Praying that Soda's window was unlocked, I pushed on it. I was greeted with a squeak as it moved upward.

"Soda, buddy?" I whispered, sounding pathetic even to myself. "Soda," I whined a little, feeling like crying again. God I'm such a baby, I'm worst than Ponyboy.

I had to stand on my tiptoes to see into the dark room. No way could I get in here without his help. Even on my best day, I may need someone to give me a hand.

"Steve?" Soda whispered, sounding sleepy and confused.

"Help me in," I said a little too loudly. Soda came to the window. He gasped as he took in my current state. I knew I looked pretty bad.

He helped me in without saying anything, "Dear God, Stevie. What happened to you?" Soda hissed, concerned. I sat on his bed, not saying anything because of the lump in my throat. Soda didn't push me into answering; he left and came back with the first aid kit from the bathroom.

He turned the light on, his eyes widened. I guess I look worse than he expected. He didn't say anything, but he looked at me with a sad expression. I wasn't used to seeing Soda sad and I felt a little bad that it was my fault that he wasn't happy.

He started by looking at the cut on my head. "I think my parents should look at this, Steve. It looks pretty bad; you got blood going down your back from it."

I shook my head, making myself woozy. "No parents," I begged, upset.

"Darry?" Soda said, worried.

I sighed, giving in, "As long as he won't narc to your parents."

Soda left and quickly came in with an irritated Darry. "What's the matter-," he broke off when he saw me on the bed. "Jesus Christ, what happened to you? You should've been in bed at this time." I didn't say anything.

I was in bed.

"The back of his head is banged up, Dar," Soda whispered.

Darry poked at the cut and I winced. Soda patted my hand. "It needs to be sewed," Darry sighed.

"Can you do it? I ain't good at it," Soda murmured. Darry nodded, going through the first aid kit for the supplies he needed. He made me lay so he could get to the cut easier. He washed his hands and cleaned the cut. I cussed, it stung like a bitch.

After that was done, Soda took care of the rest of my scrapes. Despite how much my mouth had been bleeding, Soda said all my teeth looked fine. Thank God, I don't think we could afford to take me to the dentist if I had to go.

He got me clean clothes and I changed into them. Soda threw mine out; there was no way to savage those.

I got on the right side of Soda's full size bed and he got on the left.

"It was my Dad, Soda," I whimpered. I hated sounded so freaking vulnerable, but this was Soda. I could tell him anything and he'd understand.

He threw his arm across my chest, "I'm sorry, Stevie. Tell me everything."

I told him about the whole thing, even how ashamed and hurt I felt about my Dad acting like a lowlife when he isn't one. "I always looked up to him and then he beat me. He never did anything like this before, why'd he do it, Soda?" I cried, burying my head in his shoulder like I would've if my Mom was here. "I just lost my Mom; I don't need this shit too."

"Shh, I think you just answered your question. I think your Dad was drinking 'cause your Ma died and he just lost it. What did you say he said? 'You look like her,' or something like that. He probably meant that you look like your Mom, 'cause you do. Both of you have curly blonde hair and I don't know you just look like her. He probably was sad and did this," Soda murmured in my ear.

"I lost her too," I mumbled, pitifully. I was almost asleep now. It was early morning and the night's events were really wearing me down.

"Don't worry, Stevie, I'm here for ya," was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep.

I couldn't ask for a better buddy.

Hope you enjoyed that. A little peak at Soda and Steve's relationship.

Excuse typos, it was written on a whim.

Reviews please, they're always appreciated.