You're not the friendliest person around. You have a temper, especially with people who annoy the fuck out of you. But not with Soda. It's funny; the two of you shouldn't get along. He's too good looking, too cheerful, too crazy; too, well, too Soda.

But that what makes you love him. He's Soda. He's one of a kind. He's not afraid to put you in your place when you get too cocky, the only guy who can do it without risking a punch in the face; but he's always the first to come to your defense.

The only time he's ever gotten mad at you, real mad, was when you called Darry 'all brawn and no brain.' Darry's punch didn't hurt as much as Soda's glare, or the knowledge that Soda's brothers are so damn important to him.

Maybe even more important than you are. Just figures Superman and the Kid have your buddy wrapped around their fingers.

You don't get it. Hell, if either Pony or Darry were your brothers you'd figure you'd go crazy having to listen to all that whining and bitchin' all the time.

And fuck it, you're not the jealous type; what are you, a chick? But knowing that deep down you're second to Soda's brothers, hurts you.

But when Soda gives you a grin and starts teasing you like he always does, you feel a sense of relief you've never felt before. You can't imagine your life without him.

Being second in Soda's life isn't that bad. He still gives you everything he's got; his time, his loyalty, his friendship; and hell, it's better than anything you've gotten from anyone else. It's still better than anything you've given him in return.

And then there was the day when he saved your life. And hell, when you look back at that day how can ever feel pissed that you're second in Soda' life. He will do anything for you.

You remember the time you were sixteen. Hank Smith, one of the River Kings goons, has got it in for you. You don't know why. You don't really care why; he's a piece of shit anyways.

Okay, you do know why. You stole his hubcap. But damn, it's a crime for such a sweet ass hubcap to belong to such a loser's car.

You're not a pussy, and you're not about to go mopin' around with your head down avoiding Hank Smith like the plague. You see Hank walking, alone, through your territory. Damn those River Kings were stupid shits.

You don't waste your time. You push Hank to the ground, "what the fuck is your problem, Smith?! You got it in for me, come on let's go, man to man."

You're sixteen but your build hasn't reached up to your height. But that's okay, with your attitude you could take on Darry.

Maybe. –Superman is pretty big.

Hank Smith may be a dumb little fuck, he is an R.K., after all, but he's no slouch when it comes to fighting. Before you know it, he's got you pinned under him, and he pulls out a blade.

It's a sweet thing. Dally Winston would roll a hundred drunks to get a blade like that.

Hell, you'd roll a hundred drunks to get a piece of sweet like that blade.

You laugh, it's a bitter laugh. A laugh filled with irony and resignation. Just your lousy luck to go out being killed by Hank fuckin' Smith. Talk about your indignities. You rather be taken out by your Pop, or a Soc, or Tim Shepard, or anyone but this shit for brains loser.

With all your strength you try to push Hank off of you. Sweat rolls down your neck, your heart beats fast, your legs shake.

Apparently having a temper and hard ass attitude isn't a match for muscles.

Hank is stronger than he looks, and oh yeah, he has a fucking knife.

You look around for a pop bottle, a rock, anything.

Just when Hank is about to send you to eternal darkness, someone pulls him off with a roar.

You're on the sidewalk, legs still up in the air, still a bit dazed.

And man, do you look like a pansy. You just hope no one you know is watching this shit show.

The blade falls to the ground, but before Hank can grab it the other guy puts his arms around Hank like a straitjacket, preventing Hank's arms and legs from going anywhere.

You don't have to look, you know who it is.

The tables have turned.

It's now two against one.

The two of you start taking Hank Smith to the woodshed. You work Hank's lower body, Soda his upper. You're a team. Brothers. Twins almost the way your fighting styles complement each other.

Soda is more wild, more rash, more emotional. He gets in Hank's face. You fight with more coldness and precision.

Hank literally doesn't know what's hitting him.

Suddenly it's Soda; goofy, wild, too-nice-for-his-own-good, Soda who locks eyes with Hank.

"Listen, shithead, you so much as look at my buddy the wrong way and I will fucking kill you."

The thing people don't get about Soda is that when he's mad, he's fucking scary. Worse than Darry even. Because Darry is cool and calm and cold; but Soda is all emotion.

His brown eyes turn dark and narrow. His face, usually a bit too pretty, turns both cold blooded and over-heated with emotion at the same time.

With a scream, Soda punches Hank to the ground. It's a hard punch. A full on knock 'em dead type of punch. For the briefest of seconds you cringe.

Hank is knocked temporarily out and for a second you worry that he's dead. Not that you'd care,you try to tell yourself; good riddance to bad rubbish and all that; but you know Soda wouldn't be able to live with himself if he killed someone, even as asshole like Hank Smith.

And you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you did that to your best friend.

Hank starts stirring. And it's fucked up, for a brief second you feel relieved that Hank Smith isn't dead or knocked out.

Then reality hits you.

"Come on Soda, get out of here," you hiss at your best friend.

The two of you run as fast as you can, heart racing, chest heaving. You're a better runner than Soda, but you slow down your pace and let him take the lead. If that shithead gets up, you want to at least give your buddy a head start.

You guys end up in the old lot where you used to throw rocks as kids.

Soda starts laughing, and then you start. You don't know what's so damn funny, but when Soda Curtis starts laughing, you can't help but join in.

Soda flashes you a goofy, Two-Bit style grin. He takes something out of his pocket.

"Here ya go, buddy," it's Hank's blade.

"Grabbed it while we were running," he explains, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Damn it's a beaut.

"Ol, Hank is really gonna go through the roof when he finds out his blade is gone," you can't help but laughing.

"Nah, that dumb fuck is dumber than I am, he's probably ain't gonna to even realize it's missing!" Even when Soda is putting himself down, even when he's cursing, he's still jovial and high-spirited.

The two of you laugh again at the thought of Hank Smith stumbling around, looking for his blade.

"Hey, Soda where'd ya learn to punch like that?" Soda isn't a slouch when it comes to fighting, but the fury and force of his punch takes you for surprise.

"My dad," Soda smiles at you, "he taught all of us how to fight."

You can't imagine funny, jovial Mr. Curtis being such a good fighter; but then again people probably say the same about his middle son.

The two of you walk home, your hands running over the handle of Hank's blade.

"Thanks, Soda."

He puts his arm around your shoulders. Normally that sort of touchy-feely crap would make you want to punch a guy's lights out. But not Soda, not after he saved your life.

"it was nothing, you would do the same for me."

And you would. In a heartbeat.

You would do the same for any of the gang, even the kid, hell for Soda's sake, especially the kid.

But with Soda you wouldn't even have to think about it. It would be automatic. If someone messed with Soda there would be no mercy or quarter given.

You have one more question for him, "hey, Soda how'd ya know I was in trouble?"

Soda shrugged and scratched the back of his head like he didn't have a care in the world, "I dunno. You're my buddy, I just knew."

Hank Smith never remembered who beat him up, but you can't stop thinking about it.

You don't know why, but something about the whole Hank Smith fiasco rubs you the wrong way. You're shorter than usual with everyone, even Soda.

You spend the night hanging out with Dallas Winston, getting drunk.

Dally's a good pal; and in those rare moments when even Soda drives you nuts, you turn to ol' Dal. He doesn't ask how you're doing like Soda does, doesn't make stupid jokes like Two-Bit, doesn't keep quiet all the time like Johnny, doesn't judge you like Darry, doesn't annoy you like Ponyboy.

You don't talk to Dal. Hell, no one really talks to Dal. But that's why you like him.

Because sometimes you don't want to talk or even to drag race or fix cars or flirt with girls, you want to get wasted.

"Jesus, Randle, you better not puke over my shoes," Dally gives you a disinterested smirk while you heave in the bushes.

Dally is looking at his cowboy boots-something he stole from a cowboy from Idaho who made the mistake of staying in the room next to Dally's at Buck's. "What can I say, guy annoyed the hell out of me, wouldn't stop playin' Ernie Ford." Dally explained to you. Dally had a good ear for music.

Now you're stoned and now it sounds like a thousand Ernie Fords and Hank Williams are singing in your ear.

Dally yawns like this is the most boring shit he'd ever seen in his life.

Dally can hold his liquor better than you, and he doesn't have any place to go home to. He heads to Buck's for another round; but you head home.

Your Pop is there to greet you. Say hi to the Welcome Wagon.

"Hiya Pop!" Your balance is back, but your speech is slurred. Your voice is strangely cheerful and for a split second you think Soda Curtis is talking through you.

Your father grips your arm and yanks you into the house, "worthless bum," his voice is angriest hiss you've ever heard.

He goes from 0 to 100 in a span of two seconds; he face is red with rage and he starts screaming at you: "You think I work my ass off for you to run around and get drunk?!"

Pop gives you two hard slaps across the face. You fall down. You hurt like hell.

Then comes the punch to the gut.

"You're your Mama's boy alright." His mouth works his way into a grin, but it's nothing like Soda's grin; it's a grin filled with contempt and anger.

It's your grin.

"Where is Mom?" you ask, still aching, still rubbing your cheek in your hands.

Pop makes a motion with his mouth as if he is about to spit on the floor.

"Where'd ya think, dummy? Her home away from home, surprised you didn't run into her while you were gettin' wasted."

He turns away from you and for a split second you think you see a glimmer of regret cross his face.

Your Pop doesn't say anything else but he hands you a wash cloth with some ice in it.

"Here, for your face." His voice is still harsh, but he offers you his hand and pulls you up.

You nod and put the ice on your cheek.

He's right. Your Pop is right.

You are worthless. Soda has been there for you ever since you were little kids, but when have you ever been there for him?

You rag on the kid for being so selfish and self-centered, but truth is, you're not much better.

The next time you run into Soda you hand him back the knife. Soda doesn't ask you why your cheek is red and swollen. He doesn't need to. He knows your Pop. He knows you. He knows that the two of you are like oil and water.

"Here ya go, it's yours, you earned it." You say it nonchalantly as if the blade doesn't mean anything to you, but your eyes remain fixated on the black and silver handle.

He stares at you blankly, "I don't want it Stevie, I want you to have it."

Damn, Soda Curtis was a stubborn sonfabitch when he wanted to be.

You decide to pour out your soul to your best pal. You're not good at talking your feelings to other people, even to Soda, but you try.

"I don't deserve it. I don't deserve anything you give me. I ain't ever gonna be able to repay you for what you did for me."

You don't expect what comes next.

Soda laughs. A big, wild, laugh. It's the same laugh Mr. Curtis's has, but it's more natural sounding. When Mr. Curtis laughs it sometimes reminds you of someone trying too hard to laugh.

You feel your face turn red and your veins bulge. Hey, what the hell?

Soda stares at you, "aw man, and people think I'm the dummy." He pulls down the blue baseball cap on his head, and though you can't see his eyes, you know they're laughing at you.

You are this close to punching Soda right in his cute little nose. If it was anyone else, even Dal, you'd flat line them without a moment' hesitation. But you can't hurt Soda, even though you feel hurt and angry at him right now.

First he laughs at you, now he's calling you a dummy?!

Soda must have realized that he's annoying the fuck out of you, because he takes the baseball cap off his head and looks at you and gets right into your space.

"Hey man, you turnin' fruity on me?" You smirk and give him a little push. You made your point.

He backs away but his facial expression doesn't change.

"Listen to me Steve Randle. You're the most loyal guy I know. Hell, I wouldn't have graduated Junior High without you!"

It was true, Soda only graduated because he cheated off you.

"And when my folks or my brothers hack me off, you're the one who I turn to. So, don't tell me that you ain't do nothin' for me."

You scoff, you don't remember the last time Soda has ever said anything bad about Superman or Saint Pony The Tag Along before. Hacked off at them, yeah, right.

"I still want you to have the blade, you'd look tuff with it, Soda."

Soda shakes his head sadly, "my mom would flip. Ever since she caught Darry with a bottle of liquor in his room she's been raidin' our rooms whenever she feels like it. Besides, if you really feel like you owe me something, you'd keep it at your house."

You grin; Soda can be pretty damn sneaky when he wanted to be.

"We'll share it, but keep it at your house," he continues.

And with that the two of you become joint owners of a one of a kind blade.

You still wish that you could be there for Soda the way he's always there for you. Then comes that one horrible day in 1965 when his world ends and so does yours. You stay with him through it all; your mom bakes them a bunch of casseroles and even your dad offers Darry some money. It's the first week since you were a little kid that you didn't have one argument with your parents. For the first time in your life you felt afraid that something would happen to your parents, because as much as your dad pissed you off, you couldn't imagine life without them.

You've never been more mad at Soda Curtis than when you found out he joined the Army. How could he do that, to his brothers? To you?

You seriously want to bash his head in. Stupid, fucker. Doesn't he know that if something happened to him you wouldn't be able to deal?

Fuck him.

Fuck Soda Curtis.

And then you breakdown, because if something happened to your best buddy you would lose part of yourself.

You're not good at goodbyes. Too sappy. You don't go to bus stop to see him off, but you visit his house the night before he's scheduled to leave. The two of you sit on his front porch, looking at the yard filled with auto parts.

Each of those car parts have their own story, the story of you and your buddy. But now you're still in Tulsa and he's being shipped off to Vietfuckin'nam.

"Maybe, you can have Pony help you over at the garage, I'd bet he'd like it." Soda's voice is soft and he's looking out an engine the two of you were working on. You guys were planning on fixing up Evie's car for her birthday.

You scoff. You're pretty sure that the kid would like anything but, but you're Soda's friend and you get what he's really asking you, "take care of the kid for me."

"If that little brat screws up, I'm gonna kill him."

And Soda, who knows you better than anyone, gets what you're really saying. Yeah, you're going to look after the kid. And Darry too, and Two-Bit and Evie and everyone. He didn't even need to ask you.

Normally he would chuckle or grin at your remark, but instead he turns to you, his bright face looks more serious than you'd ever see him before, "thanks, Steve."

You grunt that it's nothing.

You are not going to start crying. You are not a pussy.

The two of you stand up in unison.

"It ain't gonna be the same without you, Curtis." You don't look at him, but stare down at the ground. Soda's left foot is tapping away, hell, he's always dancing even when he's just standing on his porch.

"You know," he said, pointing back at his house, "this is your house too. I mean it man, you and Two-Bit, don't make yourselves strangers 'round here. 'Sides, someone besides Darry is gonna have to put up with Ponyboy's cooking." He rolls his eyes.

You raise an eyebrow; you've never heard Soda ever say anything bad about his youngest brother before.

"I love the kid to death Stevie, but Lord help me if I have to eat more of his cooking. I don't think I shitted more in my entire life. Nearly broke the damn toilet. If I didn't know him, I'd swear he's trying to give me food poisoning."

You smirk, "gee Curtis, you're really making this sound so inviting."

He laughs. God, you're gonna miss laugh.

You shake his hand. He has a strong grip.

He looks at you one more time before he walks you to your car, "Steve, you're gonna be fine." His voice is more serious, more sure, than you've ever heard him before.

You think of the blonde hair boy who wouldn't shut up, the kid who gave up everything for his family, your horse-crazy, and sometimes just crazy, best pal.

When the whole world looks down at you, when even your Pop doesn't have time for you, Soda gives you everything he has.

"How do ya know, Curtis?" Your voice is reduced to a husky whisper and you look down at his feet, this time they are firmly planted in the ground, not moving around at all.

He shrugs, "cause you're my buddy, I just know."

He gives you a bear hug and you hug him right back, squeezing the daylights out of him, not giving a shit what anyone else might say.

And maybe you got some tears in your eyes.

But you don't give a shit.

Because it's Soda and he's your best buddy and you love him to death.

You keep the blade in your desk. You don't carry it on you, you have another blade for that. You're not sentimental, but this blade is special, it's from Soda. You don't plan on touching the blade again until Soda is back home again, safe.

A/N: S.E. Hinton owns

Ernie Ford is a reference to country crooner Tennessee Ernie Ford