This just came into my head. I'm not sure if it's a one-shot or not. Hope you like it. I don't own the Outsiders, I'm doing this for fun, not profit.

Only two

I paused at the corner of the street to light a cancer stick. Still can't quit, though I'm down to two a day, one in the morning to wake me up and one after practice. I waited as long as I could for that second butt of the day.

I leaned back against the street light to exhale a long plume of smoke. I could just see our house. Darry's truck was there already; the weather had been cloudy and rainy most of the day, so he must have gotten off work early. He thought I'd quit completely, so I waited to finish my smoke before heading the rest of the way home. I wondered idly what he was making for dinner and if I could finish my homework before "Get Smart" came on.

A car drove slowly past me, as if the driver was either lost or looking for someone. It was long and dark and looked expensive, far too expensive to be anyone who lived in this neighborhood. Socs, I thought automatically, crushing my cigarette under my shoe. There hadn't been much trouble, not for months now, but I wasn't taking any chances. I let out a long, low whistle to warn anyone who might be around and started for the house. Darry opened our door just as the car pulled up in front and the engine stopped. Two men got out, one a uniformed Army officer and the other the minister from Mom and Dad's old church.

For a moment, the world swam before my eyes and I had to grab the neighbor's fence to keep from falling over. "Darry?" I called, and then, realizing he was too far away to hear me, pitched my voice to a shout. "Darry!" The yell had a desperate, hysterical edge to it.

He didn't hear me. He held the door open for the men and followed them into our house.

I sprinted. By the time I got inside, Darry was on his knees, hyperventilating. The minister was crouched in front of him with one hand on his shoulder, and I knew he'd just gone down when they told him. I didn't trust my balance, either. I knelt beside him and without any hesitation he turned to me and hugged me hard, so hard I lost my breath, but it didn't matter. I hugged him back, leaning my forehead onto his shoulder, already crying.

"Ponyboy."

"Don't say it," I whispered.

His fingers clutched fistfuls of my shirt. "Soda's gone," he said, his voice thick. "He ain't coming home."

"No. NO." But I knew it was true; hadn't I known the minute I saw that rich car in our poor neighborhood?

After a moment, Darry let me go, but we stayed there, kneeling together on the floor, like we were praying.

"How did it happen?" I asked.

The lieutenant looked at Darry, and when he didn't answer me, said, "They were ambushed. His buddy, Private Randle, went down, and Private Curtis went back to get him."

"And Steve?" I forced myself to ask.

Darry met my eyes. "He's all right," he said shortly. "Military hospital."

We stared at each other, then broke away, ashamed to see we were thinking the same thing: Why couldn't it have been the other way around?

"Your brother was a brave man," the lieutenant said. "He probably saved his buddy's life. The United States of America and President Nixon appreciate his sacrifice. You should be very proud of him."

Darry stood, pulling me up with him, and faced the man. "Should we," he said flatly. He strode to the door and pulled it open, clearly wanting the two men to leave. His eyes had gone cold and his tone was stern. I had seen him look that way once before, the night our parents were killed, when he asked the Oklahoma State Police to let us be. He had been standing in almost the same spot, but that night, almost three years ago now, I'd been sitting behind him, on the sofa, crying in Sodapop's arms.

Sodapop. Oh my God.

"Son, if you need anything, either of you --"

Darry didn't answer. The minister turned to me and I looked away. A moment later, in the awkward silence, the two men left. They got into their black car and drove away as if they hadn't just ruined what was left of our family.

I sat down heavily in the armchair, not even aware that tears were running down my face. Darry went into the bathroom and threw up.

When Soda received his draft notice six months before, I had been almost paralyzed with fear. Soda, however, handled the ominous letter just fine because he was sure he could get out of it. He ruffled my hair and said cheerfully, "You're going to be my own college deferment" and headed down to explain to the draft board he had a little brother he was responsible for.

We had all talked, when Soda turned 18, of going down to the courthouse and filing paperwork that would make Darry and Soda my co-guardians, instead of having it all fall on our oldest brother. But it wasn't a priority and they never got around to it, so, legally, I was Darry's responsibility, not Sodapop's. Darry tried to argue that losing Soda's income would be bad for our family. The Army said they intended to pay him, he could send money home, and he was expected to report to Fort Benning in Georgia the following week.

Soda went from the draft board to the DX station, where he'd worked for three years, and quit. He bought a huge bouquet of daisies – my mother's favorite -- and left them on our parents' grave. Then my brother, who never so much as drank a beer before a rumble, came home with a fifth of cheap whiskey, sat at the kitchen table, and drank the whole thing. Darry and I sat next to him and listened as the liquor loosened his tongue and he talked about Mom and Dad, his lost horse, Mickey Mouse, Sandy, Johnny and Dallas, and leaving us. His eyes grew wet and his voice grew slurred and hoarse, but we didn't try to stop him. We sat with him as he finished that bottle and stumbled off to bed.

That night, I had a nightmare for the first time in almost two years, since Johnny and Dally had died.

The day he left, he was his happy-go-lucky self, sure he wouldn't be gone for very long. I tried desperately to feel some of his confidence.

"Y'all take care, now," he said, as he boarded the bus.

Darry gave him a quick squeeze, but I hadn't dared hug him, sure we'd both end up bawling messes. "Just come back," I said hoarsely, running my fingers briefly over his arm.

"'Course I will. See the sights, kill some gooks, back before you know it." And he flashed me his famous grin as the bus doors closed behind him. We'd stayed there, Darry and me, until the bus was well out of sight. Steve followed four weeks later and we were glad to hear they'd ended up in the same unit.

But now there was nothing to be glad about at all.

It was an evening of déjà vu. Darry made phone calls – Two-Bit, Mrs. Randle, Gus down at the DX – and began tracking down when Soda's body would be flown home and what needed to be arranged. I went into my bedroom and lay down on Soda's side of the bed, wrapping myself around his pillow, trying to think of nothing.

I woke much later to a noise, a quiet keening that grew steadily louder until finally I opened my eyes. It was coming from me. The pillow was soaked and I was shaking so badly the bedsprings were rattling. I clung to the edge of the mattress and tried to catch my breath. The bed dipped behind me and a moment later I felt Darry's strong arm around my chest, holding me just like Soda had, after Mom and Dad died, when the dreams got too bad. I put my hand over his. We didn't move. We didn't speak. We stayed there, together, only the two of us, until the sun came up in a world without our middle brother.