Hey Guys! Here's the start of another story. Hope you enjoy it! My schedule has been hectic lately, so I doubt updates will come as fast as you're used to getting from me, but I will try my best! Don't forget that I love hearing your opinions, predictions, and ideas. Oh, and thanks to Lewis Capaldi for the title idea (great song, but no, that's not what this fic is about).

Chapter 1- Flashbacks

(Soda)

The door closed softly, slowly, but the click it made as the latch slid into place echoed off of the sterile walls in the too-quiet hospital room. I could hear the shuffling of Steve's feet as he stepped hesitantly inside, his shoes scraping against the waxed tiled floors.

"Soda? You okay?"

No, I wasn't. But he already knew that.

I swallowed, nodded. And even though I didn't look away from my brother I still felt the way the air changed when Steve shifted from one foot to the other, and I knew his hands would be shoved deep into his pockets. It was something he did when he was nervous.

Pony's cheeks were still soft and smooth, like a baby's. And when I ran my fingers down them, I was reminded of just how young he was.

Young. Innocent. Not like me.

His cheeks were surprisingly warm and life-like. The opposite of what I expected while looking at him.

Pony lay there as still as the night had been before everything happened, his skin the same pale white of the streetlight he'd been standing under when they came at him.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was dead.

His long, dark eyelashes didn't even flutter when I ran my left hand across his brow and down his cheek. His lips, slightly parted, were already starting to dry and crack around the hard-plastic tube that ran from the ventilator to his lungs. His skin was red and fiery, angry, beneath the tape that held the tube in place.

His chest rose and fell, but not on his own. Always with that same rhythmic whoosh of air against the constant beeping from the heart monitor.

My right hand found his and I squeezed, but no squeeze came in return. Pony had nothing left to give me.

"Did you talk to Darry?" I finally peeled my eyes away from Pony to look for a moment at Steve. I was surprised to find that he was clutching a wrinkled navy t-shirt in his hands instead of hiding them in his pockets like I had expected him to. I watched as his fingers wrung the shirt between them, creasing it even more. Then my eyes were back on my brother's chest, watching it rise and fall. I'd been trying to call Darry all day but hadn't been able to reach him, Steve had finally gone to try when I couldn't bring myself to leave the room again.

"Yeah," Steve finally crossed the room and sat in a chair on the other side of the hospital bed. His hand shook as he rubbed it over his face then mussed his hair. He had started out the night with perfectly placed complicated swirls, but it now hung in loose strands across his forehead and stuck out behind his ears. "He's on his way. He'll be here soon as he can…"

I figured it would be at least four hours before we saw him. Assuming the roads were clear on the mountain he and his friends had gone to for their weekend ski trip. Two hours from the mountain lodge to Oklahoma City. Two more from Oklahoma City to Tulsa.

"Did you tell him to hurry?" I adjusted the blanket around Pony's shoulders. He'll be cold. He's always cold.

"He's hurrying Soda." Steve stared down at the t-shirt. Wrung it in his hands again.

I didn't know if it would be enough for Darry to hurry. Pony was barely hanging on. I didn't know what to do. And the room was so damned cold my hands were hurting.

"Soda, it's cold." Pony's voice was soft, confused. Fading.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket. Draped it over Ponyboy.

Bright red blood pooled beneath him. I pressed my hands against him. Tried to slow it. But it wasn't enough.

"What if that ain't enough? What if he ain't going fast enough? What if…" I hated myself for even thinking it, but it had been on my mind since the doctor had bluntly looked at me and said my little brother was dying. "…what if Pony ain't got that long? The doctor said…the doctor said he ain't got long and Darry ain't here and I don't know what to do…"

I didn't wait for an answer. Steve didn't have any to give me anyway. Instead, I slid my fingers through Pony's hair again. "You've got to get better, Pone." It was the same plea that I'd been repeating for hours. "You have to. You're only fifteen. We got so much to do…I got so much left to show you…to tell you. I love you. You know that, right? I love you so much, kiddo. I'm sorry. So sorry."

Glory, kiddo, if I'd only listened. If I'd only been the big brother I was supposed to, things might have been different…

I needed Darry. He'd know what to do. He always did. I was certain just by having him there everything would be alright.

But he wasn't there.

And what would he say if he were? How could I tell him it was my fault? And more importantly, how could I live with what I'd done?

"Soda." Steve's voice was gruff and strained when he broke into my thoughts. He cleared his throat as he stood and came around the bed. He handed me the crumpled shirt. "Soda, here. It was in my car. It ain't exactly clean, but it's better than the one you got on." His eyes fell to my chest.

I'd been ignoring the way that my shirt had stiffened for hours. Ignored the way that it clung to my skin and smelled like iron mixed with that sweet-smelling lard that Darry used when he made fried chicken. Ignored the way the material crackled when I moved, and the way red and black flakes sometimes fell from it. The shirt had been light grey to start but was now dark red and rust colored from my chest to the hem. Bits of dark, almost black, blood had clotted and speckled it like some morbid rendition of a bloody night sky.

Pony's blood.

Once again I thought back to the moment my shirt had turned red…blood-soaked from clinging to Ponyboy. The moment I knew that I'd lost him.

In mere seconds, his face had gone as grey as the shirt, so light that the fabric and his skin had washed together and were difficult to tell apart when I'd pulled him to my chest. Then Steve had come back, yelling, eyes red-rimmed and wild, and grabbed me on the shoulder…

Steve clasped me tightly on the shoulder, and when I looked at him his eyes were just like I'd remembered. Red. Wet. Scared. But his voice was steady when he spoke. "You got to keep it together, man. Pony still needs you. Everything's going to be fine. He's one tough kid."

He'd said it at least a hundred times.

But I still didn't believe him. And when he dropped his eyes, I knew.

He didn't believe it either.

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