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Sodapop looks like he's about to start bawling if Ponyboy asks him another question. He doesn't want to; he's all of fourteen years old, he's exhausted, and it's almost two in the morning. Darry went to bed three hours ago, and Ponyboy knows he's sound asleep right now, having left this up to him.
Except he hates this as he glances down with a bleary gaze at the textbook in front of him with the diagrams, the graphs, the words that are running altogether. Soda has to pass this biology test with at least a C in order to keep his grades up. As stupid as Ponyboy felt for worrying so early in the school year, Darry had a point over dinner. Getting things early now wouldn't make the last bit of the year so hard.
But Soda...
Soda's a good kid. Not the smartest, but a good kid and it's fucking eigth grade, and Ponyboy hates to have to be an older brother like this. He doesn't like that Soda looks like he's gonna cry if they try to go over this again, he doesn't like the fact that if he gently asks about the spine for the fifth time in the row, Soda might just explode or that he might explode with it.
Not for the first or last time, he wishes for his parents to be alive. He wishes that he didn't have to be an older brother trying to fill in their shoes, he wishes that Darry hadn't pushed this on him since he had to get up in the morning and Ponyboy didn't, he wishes that he were in college, mated to Dallas, not having to worry about anything except teasing Soda.
Rain is falling outside, and Soda's voice is almost unheard over the rain as he says, "I can do one more try."
That's a lie as soon as he hears it. Ponyboy rubs at his already stinging eyes, considers doing it. Considers Soda's reddening face and then he shakes his head. "Why don't we do this, baby — I'm gonna make you cocoa, and then you're gonna to bed, huh?" He keeps his voice gentle the way Dad would've had it, shutting the textbook. "I think you got as much as you could; I ain't gonna make you do more."
Soda's eyes look so huge in his face, so full of both shame and gratitude. "You sure?"
Ponyboy reaches out to ruffle his hair the way Dad used to. He smiles at Soda in a way he hopes is just as nice as when Dad did it, when Ponyboy felt like he was failing and couldn't do shit. He hopes that it makes Soda fill with the same warmth when he says, "I'm sure. Go on, go wash up while I get it ready okay?"
Soda gets up from the table, comes around and wraps Ponyboy in a tight hug. Ponyboy holds him tight back, running his hand down his back, trying not to choke up with emotion. "I'll try, tomorrow. I will, I will."
"Long as you try for me, little buddy," Ponyboy kisses the top of his hair, squeezing and letting go. "All I can ask. Go on, get washed up." He gives a taut smile when Soda kisses his cheek back and disentangles himself. He's sure to be quiet going to the bathroom, and Ponyboy sighs as he looks at the scattered books, notes, pens and pencils before him. He didn't know how this could pan out, would pan out.
But right now, schoolwork doesn't matter. Soda going to bed with some peace of mind mattered more to him than the grade. So he takes his time to get the milk out, putting it in a pot and turning on the burner so it can boil. He takes out a couple of candybars and chocolate chips they have, setting it on the counter as it boils. All of Soda's school supplies, he puts together, packs his bag for him as he hears Soda in the shower.
He wishes he had a better fix for this, for how to teach Soda. Wishes that he could offer something else to Soda, something better for him. It isn't possible now, but as he pours the milk into a cup, puts in the crumbled up chocolate bar and chips, he hopes that something good can come out of the late night snack.
It seems evident it does when Soda walks in wearing his night clothes and his face lights up immediately, hands coming out. Ponyboy drops a few marshmallows saying quietly as thunder rumbles outside, "Don't tell Darry, alright?"
"You make it better anyway," Soda smiles at him, before attempting to take a sip — and then yelping at the heat. Ponyboy has to stifle his laughter as he sticks his tongue out, fanning it. Soda doesn't do anything but blow and blow until he can drink it steadily.
When it's done, he hands the cup back, and quietly says, "You ain't gonna get mad at me if I ain't pass, are you?" Achingly, Ponyboy thinks of something like this — talking to his Mama one day after he thought he'd failed a big test, how he'd wanted to sink into the floor thinking he hadn't passed. How she had reached over and stroked his hair, and when he'd been right, she hadn't yelled at him, hadn't done anything but told him next time.
He keeps her in mind. "No," Ponyboy shakes his head, the answer immediate. "Couldn't get mad at you for trying your best." It's not what their Mama had told him, not exactly. He isn't her; and it feels like the right thing to say after hours of work, of attempts. "Ain't like Curly Shepard who can't tell you what 2 x 2 on a good day."
A laugh leaves Soda that's so high that they both freeze, hoping to not wake Darry. The rain hits harder, yet there's no movement from the bedroom. Ponyboy nudges at Soda's back. "Go on. Get some sleep, kiddo."
"Love you, Pony," Soda says, wiping at the bit of chocolate on his face. "See you in the morning."
He retreats to bed. Ponyboy watches him and wonders if anything about the loss of their parents will ever get better, if there will ever be a good sign that he's doing right by Soda. He has an urge to pick up the phone, to call his boyfriend and thinks better of it. He could see Dallas tomorrow.
Tonight, he was going to finish cleaning the kitchen and get to bed and hope that he had no nightmares and someone out there — God, angels, anything — would smile on Soda and help him with that test.