Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dally loves a good rumble. He ought to, though, ain’t he? That’s all he was good for, anyway. Useless with books, but plenty of street smarts guiding him through life. He came alive in a fight. A bombardment of fists and curses and spitting blood onto the concrete. Dally was no moron, he knew everybody got something in life, and this gotta be his. Darry’s might be taking care of his little brothers (and being a general stick in the mud.) Ponyboy’s was probably getting out of the East side, moving on up and outta here for good.

He was off his game that night, and he knew it. Pulled punches when he should’ve smacked the guy what for. Too many knocks to the head from Socs who’d never learned to fight. They probably took those pansy boxing classes and laughed over lessons with Daddy’s cigars. Everything was…fucking hazy. Like he couldn’t breathe right, hands too loopy. The street lights bathed them in yellow. Waves of nausea flooded his senses, and his breathing became heavy. Like Dally's just ran a marathon here to Oklahoma City and back.

If anyone was wobblier, it’d be Pony. That kid was a hot mess and then some. Dally couldn’t make him out through the rumble. Too many bodies. It was the part of the fight when everybody went quiet. All their initial energy had been all used up. But nobody was smart enough to call uncle just yet. About twenty guys in a muddy patch of Tulsa. Lots of breaths. Nobody tells you how much guys breathe when they beat the shit outta each other, like heaps of heaves and pants and groans.

Everybody moves together in fluid movements. Punches are thrown that take more time than they ought to. Lots of leaning into one another than the initial ferocity after Darry made his opening comment. Something about the Socs and their girly rings. Dally didn’t listen much to the preamble. He preferred psyching himself out, jumping up in the air, and giving the general hoot or holler.

His eyes are deadly, still, even now. That’s what he’s good at. He’s a killer. Ain’t afraid of nobody, no nothing. Gotta kill the world before anybody’s got the chance to do worse by you. He loves fighting. Not even too smart enough to know he shouldn’t. He oughta have some sense by now. He considers himself a grown man, practically legal. (Not that he’s one to play by society’s rules.) Rules were made up by Socs so that the Greasers got to break them.
As much as he thought he ought to have his whole head in the rumble, he couldn’t shake a guttural feeling. Scraping at the innermost parts of Dally was guilt. Johnny ought to be here. It's not like he’d let the kid fight. Nobody let the gang’s pet in a rumble. Dally wouldn’t have it. Besides, he wouldn’t be much use back in the hospital. He looked so…fucking like nothing. It had scared the wits outta Dally. He wanted to be like one of them dogs running with its tail between its legs.

Dally was good in a fight but even better at running away. He never stayed no place too long. Shifting like sands on a beach he’d never see. When all you got in you is fighting and flight, it’s one helluva mixed message. He’s sure God got his wires all crossed when putting together whatever bits and parts made up Dally. But then again, there ain’t no way there’s some bitter old geezer up in the clouds looking down on Tulsa. Maybe they were out of range, off the radar.

No God above would do what he did to Johnny Cade. To that sweet, timid fucking puppy. That kid walked the Earth thinking any day could be his last. Dally knew that cause he’d seen it once. It was fucking Hell’s oven outside. July, of course. Ponyboy’s birthday had just come and gone. It was one of those mornings you’d usually just glance over. It was hot. To say the least. Johnny had stayed the night with him at Buck’s. It hadn’t been a suggestion, more of a: your options are the Curtises’ sofa or half of my bed.

Something swelled in Dally’s chest. Puffy like a balloon when Johnny chose the latter. Even after a bath, the kid still managed to have the greasiest fucking hair on this side of the tracks. Dally was pressed up against the wall of his shit-hole room. It’s the kinda room you’d get uncomfortable staying in too long. Like every second stuck inside, you notice how much worse the whole thing gets. Cracks run up and down the walls, threatening to cave in overhead. Dark, smoke-stained curtains.

Even the window’s missing most of its glass. The floorboards creak, there’s no fan, and there's nothing to warm up in the winter. A tiny matchbox and adding Dally is pouring on heaps of gasoline. Johnny was the spark. But fuck, if Dally didn’t love burning up with ‘em. He shakes, even in his sleep, which is always fitful. The kid’s the lightest sleeper he knows. Jumps anytime Dally shifts or snores or gets up to piss. It takes some gentle sushing and whispered sweet nothings to get the kid to calm down. To lay back down into Dally’s arms.

It was a sleeping arrangement they didn’t say shit about. But it worked.“Shush, Johnnycakes. I got ya.” or “Christ, kid, relax for me. Will ya?” Johnny hardly ever spoke with the gang, but Dally always managed to coax out a couple more words. Johnny could be downright ballsy when sleep-drunk, which is the only way Dally ought to describe it. He had seen the kid drunk before, although it was rare. He preferred to nurse a cancer stick over a beer bottle.

Sleep-drunk Johnny is a gas. He gets sassy. His skin was so sticky that July morning. They were practically all glued together, and the kid was a mess of whines and groans. “Git offa me, man!” to which Dally’d said, “You get offa me, you punk!” Johnny hadn’t exactly appreciated when Dally ruffled his hair so bad it was like he’d smushed Johnny’s scalp off its axis.
“Come on, man! That ain’t fair!” He must’ve said it was too hot to be pulling stunts like this. Because Dally yanked his thin quilt over their heads, trapping all the warmth inside. Johnny could be gangly when he wanted to be. Limbs all over the place, bopping into the older boy who couldn’t stifle his laughs anymore. Dally was raspy in the mornings; he gave a stiff cough and nudged Johnny damn near off the bed. “Watch it!” Dally’s laughs began to fade and fizzle out like it hadn’t really even been all that funny in the first place.

He wrenches the quilt clear off their heads. His pale blond hair went all frizzy from the static. He must’ve looked like a damn fool. He caught sight of Johnny in the light of the early morning. Likely not even half past six yet. He’d have to get them up soon anyway. Cart the kid back to the Curtis house for school carpool. The beam from the morning sun came through the patchy holes of his curtains. Faint but enough to catch Johnny in it. Like a spotlight from above. His freckles came out in the summer. Dancing in light splotches on his cheeks. The bridge of his nose.

He was red in the face. It could be to a number of things, but Dally didn’t think too much about it. But the kid steadied, his breathing still a bit frazzled as he sat up on his side. Almost afraid of the light, he cowered, squinting at the disturbance. Johnny’s fingers shook, the tremors hardly noticeable. But Dally noticed. He was in tune with Johnny. Always had been. When his fingers stretched out, and the curtain came back, Johnny gazed upon the morning. His mouth slightly agape, and his shoulders lit up. Like he was some kind of pin cushion, someone had just taken a tack out of.

That’s it.

That look. It’s the wide, warm eyes and the quirk of his lips that suggest a smile. Like he made it to one more day, damn it all. It’s the one where Dally’s gotta resist every fucking urge in his body not to wrap Johnny in his arms and never let go. But he ain’t about to do that, and all he really gets around to is clasping a hand on Johnny’s bare shoulder. (Too hot for t-shirts. It didn’t help the skin-to-skin stick.) Dally oughta know better than to squeeze down. He really should let go. But it’s the tiniest part of him that might still be good that steadies his hand.

And yet, just as quick as it came, Dally pulls back. Can’t have Johnny’s eyes on him too long. That’s dangerous. And Dally’s danger, but he ain’t stupid. He’s a fucking miserable excuse, a JD, no good. Definitely no good for Johnnycakes. Even if the kid is their pet. Something soft, supple under his thumb. And everybody knows it, but nobody acknowledges it. Cause you can’t. You wouldn’t. It’d all go to hell. Who was tuff enough to mess with things that ought to stay fixed? Play God and shit.

Thwack!

Dally might’ve just lost a fucking tooth. He spits hard, and it's red. Sticky like Johnny Cade’s hollow shoulder bone that July morning. Fuck, he thinks. What are we doin’? The Soc who got him was a damn brute. Must’ve been ten feet tall. Dally briefly thought that some castle was missing its monster. But he must’ve said that part out loud cause another punch came his way. At least he had the sense to duck this time. The Soc brute hadn’t taken off all his class rings. The only reason Dally knew this without visual confirmation was the tooth that clattered out of his damn mouth. After enough of these, he won’t be able to chew his hamburgers anymore.

Dally lets out a scream, and a couple of bloody heads whip around to him. It was so noisy, so raspy, and so full of blood. He was likely to have scared some of the guys shitless. Good. He hoped so. Fuck them, fuck all of the Socs. He all but slings himself on top of the Soc. Takes them both down into a puddle. Mud splashes up, temporarily blinds him. It stings like hell, and he hisses out. Blood gurgles from deep in his mouth. He absently runs his tongue over the now empty spot.

He got the Soc rolled over, sat on top of the behemoth, and lost it. Hit. After hit. After hit after hit after hit. His knuckles were gone, destroyed. He was pretty damn sure if he stopped now, stood, and looked at ‘em in the streetlight, he’d see bone but damn if Dally wasn’t having the time of his life. Coming alive, all parts of himself were buzzing like one of those switchboards down at the TV station. He could practically feel the electricity seep down off his fingertips. He was no Darry, but he was at his best in a rumble.

“Dal.”

Dallas pauses. He’s heaving. His chest can’t do much to keep up with his lungs. He’s gasping, fish outta water. The sea of moving bodies all around him blur together. He can’t make anything out. Like his pupils must’ve gotten all frayed, ratty hems of the clothing Johnny wears. He can’t see for shit, and the panic wells in him, and it is just unbelievable. He ain’t scared cause that just doesn’t happen. Not to Dally, not for guys like him. No good hoods playing Greaser. “Dally, man. You gotta breathe.” There’s the voice again. No, there’s his voice.

Dallas pushes the limp body out from under him, collapsing to his knees. Barley supported himself enough to stay vertical. He can’t feel the cold, hard dirt under his hands. He can’t see anything but–

Johnny. Johnny’s standing amongst the chaos. And all Dally’s thinking is Jesus Christ; what if they get him? He’s gotta be so scared, standing there. He ain’t one for a rumble. Everybody fucking knows it too. They’d never let him out there. What’s he doing? Doesn’t he know better? He looks so…little.

Like a crow. No, a raven.

Like the one he’d wanted to save. Months ago, but Dally still remembers. Still thinks about it. They’d been walking home from school. He, Johnny, and Ponyboy. Ponyboy and Johnny, whenever together, are practically one. Johnny’s always got some limb touching the kid. Arm on his, finger hooked on his jacket, and so on. The leaves were turning red and crunchy underfoot. Dallas liked kicking them up or scooping up bundles and throwing the dead leaves at his juniors. “Aw, come on, man!” Pony gave a childish huff, trying to pick at the leaves from his mop of hair.

Too busy messing with the kids, Dally had nearly crushed the thing with his sneaker. Suppose it hadn’t been for Johnny’s cry. Anytime Johnny makes himself known like that, it freaks the hell outta Dally. He feels like his blood runs cold. Ice up his veins, and his hands go clammy. He held his foot up, frozen. Giving Johnny one helluva pissed-off look. “What the fuck you bossin’ me around for?” He had meant to snap, but it came out animalistic: a snarl.

Johnny wavered but didn’t stop. He detached himself from Ponyboy and yanked Dally back. Dallas collided halfway into Ponyboy and gave the kid an awfully sour look. He had a right to be peeved. Since when were kids like Johnny Cade telling Dallas Winston where he could or couldn’t step? That’s when they heard it. Little cheeps. Pretty pathetic ones, just right of where Dallas’ beat-up black sneaker would’ve landed.

The thing looked dead. Well, at first, it looked like nothing. Like a little black blob of feathers. It had mixed in so well with the brown leaves that Dallas had to squint to get a real good look at it. (He might’ve needed glasses, but who’s to say that?) It was a raven, no bigger than a baseball. Chirping its ugly head off to no avail. Dally wanted to shrug, and he had. He slung an arm across Pony’s shoulders and gave an annoyed sigh.

“Yeah, so what? Some pussycat’s got itself a free meal.” He lurched forward to get them back to walking. Except Johnny stayed put. And that meant Pony did, too. That kid sure didn’t use his head. Dally curled an eyebrow up, his mouth giving a terrible sneer. He always gets so testy. Even over nothing, even when he didn’t mean to. It’s not like he meant to get so pissed off so easily. Johnny kneeled down, taking the thing into his hands. “It doesn’t got no one, Dal. We gotta do somethin’.” His voice was calm, even if Dally could’ve sworn he heard a tremble.

“Guess we could take it back ta mine. Dunno if Soda cares. ‘Sides, Darry ain’t comin’ back till late.” Ponyboy chimed in, giving Dallas a cheeky smile. He could be such a little shit when he wanted to. When he knew Dallas wasn’t about to say no to Johnny. Dally couldn’t stand it when somebody got a clean read on him. He didn’t dig being known. That invited too much familiarity in. Didn’t sit right with him. Nearly made him wanna puke his guts out. Cause suddenly Johnny’s taking his hand and putting the bird in them.

He nearly dropped the damn thing onto the concrete. The three all gave a hushed gasp. He didn’t drop it. He’s no idiot. He can carry a damn ugly bird. It didn’t look too good, but upon further inspection, It wasn’t chirping all that much anymore. But maybe that was some kind of shock from getting picked up and passed around by giant pink things.

Its wing was definitely broken. Unmoving. The look Johnny gave him pierced right through his tender heart. He just wanted to hold the bird to his chest, and everything ought to turn out okay. But they don’t. Not for the Greasers. Not for those East Tulsa hoods. And especially not for no Dallas Winston.

Johnny stood before him, aglow under the streetlight. The rumble impossibly moved around him.

“You look just like a bird.”

Was all Dally could get out before everything went black.

Chapter Text

The rain comes down hard. Rigid drops like daggers into Dally’s exposed skin. His breath comes out quick in hazy, disjointed clouds. Suddenly, he feels the cold. It freezes him down to his core. And the fog that wafts up from the ground is thick. It suffocates him, and suddenly, Dally cannot breathe. He damn near coughs up a lung in an attempt to clear his throat.

The ground beneath him is loose and slippery. Mud caked on every inch of his legs, up to his thighs. Red drips from his knuckles into the puddles below. It's like all his senses came back at once, and he can feel way too fucking much altogether. A cacophony of stings and seizes and panic.

He’d need stitches, maybe for the head wound. He lifted a hand and dragged it across his brow, returning with something sticky and warm. Was that his blood or the Soc’s? Fuck if he can remember. Numbness takes hold as the rain washes over him. He hears the raw joy of his Greasers. All around him, the calls and hollers ricochet.

Dally’s got half a mind to join in.

They’d won the rumble. So why’s Dally feel like he lost?

Arms across his frame, lifting him into a haphazard huddle. Everyone is just as bad off. It’s a fucking ugly site, boys, after a rumble. Especially when the stakes were as high as this one. A kind of finality crept over Dally, but it just as easily gets pushed aside. Even if they killed every last Soc, it’d never be over. A war without an end. And maybe that’s what he wanted. Deep down, without ever admitting it.

Because really, if the Socs ever stopped picking fights, where the hell would that leave Dally? Sure, the more well-adjusted the gang would get along just fine. Darry never needed a fight anyhow. He’d throw himself back into working to an early grave. Sodapop and Steve got each other and the DX to boot. Two-Bit might even have half a mind to quit drinking so much. Ponyboy might just turn out well-adjusted. Enough.

“Fuckin’ A!” Steve shouts, his voice raspy. "Look at 'em go!" Dally really oughta find his tooth. Fuck knows where it is. Part of the Earth, now lost to the mud. An arm around him squeezes tight, and Dally squirms out of its grasp. Bristling like an animal. The junkyard dog he is. Because that’s all he’s ever gonna be. Any of them could get out if they wanted to. And it's just maybe that Dally didn’t wanna. Or that he couldn’t. Or the fact that this was all that was left for him was supposed to be a comforting thought.

Because fuck, if Dally doesn’t love a rumble. A lifetime rivalry between the Greasers and the Socs fueled him. Propped him up like some scarecrow in a field. He didn’t know what life would be without it. Without the exhilarating thrill of grabbing another kid’s skull and bashing it into the curb. Because it was a contest, if not anything else. No metaphors here, no riddles. Leave that shit to Ponyboy. Dally dealt in absolutes. He liked to play his hand with cards he could see, things he could go out and touch.

Being in control of your fate ain’t so bad. Even if you gotta break some bones to ensure it. He was a doer, a go-getter. He wasn’t about to sit back and let anybody decide anything for him. Plus, he got to prove to everybody in Tulsa that you don’t fuck with Dallas Winston. He had a reputation to uphold. Even if it was one the others in the gang didn’t always see eye to eye with. Especially Darry. (Mostly Darry.) He got the hesitant looks, the uncertain coughs, and awkward body language when Dally was around.

He was used to it. Used to Steve giving Soda the look when Dally said something “wrong.” When he pushed too much, stole Two-Bit’s smokes. Slept in Darry’s recliner or took the younger kids to the drive-in whenever he pleased. He didn’t answer to anybody. Yet he knew what they all thought. It was weird, being hated and being feared so much and they’d think of you as the alpha. That’s what he is. The gang’s top dog. He probably couldn't take Darry in a fight (not that he’d ever admit it), but he was high up on the food chain.

Why?

It never made any sense to him. Dally hardly stuck around. He answered no questions and only brought up problems. Testing boundaries was his hobby. Pushing buttons, and overstaying an already worn-out welcome was a personal favorite. Sleeping in borrowed pajama bottoms at the Curtis house. Eating their chocolate cake, using Mr. Curtis’ old mug for coffee. Dally didn’t know how he did it, but somehow, he managed to stick himself to this gang like some kind of parasite on a big fish.

He learned that those things actually happen. These teeny tiny fucking worms suck onto the sides of big ol’ fishes in the oceans of the world. Of course, this is a fact straight from one of Pony’s books. Being that worm was a fucking trip. Cause how could ya be nothing and yet so fucking vital to a group of people? He wanted to believe they’d all fall apart without him. When really Dally’s sure they’d be fine. Life would go on just fine. The gang could manage a couple of turns around the sun without even considering him.

He didn’t know what freaked him out—thinking those thoughts or that Ponyboy was staring bullets into him. Dally, as if struck by lightning, grabs hold of Ponyboy’s collar. Shook him harder than he ought to. The kid didn’t look too hot as it was. His shoulders jostled and he had a shiner forming. Suddenly, nothing else mattered, and he gotta get to Johnny real bad.

“Johnny!” Ponyboy gave him a look. His eyes had a real hard time keeping focus on Dally’s. Like the kid wasn’t really there. Like Johnny hadn’t been at the rumble. Hadn’t seen those fucking cowards run for the hills. He wanted so badly to tell Johnny every little insignificant detail of the rumble right at this very moment. Cause Johnny would hang on his every word. He could read the kid a lawn mower manual cover to cover, and the guy would ask him to keep talking.

Dally didn’t know why. Couldn’t place it. But it was like those last couple of hours since seeing Johnny was years ago, and he was forgetting what the kid sounded like. That was the worst part when someone was all poorly. If you let it go long enough, you can’t even remember their voice. And there was no way in Hell you’d ever get it back. Johnny had been…sluggish. When Dally left. He didn’t think it was possible for the kid to get worse, and yet. He had been. Who knows what was going on in that hospital room since he’d left it. Since the rumble.

They’d won. God almighty, it felt like the worst loss in his entire damn life. Tulsa’s biggest lost cause, Dally Winston, hauling ass with a fourteen-year-old kid in toe. Dally thanked his lucky stars he had the sense to take Buck’s T-Bird. He gave another thankful prayer when the cop that stopped ‘em was dumb enough to buy a sick Pony. The kid wasn’t too far off from the truth. Hell, if anything, he just exaggerated it a bit more.

The wind had a bite to it, and the rain had died off only minutes ago. And Dally was tired. His whole body ached. He could feel it, and it was crazy. Down in his bones. Like every movement, they grinded together. Maybe if he really listened, he could hear the chalky squeak now and then. His head was buzzing, a migraine threatening to cut in. Dally kept having to blink, moving the blood, mud, and grime oughta his sight.

His grip on the wheel was so tight he damn near had to pry his fingers off with a crowbar once they got to the hospital. It, like most of Tulsa, was a dinky no nothing building. And sterile, too. Freakishly so. The lights overhead were too bright; the glare made Dally squint. He rubbed the grit off his brow and spat on the floor for emphasis. Daring anybody to say something. Go on, do it. He nearly begged with his eyes. With his slack posture, the slight limp he chose to ignore.

Nobody but God or the Devil was gonna stop Dallas from getting to Johnny. Ponyboy spoke, was speaking. Maybe that was the kid’s voice near his ear. Dally couldn’t quite make it out. There was a man in their way. White lab coat and a stern look. Dally knew that look. It was like slipping on a jacket. A disdainful apprehension adults reserved for the likes of him. This look spread to Ponyboy, too, and Dally damn near killed the doc. He was a damn quack anyways.

Ponyboy’s hand on his jacket was so light, and yet it zapped through Dally quick. He startled, nearly starting in on him. “We gotta see ‘em.” Didn’t have to say Johnny’s name. They knew. They used that hateful look. They cast it upon the gang like they were so much holier than thou. Saving lives and shit. If Dally’s knuckles were in any better condition, he might’ve popped them for emphasis. For a promise. “He’s not in great shape. He’s dying, boys. It might–” Hearing Ponyboy’s throat clench was motivation enough.

It was all too easy to whip out Two-Bit’s switchblade. Fuck if Dally even remembers taking it in the first place. Was it back here…? When he was in a bed not too different from the one they had Johnny in? His mind is whirling a mile a minute, faster even. Dally can’t quite keep up. Always act before thinking cause why the hell would he waste time when action would suffice? Dally was no pacifist. Waving a blade in a quack’s face oughta prove it. Dally really oughta give the doc what for.

He really would’ve. He felt it in him. He always gets this feeling when he hurts somebody. When he knows he could hurt them so badly, they might never wake up. The guy said something, but Dally was sick of listening. He pushed past, hardly aware of Ponyboy keeping close behind him. Dally knew the way. He had already gotten used to it. He knew he gotta turn right and head to the end of the hall. Briefly wonders if they stuck Johnny all the way back here in Siberia on purpose.

Didn’t want his mug scaring nobody. Didn’t want mothers whispering to fathers about the Greaser brat. The one crippled in a fire. Dally wished anybody had any follow-through. He only looks like that cause he’s gotta. Cause he did what nobody else would. Johnny’s a hero, dammit. Why’s it Dally the only one who knows that? Why’s it only the gang who cares? If everybody would focus all their energy off of hating Greasers and onto anything else, they might actually accomplish world peace. Solve all them unsolvable diseases. Meet aliens, something like that.

Johnny doesn’t call out for Dallas when they get into the room. He looks to Ponyboy. Calls for him. And it ain’t fair. Damn it all to hell, it ain’t no fair. Envy, sickly, green lodges into the cavity where Dally’s heart ought to be. Look at me, he wants to say. Come on, man, ‘m right here. But Dally sticks to his guns. He isn’t a beggar. He’s nobody you can look down on. If anything, Johnny’s the one everybody looks down on. Piece of shit parents who beat the kid black and blue on a good day.

So why’s it feel like Johnny’s looking down on him? Ponyboy’s at Johnny’s bedside. He’s holding the sixteen-year-old’s hand. Giving it a gentle squeeze. Ah. Maybe that’s it. Despite claiming to be tuff shit, Ponyboy’s always been gentle. He’s just a kid, after all. Dally isn’t soft. Never learned it. Pony must’ve got it from his parents. How to show love, and how to accept it. How to do for others rather than just yourself. Dally’s all hard edges, and the kinda feeling that sets your hair standing up. And still,

“Johnny, we won.” Dally hears his words before he knows he’s saying ‘em. And boy howdy, if he doesn’t feel a little pathetic verbalizing it. It it was anything more than what it was. Teenagers beat teenagers in a dirty fight in an empty lot. Because suddenly, and he knows it, the rumble doesn’t matter. Likely, it never did. But golly, if Dally still wanted Johnny to know. That twisted feeling of validation he’s craving. Johnny knows better than to give it to Dallas. “We did it. Got them Soc bastards runnin’ with their tails ‘tween their legs.” Why’s Dally keep going?

What’s it even matter anymore? It’s pointless, a conquest with no winners. Ponyboy and Johnny know how to have entire conversations with their eyes—whispered words and quick head jerks. That’s mostly all Johnny’s capable of at the moment. He looks so small. Laying in that bed. His arms crossed over his stomach, ‘cept the one being held by Pony. Like it’s already been called. Like he’s preparing for the grave.

It makes Dally so sick he ought to vomit. He’s getting that feeling a lot lately. His eyes go dark, teeth ground together. Pony leans down, eyes wet with tears. Opens his mouth to speak, and Dally slams his fist into the wall.

“Look at me, dammit!”

Fuck, the way his voice quivers. The way his words cut through the hushed tone and drew silence into the room. Dally’s nothing if not an attention hog. And he’s got it. Johnny does it slowly. Maybe he does it on purpose. His eyes drag across the room and bore straight through Dally. Who suddenly feels personally affronted and wants to smack him upside the head. “I’m lookin', Dal.” But you ain’t seein’ me, man; Dally wants to fire back.

Nearly does, but it dies on his tongue. He feels the gap in his mouth from his missing tooth. Realizing now how scary he must look. He doesn’t want to scare the kid. Just wants to look at him and have him look back and be the only two guys in the entire world. But they ain’t. Things just don’t seem to work out for the likes of Dallas Winston. He ain’t the type to get the happy ending. He’s just gonna get some kind of ending.

“We won, man. You don’t even care! Not one bit. Hell, if that doesn’t–”

Johnny coughs so loudly that his whole body lurches forward. It’s like his little frame can’t even handle it, so strung out from all the drugs they’ve pumped into him. His upper body shakes and shivers, like they froze his lower half. Like he’s one of those puppets and somebody went and cut the strings. Dally has the horrible thought that he can’t remember the last time Johnny got to use his legs. Running after Ponyboy. Into the church as it rained fire and ash down around them. Must’ve been it.

Was the kid fast? Did he like to run? Did he lack stamina and have to walk his mile runs at school? Did he jump the chain link fence at the Curtis house? When’s the last time Dally saw him swing his feet at the drive-in? It must’ve been when they met that Soc girl, Cherry. When Dally got into a hissy fit and stalked off. Only Johnny could get away with telling Dallas off. He must’ve lost his damn mind, speaking like that to someone like Dally.

And he can’t stop coughing. Pony’s eyes are wide, darting up to Dally. He always looks to Dally for what to do. And Dally’s pulling a blank. “Dally, man! What- what do we do? We ought- we gotta call a doctor, man!” The little box on Johnny’s bedside table’s going haywire. All piercing beeps and alarms. Is that…his heart? It can’t be, it’s not. That ain’t Johnny dying in that bed. That’s just it; it’s not him.

Johnny’s back in the lot. He’s asleep, and Dally’ll find him in the morning and really give him an earful. Drag him by the denim to the Curtis couch and let the kid get a couple more hours of rest before school. Bodies burst into the room, the very same doctor, Johnny’s doctor. The one Dally threatened with his switchblade. Dally suddenly starts to feel very, very bad. It tracks that a no-good hood like Dally’d hurl threats and plan on stabbing a doctor of all people. Dally wants to drag a hand across his hand and rip off his skin along with it.

Ponyboy’s scratching and clawing to get back to Johnny, and a couple of distressed-looking nurses are attempting to pull him back. They were yelling cause they always yelled at kids like him and Pony. Begging, harassing, “please leave!” The please was a nice touch. Johnny’s gonna die, and here Dally is thinking about polite ladies. Pony is screaming right back. His body all shakes and shivers, just like Johnny’s. And as for Johnny, Dally can’t even get a straight look at the kid. Covered by bodies in lab coats and uniforms. “Johnny, please! Come on, man, Johnny, don’t do this to us, please!” Pony’s crying so hard he can’t hardly breathe.

If he was Darry or Soda, he might try to comfort the kid. Offer a stern but kind look like Steve. Break the tension with a joke like Two. But he’s Dally. And he’s terrible. He ain’t never gonna be any better than that, so when the little box that’s Johnny’s heart stops it's crazy beeping. When it goes quiet.

Dally runs. Right out of the room, down the hall, and all three flights of stairs, too. He’s out of his mind and breath and keeps going. Races through downtown. Scares the hell outta some flock of pigeons. He doesn’t feel all light and airy. Don’t feel heavy, either. Just feels like nothing. Keeps going. He fought. He did his fighting. If he can’t fight no more…If Johnny’s gone…there’s no damn point in fighting anymore. So it’s now flight that Dally takes. And Dally wants to fly right along with Johnny.

Doesn’t feel nothing in the corner store. He has got no damn clue how he even got there in the first place. Dallas is afire, and he’s burning up. It’s so hot inside he has half a mind to strip to his underpants right on the linoleum tile. Doesn’t even know what he steals. Couldn't even tell you. He’s just got to. He needs to. Quickest way. Doesn’t hear the hollers of the cops who find him. The sirens sound like empty air. Radio silence.

He’s made up all out of paper, and those guns aimed at him are gonna burn Dally to the ground. Burn him before he ever takes flight. If you asked him, Dallas wouldn’t be able to tell you for a fact that his friends were right there with him. That they pleaded with the cops. Why’d they gotta do all that for? He was nothing if not stubborn. If not unloved, unwanted, a foul thing on the bottom of your shoe.

He was nothing to them, never not gonna be anything else. He was their alpha, the one they could always count on. And still, Dally doesn’t get it. He’s a pest that found its way inside. Why haven’t they gotten rid of him yet? Pulled the worm off and stomped it underfoot. Do they need him, or do they want him? He is just another body in a fight, a source of support. A source of anything other than pitch-black darkness?

Five shots rang off. Three found Dally.

Chapter Text

When Dally got shot, it was like God himself put those bullets through his chest. Molten lead exploded over and over inside of him. How could so much hurt get through one body? That’s all life ever was for Dallas Winston. And pain was a sonuvabitch. One he knew well at seventeen. You’d think he’d probably ought to be a stranger to the feeling. Like those Soc bastards get to be. But nah, not for Dally. He grew accustomed to it, like an old friend. One you haven’t seen for ages, and yet, Dally kept fucking seein’ them.

He thought that’d be it. Curtain call for Dallas Winston. He went cold before colliding with the pavement. That night was fuzzy. And Dally must’ve dreamed it cause he ain’t too clear on the picture. He remembers the rumble…The rain and how it pierced his chest. Felt worse than the…bullets? Fuck, had Dally gotten himself shot? Is that the plan? What he’d wanted? Dally could see himself in his own skull.

Floating about in a cloudy dark abyss. Like one of them spacemen. It’s where he was now, trapped in nothing. He was having a hard time staying upright. Kept floating too far forward and going into unplanned barrel rolls. It didn’t make him sick like it ought to. That’s partly how he knew this wasn’t real. That, and the fact that he was a teeny speck in his brain. Gave it away a bit easily.

Suspended behind your own eyes isn’t something you get used to. Dally couldn’t tell how long he floated about. Staring out of two gaping holes straight ahead. They must be his eyes, huh? How was he looking outta his eyes through his own fucking eyes? Was he high? When did he smoke last? Dally often only smoked marijuana with Tim Shepard. Hadn’t seen him since the rumble.

And before that, since he slashed the tires on his shit car. So, not many chances to get stoned with your best frenemy. How long has this been going on? Dally could move, swing, and glide about. He could see his own hands, waving them about in front of his face. He couldn’t feel it when he pinched his arm, though. Didn’t know what that meant, though. So he wasn’t worried.

It takes a helluva a lot to worry Dallas Winston. Only Johnny could grind his gears like that. Was the kid around here somewhere? Dallas experimentally rolled forward, glancing around. It was as if the kid was just hanging around, smoking a weed. If that kid was to be anywhere in Dally’s mind, it might as well be here. The darker, baser parts of Dally. (As if he could get worse. Be worse, harmful.)

Panic surged within him, and Dally suddenly knew he had better get outta here.

“Dal?”

“Johnny?” Dallas spoke, but no sound came out. Like the word just came out of his mouth and fizzled into nothingness. It was frustrating as all hell. Dallas had no idea where the kid’s voice was coming from. It boomed around his melon, bouncing off gray walls and back at Dally. How come such a pipsqueak could be so loud?

“Johnny! ‘M right fuckin’ here!” Dally tried again, to no avail. He felt something warm and wet build up in the corners of his eyes. His face was hot, and he just wanted to go back to sleep. “Dally, just, uh. Take it easy, man. Ain’t gotta do much but lay there. I’d kill to get to sleep that much.” Dally furrows his brow. Who the fuck does this kid think he is? Since when does- Dally can’t see shit out of those holes. It’s all white, blindly so.

Like a…like a hospital.

“Don’t get smart, Keith. I have half a mind to park your ass in the hallway.” Dally wipes at his eyes, the movement causing a couple of nauseating spins in the dark. He’s scrambling to get a better look. He called me Dally, Dallas thinks. That ain’t like the kid. And somebody called him Keith. Which also ain’t like the kid. Since that wasn’t even his damn name, Dallas groans and feels the vibrations run like racehorses outta him.

That’s no Johnny Cade. Fucking, Two-Bit. If anything in Dally worked, he would’ve agreed with the other voice and smacked him over the head. But nothing works. Like Johnny’s puppet without bottom strings, all of Dally’s had been cut. He couldn’t do nothing but listen. “Aw man, Darry, you ain’t even a bit of fun.” Two-Bit’s voice came in strong and clear.

The redhead had likely tried to ruffle Darry’s hair, gotten hooked under the arms, and carried off. He could hear the squeak of two pairs of sneakers. A firm presence settled over the right half of Dally. Like the pressure of something warm and heavy. “Git offa me,” Dally whined. Indignant. “Git. Off!” Dally attempted a beautiful string of curses a life on the run had taught him. But nothing came out. Frustration took a deeper stake in his belly.

“Don’t get so loud ‘round him.” Dally pauses, his arms dangling in midair. It was a soft suggestion, hardly a warning. Ponyboy. “It ain’t exactly like he’s sleepin’.” The pressure against Dally increases, and he struggles to catch his breath. The kid must be lying on him? Holding his arm? Like Dally had grabbed Pony’s arm…hours ago, was it? Had it only been a couple of hours since the…since he’d left the hospital?

Why’d the other voice say he wasn’t sleeping? What the hell was he off doing then? “Take it easy, yeah?” Soda. Dally could tell. Soda didn’t have much of an edge to him to begin with. And whatever sharp edges the kid did have always softened around his kid brother. “‘S kinda like he’s sleepin’. If you wanna think ‘bout it like that, honey.” Pony mumbled something that Dally couldn’t catch.

He hated when the kid mumbled, couldn’t hear a fucking word of it sometimes. Right now, even less so. He wanted so badly to understand what Ponyboy had said. But it wasn’t like he was in any position to demand clarity. Being at someone else’s mercy was terrifying. Dally thought about it quick, all at once, hitting him in the gut without warning. They were his gang, his boys, sure. But ain’t nobody to stop them from doing whatever the hell they please right now.

So…Dally was in some kinda bed. Not really asleep, but not awake either. Hovering voices of Soda, Steve, and Ponyboy orbiting the space around him. “Even though he isn’t sleepin’…he’s gonna be up real soon, right?” Pony, always the optimist. For as much as this kid looks up to him, he really didn’t dig the whole outlook Dally got. He’s young. Maybe it’d be different for him. Soda made a noise like a hen clucking. Something with his tongue to get away with not saying anything back.

Cause hell if Soda knew. But he’s got this way about him. Dally wouldn't admit it, but it was kinda comforting. Even in the worst of times. No wonder he liked jailbreaking Sodapop from the Curtis house for races and shows. Maybe it was half due to his Hollywood movie star good looks. Or how Soda always made it his damn mission in life to include everybody. He was always out making friends with every damn stranger who’d come along—chatting up old ladies at the markets or testing out shitty Spanish at a house party two towns over.

Whatever else Soda said to Pony, it did the trick. Dally found his breath again. His lungs didn’t ache so much. The white in his eyes started to muddle. Little flurries of spots, like caught in a snowstorm. Dally kept blinking so damn much he was sure his eyeballs would pop out. Well, the teeny ones he hoped he still had in his not-real body. The first thing Dally noticed next was the sound of a creak.

One of them long ones, like a door in a haunted house. Creeeeaaak. Or it was more like a robot in need of an oil change. It would go, then stop. Go, then stop. Like on–

“Is He still, uh. You know?”

Johnny?

“No change.” A confirmation by Darry. What was he, a fucking doctor? Or had that been a doctor talking? Fuck, if Dally could scream! Fill this whole damn world with the sound from his chest. “We’d be ringin’ the ol’ church bells and hollerin’ offa rooftops if the guy woke up, Jay.” So Two-Bit had been let back in. (Likely, he snuck in with whatever caused the creaky noise. Still, with no questions answered and more coming up, Dally wrinkled his nose.

“Lordy. Did y’all see that?”

“Nah, that was nothin’. Last week, he coughed.” “There’s no way you caught that, Randle; I’m callin’ one hundred percent Grade-A buuuuullshit!” There was a thwack! And Dally could practically see the back of Two-Bit’s head starting to sprout a bump. It's not like the guy was using that space for actual brain power or anything. It made Dally wanna laugh. A mean one, tight and curt, was all he’d be able to muster.

But no, he’d better get down to business. That…had been Johnny’s voice, hadn’t it? For real, this time, no practical jokes? Johnny? Where…where you at, kid? ‘M right here. I can’t…fuck. His head swirled painfully so. What was that creaky noise? They’d visited him last week, so how long had he been in this not-asleep sleep? Dally felt the pressure shift and alter. Like he had gotten lighter, but only for a moment before it all felt so tight. Like someone had just dumped a shit ton of bricks on his chest.

“You oughta get a haircut, Dal.” Dal. So it had to be Johnny. Dallas only hoped he could believe his senses this time. Nobody in their right mind is gonna– “He ain’t gonna want nobody to touch a hair on his head, Johnny.” A cough, like clearing their throat. Dally hadn’t expected Ponyboy to pipe up. Much less for the likes of Darrel Curtis to confirm this. “Yeah. Pone’s right. Any excitement once he wakes up might send him right back into another coma.”

Coma.

That’s it. All the pieces of the puzzle had been shoved together. And suddenly, it was like Dally was free-falling off the top of a tall building. He could even see it, too. Like the skyscrapers in New York City. All those buildings could make a kid feel mighty lonely. Give him ideas like going on a flight as a flightless bird, like some kind of ostrich.

Bam! And Dally’s blinking like all hell. He’s actually seeing out of his eye holes again. Felt the scratchy white blankets pulled tight up to his torso. He feels a breeze coming from an open window. It’s a sticky, humid flow of air. All Dally remembers was the chilling rains of the rumble. A lifetime ago. When’d it go and get so fucking hot?

His mind is reeling, and his senses don’t quite match his abilities. A stifling amount of information barrages his touch and sight, and he can taste the stale inside of his mouth. Still missing that damn tooth, he notes absently. Too busy trying to work his damn useless body. Trying to hear his thoughts, his own breathing. To check, confirm he’s actually alive. This is actually happening.

It’s hard since there’s about a half dozen teenage boys verbally scrambling all above him. Dally can’t make out shit, and a pounding headache blossoms under his jaw. He wants to reach a hand up and rub underneath his chin. He’s trying to connect his puppet strings. There’s some jostling; the bed beneath him shifts and groans with the weight of said six boys.

Would ya just- “Git offa me!” Dally makes an attempt. But the disuse in his vocal cords makes the last three words come out more like: “G-tt-ffa-mmh!” The first thing he notices after speaking (well, trying to) is boy howdy, does his throat hurt. Feels like there’s sandpaper rubbing on his neck from the inside. He lurches with a start, careening forward into a coughing, hacky mess. “Jhnnee!” He’s hollering, hooting like some deranged owl.

It’s so bad it’s kinda funny, and he just knows that it’s Two-Bit who’s poorly suppressing a chuckle. A couple of others join in, but Dally’s sure it’s just out of relief. “Look at me, would ya, man? Jus’ open those eyes…” Johnny’s voice is so close to his ear that Dally nearly combusts. Just in a whisper, Dally can feel the warmth on his breath.

A whole body shiver dances in Dallas’ frame, and he opens his eyes.

Here’s where everybody’s at. Darry, Soda, Steve, and Two are standing on either side of his bed. Pony’s half sat on his right, and Johnny’s sat on his left. But entirely different. See, Ponyboy sat on the actual bed, and Johnny Cade, his sweet, suffering Johnny Cade, sat in a rickety wheelchair. It ain’t anything to write home about. It’s minimal but functional.

If that ain’t the household motto to an East Tulsa native. One of the wheels is slightly deflated. Parts of the metal frame are brown with rust. The seat is flat, lacking any cushion. Not that Johnny’d feel it. That realization cuts Dally worse than any switchblade a Soc could pull. He wants to reach out and drag the kid into his arms. Sink his teeth into Johnny’s neck and never let go.

Feral, like the mutt Dallas is. Lay his claim to the kid before they get torn from each other again. Knowing this must just be their first near-death experience together scared the living hell outta him. That for the likes of them both, this is all life really might be. Dally had come a lot closer to death a lot more times than the younger teenager. But this might just be the first in a chain reaction until Johnny doesn’t get so lucky.

Dally doesn’t notice he’s crying until it's too late. And it’s so painfully fucking embarrassing, balling like a baby in front of the only six people he’d actually want to impress. But once the facade cracks, it's too damn hard to keep up. Dallas suddenly wants to know it all. How long he’d been out. What the fuck happened, did he actually get shot?

But now he can actually ask and get a response. It should feel free. But it don’t. His mouth can’t quite keep up, and someone’s getting him to drink some water. His words still come out in a slurry, a pathetic, garbled nonsense. And that’s when their looks to Dally change. He was used to their hateful hesitance. Like cornering a wounded animal. Never fully trusted, but kinda respected all the same.

Cause they know the damage he could cause. It wasn’t fear, or at least Dally sure hoped it wasn’t. But it changed, from one face to another, nonetheless. Pity, could it be? Worry? Something had softened their eyes on him. Dally rubbed his eyes, half trying to claw them off. He can’t look, and he wants to keep looking up at them all.

“Johnny, ple–sss. C’mere.” Dally struggles to keep calm. His hands tug at the cords attached to him. Cause suddenly, Dally is painfully aware of all the things poking at him. He hears the beep of the monitor. And it sounds like Johnny’s. Like his heart. Like the beeping and beeping and screaming and running and nothingness. You okay? You’re here, yeah? You ain’t dead?

Another thing he must’ve managed to say aloud cause Steve’s helping Johnny into the bed. Pony goes and stands. Soda’s right there, wrapping protective arms around the kid’s little frame. It’s like Johnny’s body can’t keep up with his demand to be right in Dally’s space. And they’re two sides of the same coin. Dally’s arms jut out, and he briefly notes Darry reaching in, helping complete the embrace.

The eldest Curtis then gives his brothers a look, gently guides the rest of the gang out into the hallway. Saving Dally any further embarrassment.

Johnny’s pressed into him so close he feels the rise and fall of the kid’s chest. His fingers feel the outline of his ribs, one by one. There’s muffled shuffling of feet. And finally. After what feels like a lifetime, it's just him and Johnny. The word grateful rattles around his brain, and he breathes into Johnny’s hairline. “You’re alive.” Dally grits his teeth and his chest heaves. Feeling Johnny’s beating heart against his chest is all the confirmation Dallas needs.

And he craved it more than the water. More than hamburgers and drive-in milkshakes and all the whiskey he could stomach. His hand threads through the greased black hair, “Still greasiest- the gr-greasiest mop of hair I know.” He speaks with more of a sigh. Finding it mighty hard to get the words out. Luckily, in tune with him, as always, Johnny closes the gap.

“It’s been two months.”

Earth-shattering.

Disgusting. How…? Two fucking months? “I–” he starts, and Johnny cuts in: “Got shot. Three times, man. They. Pony. Uh, sorry. ‘S hard.” Johnny pulls back, and suddenly, Dally is so grateful. Cause he gets to see all of Johnny in his arms. His hair is long. There’s color in his cheeks. Compared to the last glance Dally had gotten…this was it. This was his Johnny. No doubt about it.

“They saw it all go down, Dal. Pony said–said, it’s like you did it on purpose.” He had.

“That you wanted to die.” He did.

“Yeah.” It was the best that he could do. It was a shitty response, a real cop-out. But Dally was hoping the kid would cut him some slack, he was just coming out of a coma, after all. “Yer heart thing was goin’ nuts, kid. All them lab coats kicked us out. I…connected the dots. If you weren’t making it…” Dally braces himself. Looks away, eyes downcast. Coward.

“If you weren’t, then why would I stick around?” It’s as serious as a confession and stings twice as much. Johnny’s grip on his flimsy hospital gown tightens. “Hey, careful now. I ain’t wearin’ any underwear, man.” It does little to lighten the mood. But because it’s Johnny, he laughs. Because it’s Johnny, it works. Always does.

There are so many other things Dally wants to say. But he doesn’t know where to start. Can’t risk ruining the mood. The stick of their skin as it connects them together. The drip of sweat slowly working down Johnny’s brow. His legs hang limp, pulled to the side of him. Dally, not knowing any better, reaches out and touches Johnny’s thigh.

Johnny sighs. This kid just knows without Dally having to do anything. Some kind of freaky mind reader. He pats Dally’s hand on his thigh and nods matter-of-factly. “Yeah. No, nothing.” Dally can’t help but feel like he’s still in mid-flight off a tall building. Flapping his wings ain’t gonna do no good.

He sits up, tries to stand, gotta get out of here.
A sore stiffness in his middle stops him. And Dally’s breathless again. His hand trembles, and he rips his hospital gown at the belly button. Modesty be damned. Johnny can’t hold in his gasp. His hand darts out and covers Dally’s like well-worn gloves.

Three ugly, nasty beet-red scars were carved out into his stomach.

Looks like Dally ain’t gonna be jumping over fences, riding horses, or running from the cops anytime soon. And boy, does Johnny sit in the same boat as him.

Can’t hide his grimace either.

Chapter Text

Two months ago, if you’d told Dallas Winston his biggest obstacle would be going for a walk, he’d laugh like no other. Cause that would be too fucking funny. He’s walked over more corners of the Earth than any kid he knows. He’s been to twelve different states and runs from every past life he’s lived. So getting up, stretching (cause yeah, he’s gotta do these fucking stretches now), and going around the block should be nothing.

Johnny had moved in with the Curtises permanently. Even though it took losing the ability to walk to encourage him, Dally was somewhat satisfied. Torn. Johnny wasn’t sleeping in the lot anymore, getting his ass kicked by his dad. It sure as hell hadn’t gotten any worse. Even being wheelchair-bound. For life. The finality of it made Dally remember that at least the kid was alive.

And that’s all that mattered to him now. Thinking he lost Johnny, getting himself shot, lying in bed for two whole months; none of that mattered anymore. Despite the concern, the best living situation was for Johnny to stay on the couch. His chair didn’t fit over the threshold of Ponyboy and Soda’s shared room. Johnny didn’t take the idea of getting carried like a newlywed to bed each night.

And as for Dally…he was rooming with Darry. Which was a whole fucking trip. It was temporary. Dally drew that line deep in the sand when they set this all up. Nearly a week and a half ago. Luckily for him, Darry hardly used the room but to catch a couple of hours of sleep each night. He woke up gruff and groggy around five and crawled into bed always past midnight.

Dally had yet to tell Steve and Two-Bit about the details of his new living arrangement. Knowing there was no way in hell, they’d ever let him live it down. “Shacking up with Superman, Dally?” So yeah. Better be vague with those two knuckleheads. Dally didn’t hardly sleep either. Spent most of his nights on the couch with Johnny anyway. Saying he was sharing Darry’s bed felt more like a formality than anything else.

Dally has been paddling out to the living room all too often these last few days. Careful not to wake the kid (who’d wake up anyways. World’s lightest sleeper.) At first, Dally was too chicken-shit to do more than fall asleep and propped up on the floor beside him. Resting his back on the couch. Darry’d been the one to find him in the morning. He damn near spilled all his coffee outta his mug.

Didn’t even have to be a Curtis to get Darry’s infamous earful. And boy, did he give it. All about how sleeping like that was expressly against the doctor’s orders. How could that mess with his healing even more. How would it take even longer to fix Dally up. Dally was always in stages of being broken. He didn’t know if he ever qualified as being fixed at any point in his seventeen years.

Johnny had felt mighty guilty, those woeful brown eyes getting right at Dally. How’d the kid have so much power over him? Dally only started sleeping out there because he wanted to make sure the kid was okay. That nobody was messing with him, that his blanket was on tight enough. Since…there’d be no way of him telling that his toes were freezing off. Even in the summertime, nights can get too damn cold. Dally hated it. It wasn’t something you could adapt to. And for Dally, who did his best work in camouflaging to his surroundings, it proved hard.

He just. The kid was damn small when he slept. He curled around himself like a rabbit in its burrow riding out a storm. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Johnny wrapped his arms around his middle. His spine curved, forming a “C.” He reminded Dally of that raven he’d nearly crushed underfoot. Ages ago. Still so…himself. Dally had to stop himself from tracing the notches in his spine whenever the kid’s shirt rode up.

This morning, Dally actually managed to ride it out in bed. Darry’s, but still, a bed. His entire back thanked him as the morning glow woke him up. He stretched his arms high above his head, the angle irking his side. He dropped his arms, absently holding a hand firm to his ribcage. One of the bullets had gone clean through. The other two had been a bit nastier coming out.

Dally bit his lip as a spasm ripped up his chest. His left lung hadn’t exactly been punctured. But a shard of the bullet got pretty damn close. Which meant Dally now had to watch his breathing. He squinted, tossing the curtains half open. Darry’s side of the bed was empty and cool to the touch. It must be later than he thought. Dally hardly slept, but when he did, he’d usually wake up past two o'clock in the afternoon.

It was erratic and jarring. Like he’d just woken up and missed the rapture. Not that there’d ever be one. Catching his breath from just sitting up proved to Dallas that God really didn’t fucking exist up there. There got to be no way someone up in the clouds was insistent on inflicting so much pain onto people so young. He might’ve deserved it, having lived the life he did. In and out of the county lock up, juvie, stealing, cheating, and hurting others.

For sport, for fun, for the thrill of it. Dally still lived for the fight, but now he was stuck in some kind of limbo. He couldn’t steady his breathing washing dishes, much less tackle a seven-foot Soc into the mud and beat him senseless. Being unable to do simple tasks, complex actions, and things he loved was crushing. It felt definite. Like he was alive, but only just so. This was his penance for all the fucked up damage he’d ever caused.

So, how come Johnny was suffering alongside him? The kid wouldn’t dare hurt a fly (despite killing that Soc. It was self-defense. It didn’t count, it couldn’t, it–). Was Johnny suffering, though? Despite needing the occasional assistance to the bathroom, in the shower, in and out of his chair…he was doing okay. Cracking shy smiles and yearning touches to Dally’s clothes. The kid practically lived in one of Dally’s jackets at this point.

Even in the heat, which made it a battle to get Johnny to take the dang thing off once in a while. Dally left the bedroom and went straight to the living room. Seeing another empty bed started tugging at Dally’s head. Johnny’s okay, yeah? He just got up at a normal time and must be at the kitchen table with the rest of the guys. Once this was confirmed, Dally relaxed against the wall.
“Eggs are getting cold. Sit down.” Darry always spoke too fast so that his command to sit was garbled into one word. But the look he paired with it made Dally get the message. He mumbled something snide under his breath but sat down just the same. They had been good about leaving the chair closest to Johnny’s open for him, like clockwork.

Soda and Pony sat around the table. Pony, of course, had his head in a book. His leg jutted out under the table, nudging into Johnny’s. Probably his sly way of checking in on his best friend without speaking. Not that they ever needed to say anything. Dally quieted his ever-envious chest. Cooled the blood racing up his veins.

Sodapop had half of his DX shirt on, and one sleeve was limp against his chest. He was swirling his fried eggs in grape jelly, which always made Dally wanna hurl. That kid could be so odd when he wanted to be. Neither Johnny nor Pony had really gotten their appetites back since the fire. Dally made note of that. Two plates, maybe only five bites were taken between the pair of them. Dally couldn’t say the same for himself.

His appetite had been and will always remain insatiable. The Curtis brothers were known for it too. But after what that kid had gone through…Dally couldn’t blame him. When you never know where your next meal comes from, you chow down every chance you get. Dally hadn’t had that instability in his life for the last year. Making enough from Buck and rodeos to always prioritize food.

Usually, it was greasy and served in flimsy food wrappers, but still. His eggs disappeared quickly. He clocked the smug look from Darry. Dally had to hand it to him. The guy could make a mean plate of eggs. And Dally needed all the protein he could get. Today, he had to fulfill his promise. It had been one he made between himself and Darry on Johnny’s insistence.

See, when you get winded just walking to take a piss, you ain’t gonna leave your room unless you gotta. Okay, when you make it comfortably outta your room and to the kitchen, the living room. You ain’t gonna go further than that. What’s waiting for Dallas outside of this house, huh? What’s so damn worthy of his time that he’s gotta deal with? A rumble? Can’t do it. A drag race? No siree. A party? Strictly denied.

Which is a fucking gas! Dally needing permission from anybody to do anything. Never did he think he’d see the day. Live to see it, more likely. But Johnny didn’t like it when he talked all morbid like. He could be a real bummer when he wanted to. But no, Johnny had to go and get all involved in matters he’d do better staying clear of. Asking Darry the last time he’d left the house.

Fully knowing Dally hadn’t done no such thing. Pesky brat. So today was the day. A deal had been brokered. “You just gotta head around the block. Okay? Shouldn’t be too tricky.” Darry spoke, breaking Dally outta his fog. Outta the coma, Dally got like that a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. It was too easy to get all caught up in his melon. Sometimes, they worried he wasn’t ever gonna get out of those episodes.

“I know,” Dally mumbled, sticking a fork into Johnny’s eggs. “If you wanna get back to runnin’ buck wild, within reason, it’s the first step.” Sometimes, Dally didn’t know how Darry did it. Sounded so much like a father without being one. He had gotten the mixture of brother and parent figure down pat. It hadn’t always been easy, and Dally surely knows he gave the guy plenty of grief for how he treated Ponyboy.

Things were better. That was the key word for life after the rumble. Hell, after the events at the drive-in, really. They weren’t the best. Dally doubted if life would ever get back to normal. Suppose normalcy had never been established with the gang. But it was a start. Sure, there was still yelling between the eldest and youngest Curtis. Tomfoolery and scuffles with Socs. But it was getting better. It had to be.

Dally’d better do his part and not get left behind because that’d be the worst of all. Darry must’ve said something else because Pony tapped him under the table. He sent the kid a half-baked attempt at a thank you before clearing his throat. “Yeah, yeah, man. I dig it. I got it.” He picked at his ear, not feeling keen to meet Darry’s ever-watchful eye.

“I’ll go with ‘em.” Johnny piped up. Dally paused, flicking over to the kid. “Johnny, you don’t got to–” He started, but Johnny quirked an eyebrow. “I wanna, really. I won’t leave ya in the dust or nothin’.” The kid had cheek! Dally rolled his eyes, scarfing down Johnny’s plate and sticking his egg-covered tongue out at him. Sodapop chuckled and jumped up when he heard Steve honk from outside. He ruffled Pony’s hair and gave a wave before running off to work.

“Good luck, Dally!” Sodapop yelled too damn loudly.

Darry sighed, checked his watch, and hurried himself along. “Okay, alright. But take it easy, Johnny. Only what feels comfortable.” Johnny nods, looking quite pleased with himself. He could be pretty good with words and working others over when he wanted to be. It seemed like only Dallas could see that. “Pone, you’d better go with Soda before they leave you.” He tapped his foot, and Pony finally looked up from his book.

“Kay. Bye!” He stuffed his book into the backpack under the table. He hugged Johnny goodbye and gave Dally a tuff send-off. Dally tried not to roll his eyes again. Darry groaned, dumped their forgotten dishes into the sink, and grabbed his lunch pail. Downed the rest of his coffee, “Take your dang plates to the sink! It’s right there!” He hollered, right on Ponyboy’s tail. He gave a hasty nod to the pair before filing out after his kid brothers.

And just like that, the whirlwind that is the three Curtis brothers was over. Dally let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d sucked in. He drank the rest of the OJ straight from the carton. He slouched in his chair, ever the usual posture for a no-good hood like Dally. He really felt like he was a no-good hood, no good at being a hood in his current pathetic state.

Johnny read his mind and damn near tried to roll over his foot. “That hurts, you brat!” Dally pulled his foot back and stood up. Dumping the rest of the plates unceremoniously into the sink. Maybe he’d work up the courage and do ‘em later. He really oughta help out more. They’d wise up pretty soon and kick him to the curb. As long as they kept Johnny around, he supposed.

He comes back around and stands behind Johnny’s chair. Takes hold of the handles and wheels him through the door frame towards the living room. Stops just short of the door. “We should check out what’s playin’ right now.” He jerks a thumb towards the Television. Not quite bargaining out of the deal. Just a playful suggestion. He knows the kid can appreciate those old cowboy movies.

Johnny grabs hold of his wheels and spins himself to face Dally. The look on his face suggests he isn’t exactly impressed with the idea. Arms crossed like a little kid. “I wanna see if there’s any blackberries.” Dally grits his teeth. He knows what the kid’s on about. There’s a gaggle of blackberry bushes just past the lot. A little further than just around the block. “Nuh-uh. They jus’ get stick in yer teeth anyhow.” Dally snapped. He’d wrapped his arms around his stomach defensively.

But he knew this was coming. He’d already dressed. Soda’s blue jeans and Darry’s old T-shirt. Even had his tennis shoes on already. He felt lucky about that last part, considering it would’ve hurt a lot more if Johnny half-wheeled over his bare foot. He knew the feeling, too. The kid used his chair as an extension of himself sometimes. “Well, if yer not up to the challenge, Dal…” He couldn’t suppress the grin as he spoke.

Dally really oughta give him what for.

“Fiiine. Jesus, alright. We’ll go get you your damn fruit.” He was already getting tired again. Maybe afterward, they’d come back and nap on the couch together. Fall asleep watching cartoons or something. Post-coma life was fucking exhausting. Like he burned up his once overflowing energy just by brushing his damn teeth. Doing his hair. Daily stretches. That’s why he was calling bullshit on the whole walk idea.

No way in hell was he making it past the threshold and outside. Much less an entire marathon. (It might as well feel like one.) Johnny pulled at his wheels, starting towards the front door. Dally knew better than to wait around, only giving pause to grab the kid’s leather gloves. The ones Dally had often used for drag races and grip during a rodeo. They had been left to collect dust until Pony had the bright idea that Johnny should have ‘em.

He had said borrow, actually, but Dally wasn’t too sure. It did a helluva job protecting the kid’s palms and fingertips, which was good enough for both of ‘em. Johnny didn’t even have to do nothing either; just raised a hand up for Dally to pull one on. Did the same for the other. Dally, ever the gentleman, opened the screen door for Johnny to get out of. He watched as the kid, with practiced ease, took his time going through and down the ramp.

Darry had made a ramp for him the minute they got the kid to stay with them. It was just a leftover plank of wood and bolted to the ground, but it was enough. Dally only wished he was around to see Johnny’s reaction. It was a grand gesture for a kid who battles just being seen. He must’ve put up a fight with it, too, not wanting to trouble nobody. And a whole ramp must’ve been some kind of trouble.

It solidified that Johnny was a permanent fixture at the house. Something you can’t take back. And Johnny works best just floating around. Between here and there. Never wanting to overstay a visit when anyone called bullshit on that. Dally knew why it was so hard for Johnny to plant his roots. Same way, it was hard for him. Whereas Johnny didn’t wanna be a bother, Dally didn’t want to lose something.

Lose his edge. Settling down, claiming that finally, finally, he’s gonna stick around. He was a bird. One who needs to stretch their wings and take to the skies when the going gets tough. Dally was the type to clock the exits ASAP at any place in any building in the world. He always gotta know how to get outta someplace. What to do just in case he’d better take off. It’s half of the reason why he used to carry so much cash.

Why he’d tuck a heater into the waistband of his blue jeans so often.

And yet…there was no back-against-the-wall feeling right now. He was complacent, like those tigers at the zoo who just slept in the corner of their cage all day. Lying in wait. But that waiting was the worst part, on a count of Dally not knowing his future. He never said he could predict it, but he liked knowing what cards he had and when to play ‘em. When you live the same way and do the same no-good JD shit, you can expect what’s coming your way.

And the front door was open. It was the scariest sight in this GD world. Paralyzed at the entrance, hands holding onto either side of the frame. His breath comes in uneven jumps. Like after a big fight, and you’re hopped up on adrenaline and joy and can’t seem to take a real fucking breath. So you’re just playing catch up. Something now that Dally was shit at with the lung capacity of a toddler. Luckily, his motor skills were still okay.

He could stand, go from here to there. Just took a helluva lot longer. It was frustrating, too. Usually, it was life and the Socs that frustrated him. Nowadays, it was just himself. And it was goddamn embarrassing to boot. Johnny was already down by the gate, hands folded in his lap. Dally was grateful not to be rushed. He didn’t know where all this damn hesitance was coming from. He was a stone-cold killer. A viper striking in the dark. A weed-smoking, five-finger discount-taking, walking-on-the-other-side-of-the-street type of guy.

So how come he can’t leave the fucking house?

“‘S okay, man. Come on.” Johnny’s voice was light, and Dally could tell he was trying to be encouraging. “It’s nothin’. Just a step. Go on, Dal.” But it’s not nothing, Dally wants to say right back. It’s a whole fucking lot. His words die out as he opens his mouth and goes back to closing it real quick. Do it, do it, do it– “Fuck.” Dally grits out, taking his first steps outside. It’s a lot hotter outside, if that was possible.

The sun’s too bright. The birds are too loud. He can’t hardly breathe, a hand coming up and clenching his shirt fabric. “Dally.” Doesn’t even hear the kid in the slightest. He turns to look back inside, but the screen door slamming seals his fate. Why’s this feel a whole lot worse than death row? Like, any second, he’s gonna walk into some kind of firing squad. But no, there’s nobody. Just him and Johnny and a summer afternoon. There’s the creak of Johnny’s chair as the kid comes back for him. He really oughta find an oil can and help him out. Johnny’s feet come to a slow halt in front of him, gently running into his shins. He looks down.

Suddenly, Dally feels like a little kid, and Johnny’s his mama, like he’s about to get scolded and put over her knee. That real guilty feeling when you break something and try to hide it. (His mother never bothered with her knee. She’d go for throwing bottles and shit.) Dally doesn’t realize he’s trembling until Johnny takes his hand. It takes more encouragement, pulling Dally’s hand from his side. Johnny’s warm. And his leather glove sticks to Dally’s bare palm.

Dallas cannot bear to make eye contact. It’d kill him. Some big hood he is. Some tuff Greaser. Pathetic. He oughta lay down in the street and let a car finish the job. It’s like Johnny knows how he’s thinking and gives his hand a squeeze. Dally jostles, getting yanked down to face Johnny. No hiding now. No place to go but look into Johnny’s eyes. Dally’s trying so damn hard to breathe, to listen to the kid, to stand up on his own two feet.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

Yeah, good going, Dally. That’s casual. He might actually think you’re not currently freaking the fuck out. It doesn’t work because no shit. Dally’s just glad they forgot to do his stupid stretches. (Though there’s a good chance Johnny’ll make him do it when they get back.)

“We’re in this together, man. Don’t gotta do it alone.”

He’s right. And it hurts that he is. They, in fact, are in this together. Cause it ain’t fair. Hell, they should be switched. Dally’s got a chance to recover and get better. Get back to some kind of normal, who knows when. But still. “I wish we could switch.” Dally finally voices his guilt. The crushed look coming off Johnny makes him realize he shouldn’t have said it. Stupid.

“You really feel like that?” All Dally can do is nod. He sits down on the ramp with shaky legs. Shaking so damn badly that Johnny’s gotta steady him as he descends. He thanks whatever mysterious forces are out there that nobody’s around to see this. Lays his head in Johnny’s lap. He’d only ever had his head in the kid’s lap when he was drunk off his ass when Johnny’d find his way to Buck’s in the middle of the night.

Johnny got good at putting up with a half-drunk-half-asleep Dallas Winston. It felt at home in that spot. Johnny’d drag his nails on his scalp, tug at his hair. Emboldened enough sometimes to pet his face. Drag his hand down Dally’s shoulders and rub his back. Usually only did this when Johnny was sure Dally’d be too drunk to ever remember it.

He was doing it now. And it felt like reliving a memory. Fitting puzzle pieces together. His hand dragged down Dally’s shoulder and rubbed absent circles into his back. Going over the bumps of his spine that had become more pronounced with the coma weight loss. “Dallas…” he whispers into Dally’s hair. “We gotta do this. Dally…we’re both where we gotta be…it don’t matter how it happened. Matters how it is now.” When’d this kid get so damn wise? Dallas pulls his head back, giving the kid a look. His lips quirk into a smile. And it feels real.

“Too smart for your own good, Johnnycakes.” He uses Johnny’s armrests to pull himself up and steadies Johnny when the chair lurches forward at the momentum. Johnny reverses, his wheel getting stuck in the grass off the concrete path. Dally reaches forward, but Johnny holds up a hand. “I got it, man.” Dally nods, “I dig.” He watches as Johnny reaches the gate, unlocks it, and wheels through. He doesn’t bother sparing a glance behind him.

Dally’s footsteps confirm it. Dally gives a sour huff. Where’d this kid get off, knowing him like that. Fingers wobble as they come across the gate and clasps the cold metal. “Come on, Dal, you got it, man. You ca–” Dally holds up a hand, eyes downcast. Tries to hide a cheeky smile. He plays too much. But he’s got to. If he acknowledged how serious this ought to be, it’d feel all the more scarier.

Takes a step outside. And then another. Again and again and again.

Catches up to the kid. Dally places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Johnny turns to face him and it happens in a flash– Dallas leans down and presses a kiss to Johnny’s cheek. Johnny sputters and grabs at Dally to pull him back down for more. Dally tries down to dance around it, his smile breaking into a hearty chuckle.

Holds Johnny’s hand with all the strength he got, breathless. Laughs into his words.

“You think Darry’d make a blackberry cobbler?”

Chapter Text

Darry, it turns out, made a damn fine Blackberry cobbler. Must've gotten the recipe from one of Mrs. Curtis' old recipe books. The ones collectin' dust up above the cupboards with the measuring cups and flour sack. Soda'd insisted on helpin', and the dang thing turned a funny shade of green afterward. But the boys ate it up till there's only crumbs in the dish.

Dally gave Steve a smack on the head for sneakin' the last piece. It was enough of a movement to make his side ache. So he offered a half-bitter curse at Randle before duckin' out the backdoor to join Johnny. The kid always got such a faraway look nowadays. His chair teetered dangerously close to the step down from the porch. Dally lurched out and yanked him backward.

"What would ya do if you went overboard, huh? You oughta pay attention, man." But Johnny got that dreamy smile on his face, the one that melts Dally up like a pad of butter on flapjacks. Knows just how to cool him down. Dally only sighed, his fighting resolve goin' along with it. Ain't gotta be so serious anyhow. They're okay, ain't they? Sittin' outside with two plates of cobbler. Watching the sun go down.

Bringin' its famous reds and pinks as it claws its way to bed. "I would've figured it out." As if to say: I don't need your help, just your company. Dally huffed, takin' a moment as he steadied himself to sit on the cold concrete of the porch beside Johnny's chair. His hand shot out to hold Johnny's wheel. He didn't mean nothin' by it.

Or maybe he did. Maybe it was his promise. His reply. He just wanted so damn badly to be around the kid. Had to connect them somehow. Keep the lifeline flowing. His heart hadn't stopped workin' in overdrive since their neighborhood walk. (They had to stop about near twenty times. Who knew you'd lose your breath just by a couple steps?)

He was glad to have made it out, even happier to stay stuck back in the house. Save the rest of Tulsa (or the East side, at least) for another adventure. He'd gotten back home with the kid, done the damn stretches. Somethin' about finding your center, standing up tall, and bending your limbs all over the dang place. He was up to doin' it for half an hour daily. (Darry timed him!)

The thing they don't tell ya about recovery is how damn ridiculous it can be. It's not a common conversation topic around here. Boys their age talk about makin' it through another day. Makin' somethin' of themselves, or how they're plannin' on surviving. Certain Socs they oughta beat up. Which stores have shit security. You get the picture.

Dark boys from dark corners of the worst parts of the city. Ones that don't get nothin' and will probably only ever be nothin'. Just like Dally was. Is. It's like he's at a crossroads, in his limbo. He knows things are better. He's alive, for one. Johnny too. Helluva a lot better than how they could be. He could be in matchin' matchstick boxes six feet under right about now.

He-

There's a cold hand on his shoulder. Giving him a squeeze. He must've been in one of those thinkin' storms again. Gettin' lost in your own head never gets easier. Only better. Dally rests his cheek on Johnny's hand. Appreciates the cooling feeling on his hot skin. That kid ran so cold you'd think he was some Eskimo in the Arctic. It worked, seein' as how he was the opposite.

It was a balance. "Tell me what yer thinkin'." But Dally doesn't wanna bum the kid out. Doesn't like ruinin' their sunsets. He sighs and sets down his dessert. When it's just the two of 'em, even with a house of rowdy boys it don't got any sound. Just the hum of the crickets and Johnny's even breaths. His breaths, he's breathing. He's fine.

"Would ya buy it if I said nothin'?" The quirk of Johnny's eyebrow says he wouldn't. Dally gives a cheeky smile; it's small, but it's enough. It gotta be. He kisses Johnny's gloved hand. Sits up, takes off the glove, and gives it another peck. He knows his lips are chapped, and he knows Johnny won't give a damn.

"Jus'...thinkin'. You know how it gets." He shrugged, wanting to downplay it. Scoots over, sentimental as a damn puppy, and rests his head on Johnny's thigh. It's a silent cue for Johnny to start playin' with his hair. He gets it. Cause he's his Johnny. Two halves of one whole. There's a whole lotta hurt in them, but it's gettin' better.

"I know." Johnny don't gotta say it for Dally to understand. But he appreciates the confirmation. Makes it feel real. He takes his time takin' in breaths. Doin' the counting, doing what he gotta do. The last thing he thought he'd be doin', by the way. Was listening to The Man and lettin' The Man order him around. Tellin' him to sit and stay like some kind of mutt. (Was Darry The Man in this?)

Yeah, he was a mutt. But he was an Alpha. Top dog. Had to be. Had to mean somethin'. All this suffering, backward pain, and devastation had been rained down upon them. Dally…better stop lookin' for meaning in things he knows shit about. Just let things be things and let Ponyboy do the figuring out of things for them all. He's good at that shit, that kid might have his head in the clouds, but he'll be the one to make it out here.

"I was thinkin' we could try for the Drive-In next week."

Those couple of words shouldn't mean anythin'. Shouldn't make Dallas' blood run cold. Make him realize how stiff his back was gettin', how his breath's gonna come out all funny. He changes positions, and the fingers in his hair pull back. Dally shouldn't miss them so damn much, but he does. He lies down on the porch completely. A hand outstretched touches the rubber of his wheel.

"They ain't playin' nothin' good, man. Waste of my time."

Johnny sighs. Dally hates the sound of it. Dally's hand isn't touching anything, and it freaks him out, but he hears the turn of Johnny's chair, and the guy butts into his side. He jerks, giving Johnny a mean look. Pushes him back with one swoop. The kid isn't havin' it. Dally stretches out, grabbing the wheel. He must've yanked too hard cause Johnny nearly tumbled outta it. Panic wells up somethin' awful, and Dally skyrockets up. Grabs hold of Johnny in a crushing hold. Chest to chest, he feels his chest rise and fall.

And Johnny's laughing, making it past the initial scare. It's contagious, and Dally finds himself giving a chuckle. Settles Johnny down in his chair and takes his damn time letting go. Ruffles his hair, placing a gentle squeeze on his shoulder.

"Careful there, cowboy!" He chastises, he teases, and it's cause he knows how to push Johnny's buttons just the same. The sunset makes Johnny's eyes look like the sky itself. "How about the end of the month?" It's a compromise. It's something for the pair of 'em to latch onto.

Johnny nods. He grabs Dally by his denim and pulls him down.

Kisses him sweet as honey.

"Deal."

Man, was this a nice night to watch a sunset. One Ponyboy would've whipped up with his watercolors like no other. Dally wished he could blink and snap a picture of the view. He didn't want it to go anywhere. Half-worried, everybody'd miss it. But here's the thing.

There'd be plenty more sunsets.