Chapter Text
The adrenaline was still thrumming in Dally's veins, a harsh counterpoint to the dull, insistent ache that had taken root behind his eyes. The rumble had been a blur of fists and shouts, a chaotic dance he usually thrived in. But this time, something had been off. He remembered a flash of a heavy boot, a sickening thud against the side of his head, just above his left ear, and then a brief, disorienting flicker of black before the world snapped back into distorted focus. No one else had seen it, lost in the flurry of the fight, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna be the one to mention it. Dallas Winston, at sixteen and a half, didn't get hurt. Not really. He dished it out, he didn't take it.
Now, sprawled on his back on the worn carpet of the Curtis living room, surrounded by the familiar sounds of the gang winding down, he just wished the ceiling would stop tilting. Soda was laughing, a bright, easy sound, and Darry was barking orders about getting cleaned up. Steve was already halfway to the kitchen, probably raiding the icebox. Dally tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt heavy, disconnected, as if they belonged to someone else. His head, a dead weight, lolled slightly to the side, his gaze snagging on a loose thread in the rug. He blinked, trying to clear the fuzzy edges from his vision, but the thread just seemed to stretch and waver like a piece of string underwater.
"Hey, Dally, you gonna lie there all night?" Two-Bit's voice, usually a sharp, cutting sound, seemed muffled, distant, as if he were speaking from the end of a long tunnel. Dally grunted, pushing harder, his muscles protesting. He finally managed to get to a sitting position, leaning heavily against the arm of the couch. The room spun for a second, a dizzying carousel of familiar faces and worn furniture, and he squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of nausea washing over him, bitter and metallic. When he opened them, the faces of his friends seemed to swim in and out of focus, their features blurring like poorly developed photographs.
He tried to follow the conversation, something about a new broad at the Dingo, but the words were slurring together, losing their meaning before they reached him. It was like listening to a radio station fading in and out, snatching fragments but never the whole picture. He nodded vaguely when someone looked his way, a desperate hope that it was the right response, that he wasn't giving anything away. His own thoughts were sluggish, like trying to wade through thick mud, each mental step requiring immense effort. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched, his reaction time noticeably slower than usual, a jolt of alarm going through him. It was Ponyboy, looking at him with that too-observant gaze, those sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to see more than Dally ever wanted them to.
"You alright, Dally? You look a little green."
Dally forced a sneer, the familiar mask sliding into place, albeit a little crookedly. His lips felt heavy, stiff. "Just tired, kid. These rumbles ain't what they used to be." He tried to push himself to his feet, aiming for the bathroom, a desperate need for a moment of solitude to collect himself. But his left foot caught on nothing, or perhaps everything, and he stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe with a jarring thud that sent a fresh spike of white-hot pain through his skull, exploding behind his eyes. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let out a sound, even a gasp. He could feel their eyes on him, a collective pause in the room's usual clamor.
"Whoa there, cowboy," Darry said, his voice laced with concern, a rare softness that Dally hated. "You been drinkin'?"
"Nah," Dally mumbled, shaking his head. Big mistake. The room did a full revolution this time, a nauseating spin that made his stomach churn. He had to clench his jaw, hard, to keep from swaying, to keep the bile from rising. He pushed off the doorframe, forcing himself to walk a straight line, even if it felt like he was navigating a funhouse mirror, the floor rippling beneath his feet. He could feel their eyes on him, a silent interrogation, but he ignored them, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Just make it to the bathroom. Just make it to bed. He'd sleep it off. He always did. Dally Winston was tough. He had to be.
He made it to the bathroom, shutting the door with a quiet click that still echoed too loudly in his head. He leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink, staring at his reflection. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and there was a faint, angry red mark just above his temple, hidden mostly by his unruly hair. He splashed cold water on his face, gasping as the shock hit him, but it did little to clear the fog. The water droplets on the mirror seemed to multiply, blurring his reflection further. He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, and took several deep, shaky breaths. This wasn't just tired. This was something else. Something bad. But he couldn't let it show. Not to them. They didn't need another thing to worry about.
When he finally emerged, the living room was quieter. Soda and Steve were sprawled on the floor, already asleep, their breathing even. Darry was still up, reading the newspaper, a faint light from the kitchen illuminating his profile. Ponyboy was curled up on the couch, ostensibly reading a book, but Dally caught him glancing over, his eyes still holding that perceptive, worried glint. Johnny was huddled in his usual armchair, looking small and fragile.
Dally tried to walk normally, but his steps felt clumsy, uncoordinated. He nearly tripped over a throw rug. He felt a sudden, intense chill, despite the warmth of the house. He shivered, pulling his worn denim jacket tighter around him.
"You cold, Dally?" Johnny's voice was soft, barely a whisper.
Dally just grunted, shaking his head. "Nah. Just... a breeze." He didn't look at Johnny, couldn't bear to see the concern in those dark, vulnerable eyes. He headed for the armchair opposite Johnny's, the one he sometimes crashed in. He lowered himself into it slowly, carefully, as if his bones were made of glass. Every movement sent a fresh jolt through his head.
He closed his eyes, hoping to find some respite in the darkness, but the inside of his eyelids was a swirling kaleidoscope of bright, shifting colors, like a broken TV screen. He opened them again, blinking rapidly. He could hear Darry turn a page in the newspaper, the rustle sounding like thunder. The tick-tock of the old clock on the mantelpiece was a relentless hammer against his temples.
"You want some aspirin, Dally?" Darry asked, without looking up from his paper.
"Nah, I'm good," Dally forced out, his voice rougher than he intended. He just wanted them to leave him alone. To stop looking. To stop asking. He just wanted the world to stop spinning.
He sat there, rigid, trying to appear relaxed, but every muscle in his body was screaming in protest. He felt a strange detachment, as if he were watching himself from outside his own body. The conversations of the gang, the familiar comfort of their presence, usually a balm, now felt like an irritating static. He focused on the patterns in the wallpaper, trying to make them hold still, but they danced and swayed.
Hours passed. The house grew completely silent, save for the soft snores of Soda and Steve. Darry eventually folded his newspaper and went to bed, his footsteps heavy. Only Ponyboy and Johnny remained in the living room, both seemingly asleep. Dally, however, was wide awake, trapped in a waking nightmare of pain and disorientation.
He tried to shift, to find a more comfortable position, but the armchair felt like it was made of jagged rocks. He closed his eyes again, willing sleep to come, but his mind raced, not with coherent thoughts, but with fragments of the rumble, flashes of the boot, the sickening thud. He could feel the pulse throbbing in his neck, a frantic drumbeat. He felt hot, then cold, then hot again. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.
He needed a cigarette. He fumbled in his pocket, his fingers clumsy, unable to locate the pack. He pulled out a crumpled dollar bill instead. His hands were shaking. He tried again, finally pulling out the pack and a lighter. He flicked the lighter, but his hand was so unsteady that the flame danced wildly, refusing to catch. He tried again, and again, the metallic click-click-click echoing loudly in the quiet room.
"Dally?" Johnny's voice, small and tentative, cut through the silence. He was awake, watching him.
Dally froze, the lighter still in his shaking hand. "Just... can't get this damn thing to light." He finally managed to get a flame, bringing it to the tip of a cigarette, drawing in a shaky breath. The smoke tasted like ash, and it made his head pound even harder.
Johnny got up, moving slowly, cautiously, like a stray dog approaching a wary hand. He sat on the floor near Dally's armchair, not too close, but close enough. "You really okay? You look like you're gonna pass out."
Dally glared at him, but there was no real heat in it. He was too tired, too sick. "I'm fine, Johnnycake. Just leave it."
Johnny didn't leave it. "You hit your head, didn't you? In the rumble?"
Dally's jaw tightened. "No." The lie was flat, unconvincing, even to his own ears.
Johnny was quiet for a moment, then he spoke, his voice barely audible. "I saw a guy kick at you. Thought he missed."
Dally squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The kid saw it. Damn it. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, which still seemed to be gently swaying. "He missed," Dally insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. He couldn't keep up the charade much longer. Every word was an effort. Every breath felt shallow.
He felt Johnny's small hand on his arm, a feather-light touch. "You should tell Darry. Or Soda."
"No!" Dally snapped, the word sharp, louder than he intended. He instantly regretted it. Johnny flinched, pulling his hand back. "No," Dally repeated, softer this time, his voice raspy. "I'm fine. Just... leave it." He couldn't stand the thought of being weak, of being fussed over. He was Dally Winston, the toughest of the tough. He took care of himself. Always had. Always would.
He spent the rest of the night in a semi-conscious state, drifting in and out of a fitful, dreamless sleep that offered no relief. Each time he stirred, the room would spin, the nausea would return, and the dull ache in his head would sharpen into a throbbing pain. He could hear the distant rumble of the trains, the occasional car passing by, each sound amplified, distorted. He felt like he was trapped in a box, and the walls were closing in.
As dawn approached, painting the sky in pale shades of grey and pink, Dally finally managed to push himself up. He felt worse than he had the night before. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart. He felt a profound sense of exhaustion, bone-deep and debilitating. He needed to get out, to breathe, to escape the suffocating concern he could feel emanating from the sleeping figures around him.
He stumbled out of the living room, past the sleeping forms of his friends, and into the kitchen. He grabbed a glass of water, his hand shaking so badly that half of it sloshed onto the counter. He drank the rest in a few gulps, but it did nothing to quench the dryness in his throat or settle his stomach. He leaned against the counter, his vision tunneling, the edges of his sight going dark. He closed his eyes, clutching the glass, waiting for the wave to pass.
When he opened them, Ponyboy was standing in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He must have woken up. "Dally? You okay?"
Dally forced a weak smile, a pale imitation of his usual cocky grin. "Never better, kid." He pushed himself off the counter, trying to walk with his usual swagger, but it came out as a lurching shuffle. He made it to the front door, fumbling with the lock.
"Where are you going?" Ponyboy asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.
"Out," Dally mumbled, finally getting the lock open. The fresh morning air hit him, cold and sharp, and for a moment, it felt good, a brief reprieve from the suffocating warmth of the house. He stepped out onto the porch, the world still tilting, but he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, into the pale light of the new day. He had to keep moving. He had to keep going. He had to be Dally Winston. Even if it killed him.