Chapter Text
Manhattan New York, 1960
Your name is Dallas Winston, and you're having a very meh day so far.
Your papa told you to get out, you knew how it went by now, so you did as you were told.
You met up with your best friend Eddie, he was four years older than you and kinda mean.
Ok, very mean, but he was the only greaser around here who would tolerate a little kid following him around the city.
He told you to leave, something different shone in his eyes than usual, but you didn't listen.
You never listen to anyone but your papa, he was the only guy you had to be scared of.
You didn't like admitting that, though.
You follow Eddie around as usual until he yells at you, but then you just follow him around more sneakily.
(He noticed you immediately, but decided he could work with it.)
At some point, Eddie gets with his big kid friends, they've got heaters, n’ crowbars, and all types of tuff stuff to use for whatever they were planning.
(Eddie points at you when you get distracted by how loud the passing cars are, he says something you don't hear.)
(Nowadays, you have a feeling you know what was said.)
You keep following them around for a while, they start talking to some guy from a gang they're not in, they switch some boring looking brown paper bags and look around suspiciously.
Then, the loud crack of a gun being shot is heard.
People start yelling, and running, and something is shoved in your hands, and you're pushed around and suddenly you're staring down a body.
The head is gone, replaced by a gnarly splatter of blood and a pile of meat.
It's limp.
You wonder if “body” is the right word for it, corpse is more accurate at this point.
These thoughts are quiet and barely hit you though, as suddenly you hear sirens and snap out of your little trance and look down.
There's a black heater in your small hands.
Cops start grabbing at you, you faintly hear yourself yelling and crying as cold metal clasps around your wrists.
“I didn't do nothin’!”
“Shut up, kid.”
“I'm ten, you really think I did that!? Let me go!” You kick and try with all your might to struggle against the man but he yanks at your hair, gaining a yelp from deep in your throat.
You plead and cry, you must not look very tough right now as they haul you into a cop car.
You want your mama.
Tulsa Oklahoma, 1967
Your name is Ponyboy Curtis, and for the past three days, you've been watching just about the toughest guy you know slowly deteriorate.
Dally looks absolutely horrible.
He looks almost like a crack-addict going through withdrawal; Cracked lips, sunken eyes, a scowl, pitter pattering fingertips on the couch’s armrest and a bouncing leg, it's unsettling. You're watching Mickey Mouse and having to stop yourself from nervously rocking back and forth because you don't want to get him telling you to calm down, you're not a little kid.
His breathing is shaky as he rubs at his eyes, you wish you could help.
“...Do you want some water?”
Dallas's gaze snaps to you, eyes wide like a frightened cat, but he nods.
You get up and walk, your normally cat-quiet footsteps suddenly feel as loud as gunshots as you go to the kitchen, it's hard to even look at Dally right now.
The world feels a bit quieter, you still feel sick, your stomach hurts as you move and you can't help but groan softly. You grab a glass and fill it with water, an inch left unfilled, you always did it like that. You grab some ice too, scooping it with a spoon, Dally hated y'all touching his food and drink.
Slowly, you come back and hand the water to him, his fingers are long and thin, but also calloused; An unnerving mixture.
The thought of what Johnny would think slashes through your mind.
You sit back down.
You'd really rather not think about that.
The cushions of the couch were never that soft, they smelled kinda funky too, like beer and nicotine and sweat and oddly enough, oranges. You'd come to be comforted by that smell, though. It kept you sane. You wonder how Dallas felt about it. If it was comforting to him. The orange part especially.
Your mama used to smell like oranges, you really missed her. And dad too.
You remember being real attached to your ma, you were a very clingy kid. To everyone. Once upon a time, you were always holding Darry's hand, or having Soda play with your hair; And you'd lay down with… With Johnny, or you'd even supposedly (not really, there was photographic proof) get carried around by Steve everywhere like a plushy.
Never Dallas, though.
You always watched him from afar. He was always too big, too scary. But you loved to draw him, sketchbooks were filled with that unmistakable white hair, piercing eyes, and scowl. Sometimes a grin with sharp teeth and a single silver cap peaking through his thin lips like a treasured jewel he couldn't help but show off.
He was mean, a real dick to you when you were younger, but sometimes he called you his kid brother. Sometimes he'd light your cigarettes or give you his last one. Once he wrestled you into his jacket while it was pouring rain.
Johnny was giggling behind you.
You missed Johnny.
What made Dallas try to kill himself? It was an honest question. Was it just losing Johnny? Maybe more? He was so angry and sad. It was scary. Maybe even scarier than seeing Johnny on his deathbed.
Stop thinking about that.
About Johnny.
About your best friend.
Past best friend.
You have… Curly, at least, you suppose.
When he's out of the cooler.
Cherry?
No, she wouldn't speak to you outside of quiet, private conversation.
…Mark?
You didn't know him well enough.
Having your brother be your best friend was kinda sad. You loved Soda, but… He was your brother, maybe your father at this point, not your friend.
Same goes for Darry, he'd had to become your mother.
Or at least, they acted that way. To soothe you. To keep you sane.
Dallas didn't have that.
Dallas.
Dally.
Dal.
Dally/Darry.
Darry/Dally.
Too alike and too far.
Too old for their young ages, they care too much but they don't care enough, foils? No. No, they weren't foils.
Maybe you were just reaching for similarities.
To try and convince yourself that Dally's still tough as nails and that he'll get better and be ok. He has to. He's Dally Winston. He was born to be the scary juvenile delinquent he is, a real life criminal, an actual hood. Did hoods cry like he did to cause those dried tear streaks striping his face like scars?
Are those scars on his wrists?
The newest one is the stab wound he got from Two-Bit's switch in the hospital, he stabbed himself with it right in front of you. You thought it was kinda just to make a point.
But there's more, there's more, old, faint, thin lines. There's so many. On both wrists too.
They're old.
All of them.
But still… It's scary.
Your eyes drift up to his, he's not looking at you, what can you even say? Is there anything to say?
“Kid, quit starin’.” He murmurs gruffly, you just snap your eyes to the TV.
No words are spoken.