Chapter Text
The road stretches out into the horizon in either direction, winter wind slicing across the long fields of grass. Dally zips by, frost cutting his cheeks through the open window. He drives almost twice the limit, he swears, he shouts, he turns the music up too loud. It’s some hard stuff, from the underground clubs in New York; none of the twangy backwater shit he gets on the radio out here. Dally lets out a holler and its swallowed in the wind.
There’s a Dairy Queen a few miles south of town, enough in the middle of nowhere that Dally’s surprised it’s still open, but he pulls in with a screech of his tires. A couple families give him dirty looks as he gets out. He glares at them, scratches the cut congealing on his cheek. Dally winks at one of the mothers, the one with a big gold crucifix on her chest. If this were New York, she’d be clutching said cross and telling him to go to church, that Jesus can save him. If this were New York, he would tell her to fuck off, and maybe knock down her shake for good measure. But this isn’t New York, so Dally lights a cigarette right outside the entrance and dares her with his eyes to say something. Thsi is Oklahoma, so she doesn’t.
Fuck. He inspects his knuckles where they’re starting to purple. The Soc bastard didn’t even put up a good fight, he was too sloshed. Dally gnashes his teeth. Who gets day drunk on a Tuesday? Worthless fucks, that’s who. Nevermind the fact he was thinking about cracking a can himself.
Dally finishes his cigarette and smushes it out on his boot heel. A couple families are milling around across the parking lot. One of them has a little boy bundled up in a puffy jacket with them. The husband leans over and kisses his wife over her scarf. The wife laughs. Fuck them. Fuck their happy little family and their marshmallow kid. Fuck all of it. If Dally was sure his fingers weren’t broken, he’d hit something. Smash the window. Strangle the waitress with the neon open sign. Anything. Instead, Dally tosses his cigarette butt away and heads back out. He can’t fuckin’ do this. He barely knows what he's doing out here. Fuck.
So, Dally guns it back into town, avoiding all the roads where the fuzz like to hang out on week days. The last thing he needs is some balding asshole leaning against the roof of his car asking him why he isn’t in school, young man? Dally sighs. Maybe he isn’t in school, young man, ‘cause he hasn’t set foot in a school since getting hauled off to juvie the last time, and that was almost four years ago. Maybe ‘cause his dad’s a drunk and cashiers at a gas station. Maybe ‘cause he doesn’t remember the last time he actually laughed, unless he was blasted drunk or high.
Except, hang on. That’s not true. A few nights ago, when Johnny stuck a couple pencils in his mouth and called himself a walrus—something Two-Bit had taught him, apparently— That got Dally in stitches, and he wasn’t even tipsy. Hadn’t had a drop to drink that night at all. Johnny was just that funny, with his voice going weird and high. And the way Johnny looked at him, and wiggled his eyebrows. Yeah. That was the last time Dally laughed somethin’ fierce.
Huh. Weird.
Dally doesn’t realize he’s making his way to the high school until he’s two blocks away, idling at a stoplight. Fuck. He digs in the cup holder for a smoke and lights one. Fuck it. It’s almost noon. No point in turning around now. The light turns green and Dally pulls through, trying to remember what Johnny’s told him about how the high school schedule works. It might be lunch time.
Thankfully, Dally doesn’t have to think too hard, because when he pulls into the parking lot, he spots Johnny and Ponyboy on an old picnic table, stealing puffs of cigs and glancing intermittently at the door. They jump when they see Dally’s car roll up, but they settle down when they realize it’s him. Johnny smiles with one corner of his mouth.
“What’re you doing here?” Johnny asks.
“Sup, Dally?” Ponyboy asks. He looks away too fast. Checking out Dally’s cut up cheek, no doubt.
“Nothin’ yet,” Dally says, glancing around. Ponyboy has a dented metal lunchbox in his lap. Over by the fence, a couple other hoods are huddle up, no doubt passing a joint back and forth and trying to hide it in their clouds of breath. But otherwise, the area’s empty. “Ain’t you cold?” Dally nods towards Johnny, who’s wearing only a thin jean jacket.
Johnny shrugs, “Nah. Besides, they don’t let us smoke inside. Last time someone got caught, they took all the doors off the bathrooms.”
Dally makes a face.
Johnny takes a drag, “Yeah. So we’re stuck out here.”
From the school building, a bell rings. Pony smushes out his cigarette and glances back to the door, “Hey, I gotta get to English. You still comin’ over for dinner?”
“Yeah,” Johnny says.
“Tuff,” Ponyboy says. He looks at Dally again and gives him a short nod before heading inside. Dally nods back.
When he’s gone, Johnny and Dally look at each other a moment. Johnny’s cheeks have gone pink with cold. He holds a dry, cracked hand out and Dally takes the offered cigarette.
“You wanna get outta here?” Dally asks, taking a drag and handing the cig back to Johnny, who takes one as well. Dally doesn’t know why he asked.
Johnny thinks about it for a minute, worrying his lip between his teeth, “Yeah, sure.” He grins as he hops off the picnic table. They pass the cigarette back and forth all the way to Dally’s car.
Dally drives too fast down the tiny back road, but Johnny doesn’t say anything. Somewhere on Old Maple, Dally’s stomach groans, loud. “Hey, you wanna get somethin’ to eat?” Dally asks. He furrows his brow, “Did you have lunch yet?”
“Yeah,” Johnny says quickly, “You caught us at our lunch break.”
Dally glances at Johnny, “You didn’t have a lunchbox on you.”
“Nah,” Johnny says, after a moment.
“What, did you buy it? Schools do that right? You get like, cardboard pizza?” He thinks he can remember Soda saying something about it a few weeks ago, how it was one of the many things he doesn’t miss about school. But Johnny averts his eyes, and Dally’s chest tightens.
Johnny snorts, a little weakly, “Yeah, those only tastes good with a ton of ketchup on ‘em, and even then.” Something in his laugh doesn’t sit right in Dally’s stomach.
He wants to strangle Johnny’s old man. Fucking asshole probably spent his paycheck on booze and didn’t leave any leftover for food. Not even a quarter so Johnny can get himself a thing of milk. Fuck. Dally wants to kick the old man’s head in, he really does. Who does that to a kid? Who does that to Johnny?
Dally chews his bottom lip. He’s already gone to the DQ once today, any more and they’d probably tell him off for loitering whether he buys anything or not. But there’s a Mickey D’s down by the old church on Seventh. Yeah, that’ll work. Dally swings a hard left, tires squealing. The Mickey D’s is a few blocks away, the neon sign lighting up yellow and red across the parking lot.
“Dal—” Johnny starts, but Dally isn’t having it.
“Anything you want,” Dally insists, “Extra large milkshake, whatever. I’m buying.” Dally digs his wallet out of his back pocket. Johnny’s eyes linger on the back of Dally’s hand. Dal grins. At least the Soc was good for something, he had a twenty on him.
A couple of the Mickey D patrons give them weird looks in line. It takes a lot to get Dally to not holler at them. He’s paying for his food and everything, and cussing out a customer is not the way Dally wants to get banned from the place.
Johnny winds up getting a burger, fries, and a large milkshake that he dips the fries in. They take the food back to Dally’s place.
“Fuck,” Dally says, chewing the milkshake-soggy fry and swallowing it. It’s so good, Dally winds up stealing half Johnny’s fries for himself and dipping them in Johnny’s shake. Johnny steals his fries, though, so Dally guesses it evens out, “You’re a fucking genius, kid. Did you come up with this fry thing?
“Yeah,” Johnny snorts, sucking on his shake, “Tell that genius stuff to my old man, wouldja?”
“I will,” Dally says, chomping into another fry. His hand stings with all the moving around, but it’s not the end of the world. Dally is crumpling up the greasy paper his food came in when Johnny asks about it. “Hm?” Dally hums, then looks down at his hand, still swollen and bruising purple. He’s pretty sure it isn’t broken, but it throbs like a bitch every now and then, “Ain’t nothin’.” He shrugs, “Some Soc had it comin’.”
“Oh,” Johnny says, shoving a couple fries in his mouth, “Tuff. It wasn’t a bird this time?”
“Nah,” Dally says, eyebrows raised, “No angry broads or their boyfriends.”
“Cool,” Johnny says. He doesn’t look at Dally through his next bite of burger. They lapse into silence. Johnny occasionally finishes a bite and looks at Dally like he wants to say something, but decides against it.
Near the end of Johnny’s shake, Johnny starts shivering.
“Dumbass,” Dally says, “Who gets cold off a milkshake?”
Johnny glares at him, “I do.”
Dally rolls his eyes, “Well, the heat’s broken, so you’re shit outta luck.” Johnny continues glaring, although the intensity is broken by how hard Johnny’s begun to shake. Dally sighs, “C’mon, I got a blanket in my room.”
Dally gets up and Johnny trails after him. As Dally’s climbing the stairs, it hits him that Johnny’s never seen his room before. They mostly hang out in the kitchen, or occasionally on the couch or the back porch. Weird. Johnny seems to realize it, too, because as Dally reaches the closed door, Johnny clears his throat.
“S’nothin’ special,” Dally says, yanking the door open. It sticks a little, scraping the cold wood floor with a scratching sound. It really isn’t anything special – little more than a creaky bed, a dresser, and a drafty window. Clothes are flung everywhere. The blue-grey sheets on the bed are crumpled down at the end. Cigarettes have been crushed on the floor. It smells of weed and sex and deodorant and beer. Johnny looks around with the same wide-eyed curiosity he looks at everything else to do with Dally, “Uh.” Dally says. He kicks some clothes up and grabs hold of the comforter, a deep blue thing that smells of cigarettes no matter how many times Dally washes it.
Johnny takes it and looks around.
“Bed,” Dally grunts, “You can sit or whatever.”
“Tuff,” Johnny says through chattering teeth. He creeps over to the bed and sits, the bedframe squeaking under his weight. He wraps the blanket over his shoulders like a cape. After a minute, he stops shivering. At least, shivering so violently. He still has tiny tremors throughout his body. But that might just be a side-effect of being Johnny. He studies the room, eyes roaming from place to place, pausing to look at Dally.
Dally clears his throat, looks around for a cigarette. Finding none, he swears. He’s gotta stop smoking, seriously.
“What’s that?” Johnny asks. Dally follows Johnny’s dark finger to where it’s pointing to the wall. A Ded Reds poster, handmade in drippy black and red stencil.
“A band. Some of my buddies back in New York were way into the music scene. I went to a couple shows,” Dally says, scratching his cheek. He shrugs, “Most of it was crap, but these guys were tuff.”
Johnny nods, “Cool.” He wraps the blanket tighter. A beat, “Hey Dal?” There’s something in Johnny’s voice, something gentle, that makes Dally’s heart start to pound in his throat.
“Yeah?” Dally asks. He doesn’t want to look away from Johnny, not when he’s sitting on Dally’s bed shivering, but something in his gaze is so serious that Dally can’t look right at it. So instead, he fixes his eyes on a point behind the kid, a small hole in the wall about the size of Dally’s fist.
Johnny does look away, averting Dally’s gaze, “So, Ponyboy was talkin’ at lunch today about the winter dance comin’ up,” He starts.
“Huh. I didn’t think Pony was into that kinda thing,” Dally says.
“Me neither,” Johnny says, “I guess there’s some girl he wants to go with.” Johnny shifts so he’s sitting up straighter, but is still tightly wound in Dallas’s comforter. “And were you there when Steve and them were talkin’ about, like, kissing, right?”
Dally thinks, “Yeah. Steve was drunk, wann’e?” Dally grins.
Johnny smiles, “As a skunk.” Another beat, “You’ve been with girls and stuff, yeah? I was wondering, like…” Johnny shifts to the side, his teeth worrying his bottom lip, “How you know when you want to kiss someone?”
It’s charged with something that makes Dally’s neck warm. Dally laughs and it comes out high, “I mean,” He says. He steps closer to the bed. Dally runs a hand through his hair, “Geez, I dunno, Johnny. When a girl wants to kiss you, that’s easy. She’ll put a hand on your arm, or sometimes she’ll laugh real hard at your jokes that aren’t funny.”
“Okay,” Johnny says, slowly, “But that’s not really what I meant.”
Johnny has a wisp of heavily-greased hair falling in front of his eyes. Dally considers brushing it back into place. Dally glances down at Johnny’s lips, which have healed nicely from his row with the Socs a few weeks back. Johnny’s tongue darts out to feel an invisible scab. Dally’s heart stops.
Oh. Oh. Duh.
“When you wanna kiss someone, it’s like, I dunno. You look at them and want to make ‘em feel good,” Dally says, “Like…” He swallows. Johnny looks up at him and Dally hears him inhale, “It’s like fuckin’ Shakespeare, ya know? Makes you wanna write poetry or somethin’. Like, you want them to feel good, but only the way youcan make them feel.” Like making him laugh so hard he's about to cry, or risking arrest just to get him to smile when he's in a shit mood, or... or looking at him the way he is now, eyes wide and curious and a little terrified, “When you wanna kiss someone… It’s like...”
Dally doesn’t know who moves in first. Maybe both of them do. But then they’re kissing. Their mouths press together, Johnny’s soft and scabbing, Dally’s sticky and dry. Dally tilts his head to one side and opens his mouth just a bit, tasting Johnny's air. Johnny follows suit, a little sloppy, but earnest. Dally’s heart hammers in his chest. He snakes his arms over Johnny’s bony shoulders and the comforter, not breaking their contact. Dally feels Johnny inhale, and tastes his breath on the exhale.
They kiss, and kiss, and kiss.
Eventually, Johnny pulls back, breathing hard.
Dally grins, huffs a laugh. “It’s, uh, like that,” Dally says, grabbing hold of Johnny’s chin between his forefinger and thumb.
Johnny smiles, “Tuff.” He says. A beat, and Johnny grins, “Like Shakespeare, eh?”
Dally laughs, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Make me,” Johnny says.
Dally grins and leans forward, closing the space between them again.