Work Text:
Saying Sodapop Curtis was drunk off of life was just plain funny.
Soda laughed to himself as he tipped the bottle back, feeling the burning down his throat and the fire in his stomach. Ponyboy and his sunsets and his magic and his theme.
His theme. His goddamn theme.
It glorified everything, from Darry and his anger, to Steve and his complicated swirls, making their life seem cool, and tough, and miserable.
And Dally. It glorified Dally in every way possible, Soda hated the theme for making him seem like he wasn't tough and cold, and making him seem like a hero.
Also, for making him dead.
Johnny was gone, sure, Soda thought, but he didn't have to go off and kill Dally too.
It was for the plot, Pony said.
The plot. Soda had thought the stupid theme was supposed to be true, not twisted and sick for some plot. It was their lives, not a beach movie like they played at the drive-in.
The alcohol burned less and less the more he drank. The fire turned to ice and then to nothing, slipping like water down his throat and settling like gentle warmth in his stomach. He had sat on the floor in the Curtis kitchen about an hour ago, leaning up against the bottom cabinets in the corner with the large glass bottle he kept hidden under the sink next to him.
He hoped Darry had believed the theme. He had read it along with Darry, he had noted the playful grins when it mentioned Soda and his cars and girls and lack of problems, and him getting drunk off just plain life. Soda was glad he had managed to keep that act in front of his brothers, or at least Pony.
Ponyboy had always seemed to see him in a brighter light, somehow. He had never noticed when Soda came home from the DX smelling faintly of alcohol, or other things. Darry never noticed either, he was up too early and came home too late, and even when he wasn’t gone he was worried about Pony. His grades, his safety, his nightmares.
He could admit that Darry was worried about him more when he was in school, or even back when his parents were alive. When they worried about Pony, Darry could look after Soda. Not that he was around much, even then, always playing football or hanging out with the other popular kids. Sometimes he even played games with the Soc boys from his team at school. Soda was never allowed to come. He was too young, not that he gave a damn about football anyway.
But at least he was there then, at least Soda could talk to him. At least he didn't feel like a burden, like he was adding to the drowning ocean of stress that Darry now carried. Now Darry thought about bills and work and keeping them out of a boy's home, his parents, Ponys education and his street smarts, and there was no room for him and his problems.
Not that Soda blamed Darry, really. It was a mixture of things, Soda was pulling away as well. He didn't eat dinner with them almost ever, sometimes not eating at all. He was working extra shifts at the DX, ignoring Steve's worried glances as he said he was going to stay another hour after closing, or if he came in an hour early. He ignored everything, blocking it all out and grabbing a beer before lifting the hood of another car. He was helping, he was earning more money, putting some more food on the table, adding to Ponys college funds. Darry’s eyebrows only raised slightly when Soda gave him the paycheck for that month, along with a hasty excuse. It wasn't like Darry knew either, he was putting in extra hours too, and sometimes came home past dinner when it didn't get dark as early.
Darry was tired, Darry was way too tired. Soda could see it in the way he stood up like he wanted to just sit down again, and how he walked like every step hurt him, like it sent a jolting pain through him every time he moved. He could hear how he slept restlessly at night, often listening as he padded to the kitchen to get water or stare at the bills he had been working on while Soda feigned sleep. Soda didn't sleep much either, so he always listened for Darry’s movements, curled up in his bed, alone. He had moved out of Pony’s room after Johnny died, because Pony insisted, saying he was fine alone and he didn't want to bother Soda anymore.
He felt alone now, like the bed was far too big, as he listened to Ponys gentle snores from one room, and Darry's tossing and turning from the other.
His thoughts drifted. The bottle that sat to his side was only half empty and was diminishing by the second, but it didn't take much to think about Dallas. He almost wished for the vodka to still burn as he took another sip, longing a little for the pain to block out his thoughts.
He was stupid, he really was, for thinking Dally could love anyone, care about anyone. How many times would he break his own heart and have to piece it together again? He wasn't supposed to love Dally. Dally loved Johnny, only Johnny, and Johnny was gone.
Johnny was gone. It had almost been a year, he thought. A year. A year without Johnny Cade to hold them together, and look where they were now.
He thought about Johnny a lot, how could he not? He never deserved to die like he did, he never deserved any of what he got. Pony might have described him as a kicked puppy, but he was tough. He was resilient and strong and shouldn't have died.
It should have been him, Soda knew. He thought about it every day. Pony was too smart and too young, Darry had to look after Pony, Two-bit kept them laughing, Steve kept them toughened up, and basically ran the DX. And Dally, Dally was tuff and smart and nearly died for Pony and Johnny, he didn't deserve to die either.
It should have been him.
He never cried anymore, not really. He had cried too much, at his parent’s funeral, when Pony went missing and when he came back, and so many days in the hospital, waiting for the news that they all knew, somehow, was coming.
Dally, in Pony’s theme, ran off after the rumble, dying right after Johnny. He supposed Pony had to speed things up a bit, or maybe he couldn't stand to write about the days in between, but either way, it was wrong.
Johnny had died days after the rumble. Long, painful days, with him passing out cold some, crying out in pain others, barely able to speak most of the time. Dally was by his side almost always, a frantic look on his face when he was unable to help, anxiously twisting the edge of the sheet that covered Johnny in between his fingers. The pale, white, sterile glow of the hospital reflected on all of the gang's faces as they sat in the small room, watching desperately for any signs of improvement. Darry held hushed conversations with doctors outside closed doors, returning only looking more desperate and tired than ever.
The days after Johnny died were long and painful as well. Back at the Curtis house, Darry was always on the phone, eyes tired and voice quiet, Two-bit was drinking more than ever and Pony curled into a corner of the couch, face pressed in the cushions. Soda sat next to him, a gentle hand on his back but doing no more, he didn't know what to say. Dally was on Soda's other side, leaning forward, hands switching between running through his hair and holding his face, and Steve was on the floor in front of Pony, staring at the ceiling as he leaned against the couch.
Exactly four days after Johnny died, everyone went home early that night. Pony locked himself in his room and Darry had retreated to his, presumably to work on bills. Steve went home, bracing himself for the possible blows of his father, Two-bit went home also, he had to watch his sister, and then it was just Dally and Soda.
There was an awkward silence for a moment before Soda spoke.
“Listen, Dal...I'm real sorry. I know you and Johnny were close.” That was an understatement, but Dally would never have admitted to anything more.
“Yeah,” Dally muttered, sighing and turning to Soda. “Listen, I should probably head back to Buck’s…” his voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes again.
“Stay here.” Soda' said quietly. “You don't have to go. No one minds.”
Soda looked up at Dally from where he had been watching his hands in his lap. The silence was tense once again.
“It really doesn't bother anyone-” Soda had started to say, but was cut off by Dally leaning closer to him and crashing their lips together.
Soda jumped, not expecting it, and he stiffened as he felt Dally’s hands in his hair. It wasn't a gentle kiss, it was a rough one, filled with anger and hatred for the world, and Soda would have enjoyed more if it wasn't for Johnny.
Because it was for Johnny, it was Johnny that Dally wanted to be kissing. It was always Johnny.
Dally pulled away roughly after a minute, leaving Soda speechless and disoriented.
“Sorry.” His voice was gruff. “Didn't mean-”
“Yeah.” Soda said, looking down again, and then he stood up.
“Are-are you leaving or are you staying?” He asked, and Dally stood up too.
“I better go.” Dally sounded sorry, which was something at least.
“Alright.” Sodas' chest felt tight, like he wanted to cry.
Dally stood there for a moment longer before walking towards the door. He didn't look back.
That was when it had all started, Soda laughed to himself as his fingers gripped the neck of the bottle. It was early morning now, around one or two, and he found himself laying back on the floor, his eyes closed. He wasn't tired, he didn't want to sleep, but his eyes were heavy and he found himself trying to think of Dally now, desperately clutching onto the memories he could think of at the moment.
They didn't talk for weeks after that. Dally stayed away from the gang in general, but especially Sodapop. He didn't even make eye contact when the whole gang was together, he usually kept to himself a bit, but not that much. It was three weeks later Dally spoke to him again.
They had all met up somehow on the road, walking slowly along the street as they talked about random things. Darry was on Pony about his homework again, and Soda sighed, knowing he should interject but not knowing how.
Steve and Two-bit were up ahead, Two-bit seemed to be laughing at himself while Steve was rolling his eyes good-naturedly with a grin on his face. Nausea boiled in Soda's stomach. How could they laugh? How could they even smile, knowing Johnny was gone?
Soda was walking slower than the rest of the group, and Dally was too now, falling behind to walk beside him. Soda kept his eyes on the ground, not daring to look up.
A tired voice spoke from beside him. He didn't sound like Dally.
“Sodapop.”
Soda jumped at the sound. He didn't know why it felt like so long since anyone had said his name.
“Yeah?”
Dally grabbed his wrist before he could protest, dragging him in between two of the buildings on their side, in a kind of alley. Releasing his wrist, Dally paced back and forth. Soda rubbed at his arm, wincing.
He opened his mouth to talk, but Dally spoke first.
“I don't know why I did it.”
I do. Soda wanted to scream. I know why. His cheeks felt hot, his breath felt heavy.
“I-maybe I always liked you? I don't know, Soda, I don't-”
You don't like me! The voice in Soda’s head cried.
“I avoided you. I didn't know what to say to you.”
Soda stayed silent.
“I-I don’t know, Soda, sometimes I think I wanna kiss you again or something-” Dally looked desperately at Soda.
No! He doesn't love you! He loves Johnny-loved Johnny! He doesn't care about you!
He was a rebound from a relationship that was never there. Dally loved him because he loved Johnny, and Johnny was gone.
Soda had warned himself against it. Don't let him. Don't let him do it. But he found himself nodding, head down once again.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” The words tasted sour, lemon-like.
Stupid idiot. He thought to himself as Dally kissed him again. Stupid fucking idiot.
He still would have enjoyed it, if it wasn’t for Johnny.
The liquor spilt out of his mouth a little as he laughed, pulling out of his memories, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and closing his eyes again. He was sitting on the floor still, leaning up against the cabinet, the world felt like it was shaking, swirling, and spinning beneath him. It felt like he was on a boat, or at least what he thought a boat might feel like.
If there was one thing to be said about Dally, is that he was wild. He would be around one day and gone the next. No one seemed to know where he went, and no one seemed to care, besides the occasional question of if he had been arrested, or went back to New York for a bit.
Soda seemed to worry about him even more now. He didn’t know quite why, he wasn’t in love with Dally, he didn’t even like him like that, not really. He thought of himself as more of an object for Dally right now, someone for Dally to kiss until he realized that all he ever wanted was Johnny.
Dally was, true to himself, usually in jail when he went missing for days at a time. He didn't get out for good behavior anymore, he would fight any guy in the place and come home bruised and bloody, ribs broken and grinning wolfishly.
Soda would hover by the door of the living room while Darry cleaned him up on the couch, and gave him some talk about not fighting every guy you see in jail. In the dim light, he would watch, Dally would laugh, groaning a little at the pain in his ribs and smirking at Soda, who smiled weakly back.
Late one night Soda padded out to the living room, watching Dally, who was passed out on the couch. Darry had made him stay that time, arguing he needed to keep an eye on Dally’s bandages and that he was already here.
Dally looked peaceful when he slept. His hands were flung above him, but he was on his back, probably because of his ribs. Face relaxed, his white-blonde hair spread over the cushion he rested his head-on. He didn't have a blanket over him, it looked as if he had been flung to the couch by a bunch of Socs rather than lay down there himself.
Soda crossed the room quietly and took a blanket from where it was draped across the top of the couch, unfolding it and laying it over him. Dally shifted a bit, trying to turn onto his side before wincing and turning back, mumbling something under his breath about a knife.
Soda glanced at him one last time before walking towards his room.
Sometimes Dally would have taken the bus or something to New York when he disappeared, or even been staying at his dad's house, which was somewhere in Oklahoma that Soda had yet to know about. That was all Dally had ever told him, he didn't like to talk about his dad much.
Sometimes he’d come home from his dad’s bloody or bruised up, but he never let anyone clean him up then. He’d sit on the front porch with his eyes cold and a cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding him, the blood on his face drying and turning rust-colored, the bruises fading from green and yellow to blues and purples and blacks in the dying light of the afternoon.
Soda wondered why he bothered going back at all, sometimes.
When Dally was especially angry, at the Socs, at his dad, at anyone, he would let Soda know. The bruises on his neck and chest proved that, left by Dallys sharp teeth, along with the feeling of Dally’s hands on his ribs, on his hips, on his wrists, gripping and holding and running his fingers along until he was done.
The marks on his skin lasted for days afterwards. Darry barely gave them a second glance.
It was tradition between them at this point, the meetings behind buildings, Dally sneaking in through Soda's window late at night. Sometimes Dally would just talk, about things that didn't matter to anyone but the two of them, and Soda would rather die than admit that he liked it.
He willed himself to keep sitting up, to not fall over, his fingers felt numb, but yet also achy. Reaching for the bottle again, he had to try twice before wrapping his fingers haphazardly around the neck and bringing it to his lips.
Things between them had died down a bit, after a while. Dally had pulled away, a little bit at a time, until he rarely ever talked to Soda at all. The wild kissing and late nights between them were long gone, replaced instead by half-hearted smiles and lifts of the hand, maybe a brief conversation if Soda was lucky.
Lucky. Did he want to talk to Dally, really? He had basically used him before-not that he didn't agree to it, Soda reminded himself. And then he had pulled away, not telling Soda anything, not even breaking it-whatever it was-off.
Things were the way it was before, pretty much. Soda and Dally had never talked more than this before Johnny died, maybe talking about drag races or horses Dally had ridden that week or something like that, but they never had been the best of friends.
Things were almost back to normal. Darry was still working as hard as ever, despite both Soda and Ponyboy's worries and protests. He came home every day looking drained and tired, and went to bed as soon as he could after dinner. Pony read more than ever, burying his face in one book or another for what seemed like hours. However, his grades were slipping drastically, which Darry and Soda were both worried about. Soda could hear him crying at night sometimes, he never slept those nights, his heart aching for his brother.
Two-bit came around a bit more often, carrying beer or news or sometimes both, sitting down on the floor in front of the TV, staying for hours, trying to talk to Pony or Soda. Cracking whatever jokes he could, play-fighting with Pony or burning something he was trying to cook.
Steve came over a lot too. Coming after lunch and staying till after Soda came home from work, he would start on dinner if he could, despite Soda telling him he would do it.
“Sit down, Soda. I’ve got it, really. Rest.”
Soda would pace around the house, sitting for a few minutes in a chair before getting up and pacing again. Why couldn't he sit still? Why did he feel like this, all the time?
Darry would come home late, eyes tired and back aching. Steve would mutter a few words and slip out, leaving Soda with the credit for a dinner he didn't make. Two-bit would leave soon after, never staying for dinner. They never stayed for dinner anymore.
The one thing that seemed to make Pony happy was Curly Shepard, Tim’s younger brother. Darry worried about them, because Curly was exactly like his older brother, if a little less street-smart and a little more reckless. Soda didn't mind all that much, he wasn't a big fan of Curly, but he could respect him at least, and he made Pony smile, sometimes even laugh.
Dally rarely ever came around. If he did, it was short, a muttered conversation with Darry, talking briefly with Steve and Two-bit, pulling Pony aside and talking to him in a serious voice, a nod towards Soda, and then he was gone again.
Darry pulled Soda aside one day, eyes concerned and voice rough, asking if he thought Dally was okay.
Soda said he didn't know.
He still was working at the DX, every day now. Even on holidays or weekends, he came in, straightened up, disappeared under cars for hours at a time, coming home with his DX shirt stained with grease and his body aching from laying on his back all day. The nights he couldn't sleep he would slip out to the living room, clean up as best he could, do all the things Darry was too tired to do every day.
He wished his parents were still there. His parents would know why everything was like this, they would know how to help him. They would know why he felt like he was drowning.
Dally came by one afternoon, knuckles red and raw like usual, but he didn’t head towards the bathroom for the medkit. He grabbed Soda by his hand and pulled him out the door.
The back of the house was the same as the front, with white peeling paint and the wire fence, but Dally led him there anyway, because you couldn't see it from the road.
He finally stopped, turning to Soda and looking him over, examining his face as if he was looking for something. Soda felt too close, he felt tired, he wanted to sleep.
“I'm sorry.” The words sounded genuine, but Soda knew better than to trust them, especially when they came from Dally’s mouth.
“Yeah.” Soda was looking at Dally.
“No, Soda-I used you.”
Soda looked down. The grass was gone, the ground still muddy. He felt cold.
“Yeah.” He said again, because what else could he say?
“Why-” Dally started, “Why did you let me?” His hands moved to rest on Soda's shoulders. Soda wanted to throw up. He still didn't know why.
“You needed it.” He said finally, and Dally let go of him.
“What the hell do you mean?” Dally’s voice was cold now, harsh and sharp like the blade of his switch. Soda looked up.
“You loved Johnny,” Soda said simply. “You always loved Johnny.”
Dally blinked, taking a step back and moving his hands to rub his face, sighing.
“Johnny. Johnny, huh?”
Soda didn't say anything else. Dally leaned up against the chain-link fence, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
“Johnny. Yeah. Okay, sure. Maybe I did-love Johnny. But why the hell would you let me..do what I did to you?”
“You needed someone to fill his place. Or what you wanted to be his place, I guess.” Soda took a deep breath. “It's fine, Dal, really. You didn't do anything...just kissing and stuff-it's not like-”
“I hurt you.”
Why did he even care? Soda found himself thinking. Judging by his knuckles he doesn't care who he hurts.
“Yeah. Yeah, you hurt me a little, I guess. But not as much-not as much as everything else.”
Dally stepped forward. “You blame yourself.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. An observation.
“For what?” Soda knew what. He wanted to run back inside, he felt cold now. Somehow he felt like making Dally say it was punishment, for both of them.
“You know for what, Christ, Soda. For your parents, for Johnny. For Darry working too hard and Pony-kid basically failing out of school. You blame yourself, am I wrong?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I could have stopped it.”
“But you couldn’t have. You know that. No one knew-no one knew what was going to happen. You did the best you could.” Dally took another, cautious step forward.
“I feel like I could’ve done something. I could’ve stopped my parents from going out that night-I should have stopped Darry before he hit Pony, I should've gone looking for him when he and Johnny were up in that goddamn church-”
“Yeah, You could've!” Dally almost yelled. “But you didn't, right? Cause you didn't know. And that's all that matters now. Okay?”
Soda went quiet. “I'm sorry.” He muttered.
“Don't be sorry, Soda, godammit. Just-I don't know. Eat more. Don't work as much. Hell, I don't know…hey, hey don't cry, man, I didn't mean to yell-”
“No, no, I'm sorry-” Soda wiped his eyes desperately on his sleeve. “I didn't-its not because of you, I don't think-I just miss them, so much, Dal. I don’t-I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“I know. I know, Sodapop. I miss them too-all the damn time. It's gonna be alright, okay?”
“I loved you. I still love you. I don't know why-you weren't-you didn't-love me, I was just-a replacement to you...But I did-I do-I don't know.”
Dally’s eyes widened, he pulled his hand away from where it had been outstretched towards Soda, reaching up towards his hair instead and briefly running his fingers through the white strands.
“Soda-I-”
“It's fine. I promise, it's fine. It just-slipped out, I didn't mean to say it-I know how you feel-”
It was true. Soda did know how he felt. Those long nights, both of them curled into each other on Soda's bed, Soda underneath the covers, and Dally on top of them, consisted of talking about many things.
“I don't like love.” Dally had said, as he adjusted his arm around Soda. “It's messy, you know? I can like someone without loving someone. It's easier that way. Breaking it off.”
“What if it's the one that lasts?” Soda asked. His eyes were closed at this point, it was early morning now, Dally had gotten there around eleven. He wasn't a romantic, but he tended to be a little more optimistic about love, if only slightly.
“None of them ever last with me, Curtis” Dally had drawled, and Soda had opened his eyes to see Dally smirking at him, and so he laughed.
“I don't know what to say, Soda-” He was pulled back to the present by Dally’s anxious mutter, startling him just a bit before he sighed.
“It doesn't matter, Dallas. I promise. I’m fine.” Soda walked away, finally, and when Dally tried to grab his wrist he wrenched it out of his grip. He should have done that before.
Soda watched from the door as Dally strode out the front door, slamming the gate behind him. He tried to keep the tears from falling, he felt empty, like his insides were gone.
He barely heard Darry ask him what was wrong, he didn't see Pony’s confused glance as he walked to his room and shut the door.
The room seemed to swirl around him, he could hear Darry asking Pony if he knew what was wrong and Ponys muddled response as he sat down on the edge of the bed and flopped backward. His chest hurt. The ceiling was white, too white, and the plaster was beginning to crack with age. He closed his eyes.
Soda stood up, albeit a bit dizzily, returning the bottle under the sink and stumbling down the hall.