Chapter Text
When Dallas Winston was nine years old, his dad gave him a piece of life advice he would remember forever.
His father was hunched over him with his breath stinking of alcohol, a beer bottle in one hand, and a raised fist in another. He was hitting Dally yet again, rough hands punching every bit of him he could.
Dally didn't cry much, even that young. He knew about how far it got him, but this was an especially bad beating, and a few tears were threatening to spill over, no matter how much he begged them not to.
His dad saw this, through distorted, hazy eyes, lips curling into a snarl as he tossed the bottle to the ground. Dally flinched as it shattered on the floor, and watched as his dad raised his hand again.
“Don’t you fuckin cry, you hear me? You ain’t a fucking queer, right?”
He was grabbed by the collar of his shirt, lifted slightly off the ground, his face so close to his father’s he could taste the alcohol reeking off of him, bitter and overpowering.
“Right?” His dad hissed, eyes flashing through the fog.
“Right,” Dally whispered, and his dad dropped him.
In a way, Dally understood the pain his dad felt. His mom had died only a year ago, the cancer was too far along that nothing could help her. Dally still remembered his last days in the hospital with her, the way her eyes were fading of light, her cheeks pale and hollow, eyes circled by black. Her golden hair was thinning, sometimes fanned over the pillow as she lay back. She didn't talk much at the end, little murmurs to Dally, small talks with her and his dad that Dally wasn't allowed to listen to, a quiet “thank you” to the nurse.
Dally was eight, he felt helpless and afraid, and his mother died holding his hand.
His father turned to alcohol to ease the pain. He hadn’t wanted Dally, really, he was an accident, and he had only stayed for her. His mother had loved him, at least, read to him, and sang to him, and made him feel less alone. She was gone now, and Dally didn't see the point in his dad staying. He didn't want him anyway.
He supposed he wanted someone to beat up, to blame.
“Get outta here. I don't wanna see your face no more.” The harsh voice, plus the extra kick to the side, sent pain stabbing through his stomach and ribs.
He didn't have to be told twice, tearing out the door. His dad would be passed out by later that night, and he could sneak back in if he needed to. But those words rang forever in his head, even a year later, when he was packing his bags and running.
Don’t cry, and don’t be a queer.