Chapter Text
Johnny clutches the back of Dallas's shirt as they lay together on the too-small couch in Dallas's living room; the only movement either one has made in twenty minutes. His head lays against Dallas's beating heartbeat, rhythmic and calming.
Dallas's hold on Johnny's waist tightens just a smidgen as he continues to run his fingers on the boy's jet-black hair. His touch is firm yet gentle, never bruising, afraid to add any more damage to the skin of this boy yet at the same time needing to apply pressure to reassure him, almost like Johnny's his last lifeline on Earth.
Sometimes, he is.
They do this more often than they care to admit. They know they're safe for now; Dally's old man is out of town 'til Heaven knows when. They're more than fine having the house all to themselves, even when sometimes Johnny asks if it's really okay, genuinely out of the kindness of his heart, and in those moments Dallas knows he's just so gone for this boy.
Midnight strikes and they're hardly paying attention to anything besides the warmth of bodies pressed closely together, hands flitting across backs, arms, chests. One whispers secrets and one has his eyes closed as he listens - who is doing what is lost on them. They're okay with that.
Quietly, almost afraid to break the spell they found themselves in, Dallas asks, "Gotcha self some plan t'a finally leave the shithole you call ya house?" It's a little more harsh than he wants it to be, but Johnny doesn't even blink.
"Maybe one day," Johnny says, light as a feather.
And Dallas feels a familiar ache, something like dread but not quite. Runaways aren't uncommon, but they certainly aren't favored. He wants to, though. Run away with Johnny. But first...
"You bettah have a plan 'fore you go runnin' outta town, then," Dallas says, voice gruff. If Johnny can feel the way his hear picks up speed, he doesn't mention it. "An' I don't want'cha runnin' out when ya half-dead an' bloody, got it? Go when ya healthy. Le'me know first, if ya can afford it, I got jus' 'bout what'cha'd need."
He's been thinking about it for a while now. He hates the stifling fear that the thought of Johnny's death brings, but it's always there, at the back of his head. It's a dreadful reminder of just how human the boy in his arms is.
Johnny stays silent.
And maybe Dallas should be used to the silence, especially during the day when monsters are hidden by smiles and sugary-words - but not when they're like this, together. It's worrying.
"Johnny."
Dallas's voice is demanding, kind of. Almost desperate. He needs to know that Johnny will be okay no matter what happens. Needs him like he needs air to breathe and live.
Johnny asks, "Dally, what would you do if I.. if I died?," and Dallas's blood runs cold. His grip on Johnny's hip tightens as his heart drops. He can't imagine it. Can't imagine a life without Johnny and his bright eyes, soft, subtle smile and awkward, lanky figure. He can't imagine the wave of protectiveness that overwhelms him every time anyone so much as gives Johnny a dirty look just gone. The gang would be incomplete. He would be incomplete.
He swallows thickly as he replies, "Depends on how ya'd kick the bucket."
He knows it's the wrong thing to say, but he doesn't know how to say... everything else. Johnny accepts it, for now.
"Socs," he muses, like they're talking about the weather. He shrugs with the shoulder not pressed against the couch.
Dallas scoffs. Easy. "I'd kill 'em, obviously," he says without hesitation.
"My folks?"
"I'd burn they's house down with 'em in it."
Then, it's silent for a while, until, "...me?"
And the world stops. Dallas's hand, previously rubbing soothing circles on Johnny's hips, stills. His jaw clenches, and he thinks. Minutes tick by and he can tell Johnny is getting antsy, probably blaming himself for asking such a question, and Dallas doesn't want to do anything besides sweep the boy in his arms off his feet and run away forever. He wants to run from the absolute shit they face on a daily basis, from the cops, from Johnny's dad, the Socs and gangs and the whole wide world. He doesn't know what he'd do if Johnny offed himself. There would be no one he'd be able to direct his (justified) anger to, no faces or bones to purposefully break. There was no one he could go to, to grieve - the gang would probably grieve together, but they wouldn't understand what him and Johnny have. They wouldn't. To lose Johnny by his own hands would... it would...
"Get up," he says roughly. He pushes himself off of the couch and straightens out his appearance. His eyes are colder now, but Johnny looks like a kicked puppy, so Dallas hoists him up, grabs a blanket with one hand and leads Johnny to the door outside with the other.
Johnny looks lost, and worried, and he sputters, "Wait, what are we - Dally, I'm sorry if I -"
Dallas spins around and looks him dead in the eyes. Johnny shuts up immediately.
They step out into the cool, breezy night, and Dallas all but (gently) shoves Johnny into the passenger seat. Dallas wastes no time getting into the driver's, and starts the engine. He tells him to put the blanket on if he's cold. Dallas pulls out of the driveway and rives out of the neighborhood, out of town, then into the highway. He says nothing, so Johnny says nothing, though his brows are still furrowed together like he can't figure out just what Dallas is planning right now. If he were being honest, Dallas doesn't have a damn clue either.
After a while, Dallas notices Johnny slump into the seat. He lights a cancer stick and offers it to him. Dallas accepts it, puts one end on his lips and inhales the sweet, toxic nicotine.
"Dal," Johnny says, "what the hell are we doing?"
"Ridin'."
Johnny looks at him. "But where to?"
Dallas relaxes his tense muscles, lets Johnny's voice ease away his complicated emotions.
"Don't know," he says truthfully.
"Are you mad at me?"
Dallas shrugs.
"Are we runnin' away?"
At that, Dallas's anger seeps way and is replaced by nothing, just emptiness, then a voice in his head asks him, 'why not?'
But he knows why.
"No."
Not yet, anyway. Dallas has absolutely nothing going on for him here and they both know it. But Johnny? Johnny has his make-shift gang of a family. Johnny's got school - an education - which is something Dallas himself was never provided, something he knows could change Johnny's future. And Dallas knows that, more than anything, Johnny can't just up and leave his folks. Dallas can't understand why, but he'll be damned if he doesn't respect Johnny's wishes. It's the least he could do.
Johnny voice interrupts his thoughts. "Stop," he says, like he isn't scared of the whole world. Dallas pulls up, stopping at the side of the road.
Johnny opens the passenger door and Dallas is almost sure he's going to straight up walk back home. Instead, he tells Dallas to open his door and get out. When he does, Johnny looks at him dead in the eyes as he tells him, "kiss me."
Dallas doesn't know this man. He doesn't know who this shorter man is, who's giving him orders like Dallas would respond to his every beck and call.
(He would.)
He doesn't know him, until Johnny's lips are on his, plump and chapped and tasting just like the cigarette they finished, and it's Johnny again. Right then and there Dallas absent-mindedly notes how dangerous he is, how dangerous he could be at least, like a damn cigarette. Small and insignificant, but when the fire's lit, deadly. Dallas would light the whole world on fire for him. Maybe Johnny knows that, but even if he does, Dallas knows Johnny would never ask him to.
Dallas wraps his arms around Johnny's waists, and automatically Johnny's hands tangle up in his hair. Their movements are a tide's ebb and flow, their bodies fitting snugly against one another as a sigh leaves Johnny's mouth. Dallas bites his bottom lip in response. If Dallas died right then and there, in Johnny's arms and with his lips on Dal's, hell, that'd be just fine.
Johnny pushes him back a bit, looks into his eyes as they rest their forehead against each others'. His eyes are sporting some bags under, and Dallas takes full responsibility for that, but for now they are alive. Alive, with him, and suddenly everything is a little less sharp. The ache in his chest, one he hadn't even acknowledged until now, eases.
This man could easily be the death of him.
"Don't die," Dallas breathes. It's almost a whisper, and the raw fondness and desperation that creeps into his voice almost surprises him. Almost.
"I won't," Johnny says, and seals that promise with a kiss.