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On December 24th, Johnny noticed immediately that Dally was acting off.
Firstly, his face was flushed. His cheeks were rosy pink, and his eyes were more squinted than usual. He could have put this down to the winter cold, but despite his paleness, Dally’s face was only ever marked red by blood. Johnny had never seen him so much as sunburn, remarkable as it was.
Secondly, he was smoking. A lot. Sure, Dallas took liking to cigarettes, but he only usually smoked a pack a day. Today, though, he felt like every time he looked at Dally, a cigarette was hanging limply in his mouth.
Finally, he was… jumpy, almost. He would shiver often, and his hands fumbled when he tried to light a cigarette, curses spilling effortlessly out of his mouth. His jaw would tremble as he smoked, despite his best efforts to hide it. And as he and Johnny walked down the street, he would jump at every sound, swivelling to check nobody was behind him.
Johnny knew something was off, and he’d be damned if he didn’t do anything about it.
“Hey Dal,” he said. “Wanna head back to your place?”
Dallas gave him a strange look. They’d been walking around town aimlessly, drinking Pepsi, maybe trying some broads. Usually, they’d head over to the lot afterwards and smoke for a bit – sometimes Dally’d pick a fight with a Soc – so the suggestion was almost weird.
“Uh, sure?” Dally asks, clearly confused by the change of pace.
The walk back to Dally’s (well, Buck’s) place was uneventful and filled with pointless chatter (“So, er, how are your folks?” “Still shit.” “Ah, sucks.”). Johnny didn’t particularly want to go to Buck’s; it always stank of alcohol, inherently reminding him of his mother, and Buck himself was alright but was a real douche when he was drugged up. Johnny found comfort in Dally’s room though – Dally was safe, Johnny could relax around him like he couldn’t with anybody else, except maybe Ponyboy.
“We’re here,” Dally announced lamely, swinging the door open and letting the stuffy air flood out of the building. They stepped inside, ignoring the stray people hanging around and the broad who tried chatting Dallas up. Johnny pet Betty, Buck’s dog, on the way upstairs. Betty was a sweet dog, but she wasn’t trained so well and often bit people, but that didn’t bother Johnny. It barely even hurt, and she was a good dog. It was alright by him.
They walked into Dally’s room then, the old couch and dusty floors a strange sort of comfort. Dally’s place was somewhere he could crash when he really needed to get away from everything happening in their stupid town (He stayed here a few months ago, right after the Socs had jumped him. Remembering that inclined him to check over his shoulder, just in case, but he knew he was safe here. He was with Dally; nothing could hurt him anymore.) He moved further into the room, collapsing happily onto the couch.
“So, um…” Dally bean awkwardly. Johnny noticed his fingers were twitching and bit his cheek worriedly. “Why’d you wanna come over?” Johnny notices the concern in Dally’s eyes and smiled.
“Don’t worry, Dal, I’m not in any trouble or anythin’,” He placated. Dally’s relief was palpable. “But, um. I can’t say the same about you, man, what’s up?”
“Huh?” Dally’s eyebrows creased in confusion, before a look of realisation crossed over his face and then he completely closed off. “It’s nothin’, Johnny, I’m fine.”
Johnny wasn’t taking it. “Nah, you’re not. You’re all fidgety an’ you’ve probably smoked a hundred packs by now.” Dally scowled at this.
“Leave it, man,” Dally said, pulling his lighter out. Johnny snatched it quickly. “Hey, what the hell, Johnny?!”
“Listen, Dallas, I know something’s up, an’ I’ll be dead before you get away with not tellin’ me what it is!” Johnny said, tucking the lighter safely in his pocket and crossing his arms. Dally sighed resignedly and gave Johnny a long-suffering look.
“I dunno what’s up with me, man,” He gestured to his own face, which is still noticeably apple and rosy cheeked. “I mean, I was fine last night, but this mornin’ I feel like shit.”
Johnny hums sympathetically. “What kinda shit?”
“Like when Steve got that cold last spring.” Johnny cringes at the memory of when Steve had been MIA for 3 days before Soda went to his house to find him bedridden with shallow breath and speaking fever-induced nonsense.
“Dal, why didn’t you just say so? You shoulda stayed at home.” Johnny frowns. Dally made habit of trying to tough everything out, even that one time he was bleeding out and claimed he was ‘just fine’ before passing out on the spot.
“I just didn’t wanna, I dunno, be a pansy about it or somethin’.” Dally says, bristling. Johnny draws his reddening face to the sickness.
“That so?” Johnny responds flatly. He stands up, grabs Dally gently by the hand, and brings him to the bed. “Either way, you gotta get some rest now. Get into bed an’ stop bein’ a damn wuss about it.”
“Alright, alright,” Dally chuckles, which quickly turns into a coughing fit that leaves Dally sputtering and Johnny rubbing his back soothingly.
After his coughing died down, Dally was propped up in the bed with all the blankets Johnny could find in the little room stacked on top of him and a thermostat stuck in him mouth against his will.
“Okay, now that you’re all sorted, I’m gonna get you some food. Soup or somethin’. You tell me what your temperature is when it’s done, and if I find out that you lied to me about it, a cold won’t be your only problem.” Johnny says with a smug smile. Dally was twisting his lips to cover up a grin as well, he realised. Johnny felt a warmth in his chest at making Dally want to smile, then got up and headed to the main room.
Dally’s mini make-do kitchen wasn’t what you’d call charming. It consisted of a stolen fridge, mismatched cupboards he’d snatched up before they were thrown out, a kettle that was reluctantly accepted as a gift from the Curtis brothers, and an old microwave that had only a 50% chance of working at any given time.
Johnny opened the wooden cupboard with flaking red that he knew functioned as a pantry. Inside he found some cans of dried fruit and a half-eaten bag of chips. Johnny frowns.
“Dallas!” He yells, marching back to the bedroom. “Listen, man, I know you ain’t full of money or livin’ in a mansion or nothin’, but hell, you got next to nothin’ in that kitchen!”
Dally groans buries his face in the pillows. “Lay off, Johnny,” His muffled voice replies. Johnny’s purses his lips.
“Alright, fine. I’m headin’ up to the shops on 5th. Don’t move. Be back in 5.” He says, grabbing some of the cash Dally left on the dresser and heading out of Buck’s.
Ever since the incident, Johnny was afraid to go out on his own. It was never smart to be a greaser in Tulsa, but an alone greaser was practically a walking death sentence. Johnny knew this, he knew this better than anybody. But Dal was sick, and he needed food and medicine, and Johnny would be damned if he couldn’t give him that much.
The shops of 5th street suck. They’re more expensive for less quality than the shops the greasers rotate, and Socs sometimes came by there. But it didn’t matter how shitty they were right now because they’re also the closest to Buck’s and Johnny needs to be fast.
That, unfortunately, doesn’t stop him from jumping at every little sound that could be a Soc, that could be somebody ready to jump him on the spot.
He quickly grabs the cheapest soup he can find – tomato soup, which he knows Dally likes and he thinks Ponyboy read to him one time that it was good for sickness – and discreetly hides a pack of medicine in the inside pocket of his jacket. Two-bit had told him that he had a good jacket for stealing, that it was baggy enough to hide things but thin enough to not look suspicious. Johnny didn’t really like stealing all too much, but he hadn’t brought enough money He purchased the soup and nearly sprints back to Dally.
“Dal, I’m ba—oh c’mon!” Dallas jumps from where he was leaning lazily against the windowsill, cigarette dropping from his mouth. He quickly stomps it out.
“Dally, you gotta rest. Smoking’s just makin’ you feel worse.” Johnny pouts, setting the soup and medicine on top of a little creaky shelf. “I got you tomato soup an’ medicine, you got cups?”
Dally just scoffs. “Johnny, you’re overreactin’, man. I’m not even that sick. Everybody gets colds, I’ll live.” Johnny bites his lip and frowns angrily.
“You don’t gotta pretend to be tough. Not for me.” Dally doesn’t respond, just stares hard at the floor. “C’mon, Dal. Just let me help you this one time.”
“I—” Dally cuts off abruptly. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Okay, come on, d’you think you can make it to the bathroom in time?” Dally shakes his head queasily. “That’s alright, here, puke in the sink.” Johnny guides Dally to the sink and holds his hair back. With his other hand, he rubs soothing circles on Dally’s back.
Dallas pukes almost immediately reaching the sink, coughing and sputtering. Johnny whispers sweet nothings, patting his shoulder in a way he hopes is comforting.
Eventually, Dally’s coughing dies down and Johnny washes the vomit away down the drain and pours Dally a glass of water.
“So, what was it you were saying about not being sick?” Johnny laughs, but his smile dropped as Dally glared at him. “What?”
“It’s just—fuck,” Dally gesticulates uselessly. “You go through so much shit from your parents and from that fucking asshole with the rings, and you get nothing. Nobody supports you or—or helps you, you just gotta man it. But the moment I get sick, you’re all over me an’ caring for me an’ everything.” Dally raises his voice, pale eyes almost distraught.
“Dal…” Johnny says softly. “Dally, I get support. Darry lends me his place to crash sometimes, an’ Ponyboy reads to me an’ Sodapop sneaks me Cokes from his store. Steve sometimes walks me home to make sure I don’t get hurt on the way, Two-bit is the first to cheer me up on a bad day.” Johnny smiles. “And you, Dally, do all of those things and more for me.”
Dally looks up at him alarmed, his lips slightly parted. Johnny can’t stop looking at his lips.
“On that night when I was jumped, you let me sleep at your place for a week. You knew I couldn’t go back to my place after everything, and I knew you couldn’t afford to keep me here for long, but you let me stay.” Johnny stepped closer wrapped Dally in a hug. Dallas stood there for a minute, unresponsive, before his arms cautiously snaked around Johnny’s small frame.
“You shouldn’t hug me, you’ll get sick.” Dally says, but he doesn’t let go. Johnny holds him tighter.
“Dal, it’s my turn to look after you.” Dally lets go at last, and Johnny steps back. “Go back to bed. I’ll bring you soup an’ pills in just a little bit, ‘kay?” Dally wanders back off to his bedroom and Johnny sighs, switching the kettle on and refilling Dally’s glass of water, placing two little pills next to it.
He finishes the soup quickly and balances it on one arm and the glass in his opposite hand, pills propped underneath it. “Here you go,” He smiles as he puts them all down on the rickety bedside table (which was really just a tall stool.)
“…Thanks, man. Really.” Dally smiles a little nervously. “You look cold. Wanna get under the covers?”
“That’s okay, Dal, I—”
“Please?”
“…Alright.” Johnny climbs under the piles of blankets, lying on his side so they could both fit into the bed. Dally rolled onto his side, facing Johnny, and draped his arm over him, pulling him closer. Johnny huffed a laugh.
They laid like that for a while before Johnny perked up. “Hey, you never took you medicine,” he said softly. Dally didn’t respond, and when Johnny looked back over to him, he was asleep. Johnny just sighed contentedly and slipped back into Dally’s embrace, nodding off beside him.