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Seething jealousy settles deep in his bones whenever he’s at the Curtis house, and they start reminiscing. When they start recalling something stupid Soda did, or funny Ponyboy did. They’ll start talking about that one time Mr. Curtis shot two bucks in one day or how when Ponyboy took his first stumbling steps, he took them towards Darry. That time this happened, or that happened, and they’ll laugh, and they’ll giggle, and they smile. Clap each other on the shoulder in a show of affection or, in Mrs. Curtis’s case, ruffle their hair.
He gets jealous, he gets angry, an all-consuming energy. It’s so bad that nine out of ten times he’ll have to excuse himself, making a hasty retreat to the lot, or just to bum it around town. Kicking at rocks until he’s left with regret gnawing away in his stomach because he shouldn’t resent them. He shouldn’t.
Shouldn’t resent Mr. and Mrs. Curtis for being decent folks and loving parents, shouldn’t resent the Curtis brothers for being raised with kindness. But he does, especially when his own childhood memories are sparse and cruel. He remembers when he was young and his father would lock him in his room until he stopped his crying, leaving him there for hours even after he was done. He can remember his mother’s screaming fits, he can remember hiding himself away in the cabinet whenever his folks started going at it. Hell, his first memory is getting the belt when he was fresh outta diapers, and had an accident.
But he doesn’t talk about it, never talks about most things. Only talks with Ponyboy, but still, that’s usually about books and not what’s happening at home. It doesn’t matter, they all know, but they won’t say nothing unless Johnny brings it up and he won’t. He can barely handle the sad eyes that most of the boys give him, only Steve and Dally really understand what it’s like. They don’t cast him any pity when he shows up with a new bruise or a twisted ankle. He just gets a knowing glance, maybe a clap on the shoulder.
Well, form Steve he does, from Dallas? Things have been a bit different with Dallas lately.
And that’s who he finds himself searching for now, Dallas. The sun has set, and the chill of winter is starting to settle. Breath puffing out white as he walks alongside the road. He hopes people driving can see him, and that not too many of them are drunk. There’s barely a shoulder on this road, one wrong jerk of the wheel and he’d be gone and that’d be, that would be—.
Flipping his jacket collar up, he picks up the pace, moonlight lighting the way between the sparse streetlights. He gets there eventually, and after an hour of walking his feet are aching. The duct tape stuck to one of his shoes is starting to rip off, and his toes are cramped painfully in the front. The cold air has cleared his head and gotten rid of the jumbled anger that cluttered it, the anger that he’s always too afraid to express. The last thing he ever wants to do is act anything like his father.
The front door to Buck’s sticks when you push it open and technically, you’re supposed to knock. But there’s no guarantee someone will answer and generally after two in the morning, everybody inside is too blasted to tell their left from their right, much less spot someone sneaking in. And that’s exactly what he does, sneaks in, walks as casually as he can to the stairs, and then books it up to Dallas’s room. The last room on the right, that has a smoke-stained door and he’s lucky, the lock ain’t done up. He’s able to slip in quietly enough, the blinds are drawn and Dallas is asleep. Shirtless on top of the covers, not in blue jeans but light blue boxers, and socks that come up halfway on his calves. Back muscles on display, not big but lean from working with horses all day but still not eating as much as he should. Cheek smushes against the pillow, wet from drool, hair splayed out on the side of his head that’s down against the bed. The straight edge of his nose, the blonde of his eyebrows and eyelashes, he ain’t exactly handsome but he is attractive. In that rugged, street-rat kinda way. Or at least that’s what Johnny thinks.
He’s been here a handful of times, more often over the last few weeks. A private hideaway, a door with a lock and a hoodlum inside who everyone knows is willing to knock the daylights outta you if come in without a warning. The bed is small, and the carpet is stained, carrying a dingy smell of mildew and something else that he can’t figure out. But it's away from prying eyes, it’s the place where Dallas kissed him for the first time. Where things have gotten hot and heavy, they haven’t gone all the way yet even though he knows Dallas wants to.
Wants to shove his hand down Johnny’s pants and get a good feel for what’s underneath. But Johnny ain’t ready, and as much as Dallas might want, he knows not to push. Or maybe he just wants to be a gentleman, for once, and the thought of that makes him blush. Makes the fluttering in his stomach turn into an uncontrollable buzzing, like there’s a bunch of bees trapped inside. He hasn't been alone in this room, at night, with Dallas since their situation with each other started. Since they jumped over the edge of friendship, right into something more. The connotation of being alone, with one bed and the boy he’s been kissing when the sun ain’t out had him too nervous. And he’s nervous now, but the need for comfort, the need for someone to treat him with a gentle hand is greater than any nerves bouncing away in his bloodstream.
The only problem to solve now is how to wake Dallas up without being strangled or having a switch pulled on him. A gentle touch to his back, skirting fingers across his shoulder blades leading to a full press of his palm, and a whisper of “Dal, it’s me.”, startles Dallas awake well enough. A straggled gasp, eyes thick with sleep, Dallas is up like a shot. Grasping at Johnny’s shoulder, manhandling him like he’s about to punch him before those blue eyes clear. Before he realizes who exactly is in his room in the middle of the night, his grip loosens. Goes from a tight grasp to a soft hold, and Johnny shivers.
“Jesus, John, scared the shit outta me.” He scolds, rubbing at his eyes. “You alright? Yer old man knockin’ you around again?”
“Naw, nothin’ like that,” Johnny says grasping at straws, trying to think about to explain exactly why he came here.
I was about to pop my lid at the Curtis family being good to each other.
Anger turned to an odd disconnected feeling turned to being downright sorry. For himself, for feeling that way in the first place. But how exactly does he describe that to Dallas? Cold, too-tough Dallas? He doesn’t know, wouldn't know how even if he tried.
So he doesn’t, just crowds forward. Steps in between the pale legs that are now hanging off the edge of the bed, and buries his head into the crook of his neck. He don’t smell like nicotine and horses like he usually does. Just cheap, floral soap.
“C’mon, get in.” Dallas prompts, scooting back. “Take yer clothes off.”
His face goes hot, blazing as he does exactly what Dallas commands. Takes his old jacket off, his beat-up shoes, his shirt, and then his jeans, only leaving his tighty-whities on. It’s not the first time he and Dallas have slept in the same bed, in their underwear, skin touching. But that was before this thing between them started happening. Back when they’d sleep back-to-back, making sure to leave as much space as possible. Which was never much, not with the size of Dallas’s mattress.
Things are different now, and once he climbs under the sheet that Dallas is holding up for him, he gets encased by the fabric and Dally’s strong arms. Pitches his face forward so that his nose is rubbing against wirey chest hair. Inhales that cheap soap smell, it settles him as much as his body allows. But his body always acts like he’s just activated a trip wire and there’s no escape. It’s hard for him to relax because h e don’t talk much, but he thinks. A lot. All the time, and as time passes and Dally’s limbs become heavy, his anxiety mounts. And just when he thinks Dallas is asleep, the other boy slides his hand from his back to his bicep, giving him a firm squeeze.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
He blushes at the pet name, never would’ve expected that Dallas of all people would be fond of using them.
“Nothin’ I just,—you ever get jealous, of the Curtis’s?”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“Of them, of their—oh I dunno, the way they treat each other. The love they got for each other?”
“There ain’t no use in feelin’ that way.”
The answer is quick and concise, a finality that Dallas has seemed to have settled on. But that answer don’t make Johnny feel any better, if anything it makes him feel worse. Makes him feel stupid for trying to voice what’s been bothering him, even if Dallas asked. Even if Dallas always prods, the older boy don’t see much sense in feelings. Johnny should know better by now.
Dallas’s nose brushes at his temple, followed by a brush of lips, a soft, dry kiss.
“We ain’t never gonna have nothin’ like that Johnny, our folks just ain’t—wired that way. But we’ve found our people. I found you. Ain’t that enough?”
Being wrapped up in Dallas’s arms allows him to hear the thick, nervous, swallow he does. Johnny is just about the only person he’d walk his words back for. And he thinks before he says anything back, Dallas has always been enough for Johnny. Has always been what Johnny wanted. To be like, to be with, but Dallas says that Johnny is enough for him. Enough to replace any feelings of want for a parent’s love.
Spreading his hands, he presses into Dallas’s back. Holds him close, feeling the bumps of acne and scar tissue under his pams, a jagged line that Johnny doesn’t know the story of, yet.
“Yer too good to me.”
“It ain’t hard to meet yer expectations.”
“Shudd’up.”
A sleep-ridden chuckle, slow and sweet. A quick pass of a hand through his hair, and another press of lips to his forehead.
“Go to sleep, kid.”