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You get tough like me and you don’t get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothing can touch you.
I.
“You wasn’t supposed to see that.”
It’s a muttered sentence that echos into the silence of the bathroom. A drop of cherry-red blood drips from his nose into the porcelain sink, streaking down to the drain as a handful of drops hit beside it. Johnny stands like a shadow in front of the door, small and still, but his eyes ain’t trained on the floor like they usually are, they’re staring at Dallas. Big, black pools of worry.
Of course, it’s Johnny, only Johnny would be stupid enough, be brave enough, to follow him after one of his—episodes .
“What happened back there, Dal?”
He shuts his eyes and hopes for darkness.
And there is—darkness, no images, no memories. His hands curl around the sink, knuckles whitening as he forces himself to take a breath, then two, then three. In and out, in and out, just like the social worker taught him all those years ago.
In and out, in and out, in and out.
II.
There’s the shuffling of sheets, the turning of a body, Johnny is turning towards him. A sleep-warmed thigh stretches across him as the smaller boy settles down again. Shallow breaths puff in his ear as he brings his hand up to hold Johnny closer.
“You alright?”
A whisper, a mutter, half asleep. Half gone in a dream and the kid still seems to be thinking of Dallas, he turns his head to breathe in the comforting smell of Johnny Cade. Usually nicotine and sweat, but right now it’s nicotine and soap. He smells clean, and Dallas leans towards him even more, heart swelling. Johnny has a way of touching people, their hearts, their—souls and shit. Of worming his way inside and making them care before they even realize what’s happening.
“‘M alright.”
There’s a soft brush of lips as Johnny’s breathing evens out again.
III.
He opens his eyes, it seems brighter than before and he has to squint even though the lights are dimmed and yellow.
Johnny is still standing in front of the door, frozen still but his eyes are wider, as big as saucers, truly startled. It vaguely reminds him of Sylvia when she first saw him do something like this but instead of his anger flashing, like it usually does, instead of gnashing his teeth like a wild dog and telling him to leave, there’s just defeat. He could get angry, but what’s the use? It’s only Johnny.
“Is he awake?”
“Yeah his people showed up, got him talkin’”
Dallas nods, bringing his hand up to wipe at his nose. It leaves a streak of bright blood along his skin. Pale skin, and blue veins the sudden touch to his arm makes him startle, he didn’t even hear the kid come closer. Griping on instinct, he gets ahold of Johnny like he’s gonna hit him before he’s able to override whatever is inside him that makes him so violent. That makes him try to hurt the people closest to him.
Johnny doesn’t look afraid, he doesn’t even pay Dallas’s new closeness any mind. A few seconds pass as he keeps that strong grip on Johnny, fisting the front of his shirt, blood dripping down his face, down his lips, and down his chin. There’s a hesitation to Johnny’s movements as he reaches up, swiping at Dallas’s nose. Maybe he’s hesitant to ask, maybe he’s hesitant to know exactly why Dallas beat on that boy until he wasn’t moving, why he kept swinging even though it was clear that the kid wasn’t getting back up.
Or maybe his hesitation, his worry, is really fear and Dallas is overthinking this whole thing. But somehow that would be worse, and the need to explain himself takes over any lingering, jittery, nerves.
“I just-he-“ He stumbles over his words, something so foreign that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to continue. “Sometimes when I get to fightin’ I remember things from when I was young and I just—lose it, I blackout.”
IV.
Johnny’s eyes was always soft, there’s never been another way to describe it. Soft and warm , and Dallas always thought that’s what people who still have compassion look like. Johnny cared about people; Dallas loved that about him, even if it never did the kid any good. Not with his parents, not with his image, he was small and weak but he was kind and Dallas loved him. He loved him.
And when Johnny dies, his eyes don’t look warm no more. Just hallow, empty, staring blankly at the ceiling as Ponyboy stares at Dallas with disbelief. They bracket his body, one standing on either side and Dallas is a fool. There was some half-baked notion in his mind that if he got here fast enough, if he brought Ponyboy and proved to Johnny that they beat the Socs, if they proved that got some kind of sick vengeance, Johnny would stay. That he would see how hard Dallas—how hard they all— fought for him. He would see that none of this was his fault, that Bob went too far and got what he deserved. That he would fight, and be able to stay.
But the logic is coming fast, clear, and concise now. Johnny was tired and broken and ready to go.
V.
Two steps to the side and one step back, Johnny pushes down on his shoulders to make him sit. Dallas does it without a fight, keeping his eyes screwed shut, reluctant to open them. To see him, to face this vulnerability he’s put on display, of his own volition. This whole situation is his fault.
Rough, work-worn, hands smooth over his shoulders before trailing up to the back of his head and working the fine hair there. Warm streaks of blood are still flowing from his nose, but Johnny brings him close anyway. Pushing Dallas’s face right into the area above his stomach. Where it’s still soft and not quite bony. Johnny is treating softly but he pushes his face in further, blood soaking the fabric. Like he can get away from his shame if he presses hard enough. Shame over what? Not fighting back when he was a kid? Of losing control? Or letting Johnny, with his kind hands and soft gestures, even come close in the first place? God knows he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.
“‘M stainin’ yer shirt.” Dallas mutters, muffled by the fabric.
“I don’t care, stain it.”
VI.
“Why don’t you ever fight back?”
Thump, thump, thump, the bouncy ball smacks against the wall repeatedly. Dallas had shaken it out of one of the machines in front of the Dime store earlier in the day. He’s not looking at Johnny as he does it, he’s trying to give him the illusion of privacy. He’s seen the kid with enough shiners to know exactly what he looks like when he has one.
The question shoots out of his mouth before he can stop it. It’s something he thinks about a lot, something that bounces around in the back of his head because he knows that Johnny has a mean right hook. If it wasn’t for his size, he’d be more than just a halfway decent fighter. But Johnny don’t like fighting if he doesn’t have to, and for some reason, he doesn’t seem to consider getting the shit beat out of him by his pops as a valid enough reason to defend himself.
Johnny side-eyes him, slouching against the brick wall. He looks real tough and you wouldn’t know not to be scared if you didn’t know him.
“Man,” Johnny takes a drag off his cigarette, blowing out and draping his face in a cloud of smoke. “You really wanna know?”
“Yeah, tell me.”
Golden tan skin, deep purple around one of his eyes, and a glance of caution.
“Honestly, I just don’t think I could live with it. If I—let myself get as angry as him.”
“Anger makes you tough.” He says back simply.
Thump, thump, thump.
“You think that if I got hard, like you, I wouldn’t get hurt no more?”
The ball is snatched up a moment later, shifting his eyes to stare at Johnny. Almost feeling like he’s being called out in a way, like Johnny is saying I see you. The kid is making eyes with the ground, won’t look his way, palpable tension in the air. But Johnny is Johnny, so he lets a smile crack across his face a moment later.
“Shoot, kid, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout being tough when ‘M around.”
VII.
They sneak out of the back door after the boy and his friends leave. After Dallas has taken enough deep breaths to calm down completely, enough to start feeling embarrassed by the whole thing, they walk out into the cold spring air that comes during the nighttime. Away from the house party, away from the bloody scene, and away from the bathroom. They walk across the wet pavement across town until the roadhouse comes into view. Until they’re up the stairs and behind a closed door.
The bed creeks as he sits down, swallowing thickly, Johnny hesitates again. Hesitates to come close, and Dallas hesitates to ask. Hesitates to say yes I need you, I’m hurting, will you come closer?
“I pray for you sometimes,” Johnny whispers.
“You do?” He asks, head whipping up, caught off guard.
“Yeah, when me and Ponyboy go to church. I always do.”
“‘M not someone you should keep in yer prayers, Johnny, ‘M not a good person. You saw what I did to that kid back there and he didn’t even do nothin’.”
“You protect me, yer the only one who does. Nobody looks out for me the way you do.”
“‘M not someone to look up to.” He snaps.
“Yes, you are.” Johnny spits back, coming forward to stand in between Dallas’s legs and taking ahold of his shoulders. It’s like he’s about to shake some sense into him before he comes back to his senses. Blushing a deep red, his fingers almost dance along Dallas's shoulders. Feather light touches as he thumbs the fabric and Dallas stares at the blood stain on his shirt.
He’s had the feeling that he’s been corrupting Johnny for a while but it’s never been this plain before. This obvious, that he’s gotten into the kid's bloodstream and he’s infecting every vein. He doesn’t deserve the hero worship that Johnny offers him, and he definitely shouldn’t like it the way he does.
A thumb strokes at his cheek, startling him out of his daze. Johnny’s face is still red but his gaze is steady, draped in the shadows, this is just about the most serious-looking he’s ever seen the kid. Dallas turns his face into Johnny’s small hand.
“Dallas—“
“Don’t say it, just, don’t.”
He draws Johnny in closer, wrapping his arms around the kid's waist before pulling him into bed. Arranging them in a comfortable position after Johnny pushed him away so he could take off his shoes. Dallas breathes in the smell of nicotine and sweat, burying his face into Johnny’s chest as he lies between his legs.
Shame, sin, he’s carried the feeling of both his whole life. Shame over shit that happened when he was a kid. Shame over hurting people and liking it, he only ever regrets it when memories of his childhood sneak up behind him and start choking him. Only regrets it when it makes him look weak, when he ends up almost killing someone in front of a whole crowd of people. And for the sinning, he indulges in all the deadly ones on a daily basis. Lusts after men instead of women, he’s going to be damned to hell.
And he’s tried to stop Johnny’s hero worship. He’s tried to tell the kid that he’s nothing special, that he’s a violent fool with no future ahead of him and no sense in his brain. But Johnny refuses to believe him, he refuses to see the full picture.
But Dallas is greedy and he can’t help but love it as much as he hates it, can’t help but revel in those warm brown eyes and the small compliments Johnny always throws his way. And even if he doesn’t deserve it, he takes it.
He gives in, letting his eyes droop and his body relax as hands begin to card through his hair. He doubts that if he told the kid to scram, told him that he doesn’t want him hanging around anymore, that he’d leave. The kid has dug his heels in the ground and won’t let up, and if Johnny isn’t gonna leave. If he’s gonna insist that there’s good left in Dallas, then maybe he’ll just have to settle for trying to protect the softness that Johnny still has. Protect the gentle hands that handle him now, it’s the least he can do. It’s the only way he can pay Johnny back. The only way he can say, thank you for seeing through me. It’ll have to be enough, he doesn’t have anything else to offer.