Archive of Our Own

Steve didn't mind sharing Soda. He didn't. Really. Or at least that's what he insisted on. He didn't mind when he was busy naggin' on Darry and horsin' around with Two. He didn't care that Soda poured into Pone 'n wrapped Johnny up into the gang.

Well, maybe Pony was a stretch. But that was just because the kid didn't just have Soda. He had his oldest brother’s careful eye and quiet, dependable love, he had Two’s space at the end of every joke and easy grin, he had Johnny’s everythin’ but he still insisted on Soda’s full attention too often in Steve's opinion. But even then, Steve didn't hate the kid nearly as much as Pony thought he did. He was prone to dramatics.

Honestly, Steve didn't complain about the rest of the gang. They always ended up just as much Steve's family as Soda had.

Until Dallas Winston.

Steve hated Dallas.

He could remember in exact detail the first time he’d ever heard his godforsaken name. He’d been thirteen, right on the cusp of fourteen, with Soda still months and months away. They’d been all crowded ‘round the Curtis’ porch, even Darry who’d somehow found a free weekend between bein’ boy of the year ‘n the football star to hang out with the gang. Even on his free days, he was tossin’ around the ball with Two-Bit until Mrs. C came to shoo them away from the windows- a safe move considerin’ Two.

“I’ve met this kid recently.” Soda leaned over and plucked the half-empty Pepsi Steve was lettin’ get warm from his hands, throwin’ back a sip and handin’ it on to Johnny. “Been thinkin’ of bringin’ him ‘round sometime.”

“Oh, here we go. Another one of Soda’s strays.” Pony rolls his eyes so hard they nearly vanish into the back of his head. The kid was only nine years old but had recently developed a smart mouth Steve had to fight the urge to knock out of him half the time. Darry assured him he’d grow out of it. Steve thought that was about as likely as Two growin’ out of his jokes.

“Oh, hush. You’re just jealous he picked us ’n got saddled with you.” Steve knocks him up the back of his head and from where he’s leanin’ against the railin’ ‘n Pony’s sittin’ on the step. Ponyboy immediately whips around and is only stopped from jumpin’ on Steve by the sudden appearance of Darry’s hand on his shoulder.

The kid bares his teeth but settles back down and Darry pets him on the hair once, reachin’ over him to knock Steve in the head. Pony splits into a huge shit-eatin’ grin. “Hey!” Steve reaches up and rubs at the place where Darry’s fingers caught his temple like it had actually hurt. Darry rolled his eyes but patted Steve’s knee before returnin’ to the football Two was rippin’ across the lawn to catch.

“Asshole,” Steve mutters low enough only Pony catches it, scowlin’.

“Bitch,” Pony grins right back.

“Who is it?” Johnny peers at Soda who was smirkin’ and pointedly not gettin’ in between his brother’s bickerin’.

“Huh?” Soda turned his eyes away from Pony and tilted his head, his own conversation promptly forgotten. “Oh! He’s new in town. Dunno if you know him. He’s not in school yet, ain’t from around here.”

Darry spun the ball between his hands and deftly dodged Two as he dove for him.

“How old is he?” He asked, puttin’ the palm of his hand to Two’s forehead to keep him from tacklin’ him again.

“Dunno, a little older, maybe. He’s from New York.” Soda leaned so far off the step he nearly fell straight off ‘n cracked his head. Steve snatched the back of his collar and pulled him back without thinkin’ ‘n Soda just let him, only reachin' up a hand to playfully push him off when he was fully leanin’ back again. He said New York with such awe in his voice and Steve knew he was fishin’ for a reaction. He got it when Pony shot around, nearly jarrin’ Johnny straight onto the ground, mouth wide open.

“New York? What the hell’s he doin’ in Tusla?” Darry popped him in the mouth but Pony was still so awe-struck he hardly took any notice.

“Don’t let mama catch you talkin’ like that.” Pony spared him only a deeply put-out glance before refocusin’ on Soda who was crowin’ at gettin’ the response he’d gone out for.

“He just moved here with his dad. I think. I always see him ‘round the corner store. Last week I even saw him goin’ into Buck’s.” None of them had the guts to try to sneak into Buck’s just yet. Even Darry ‘n Two stayed clear of the place. Or at least that was what they told the gang.

“‘N what were you doin’ near Buck’s lil’ buddy?” Darry had finally worn Two out from tryin’ to get past his extended arm ‘n instead picked him up like he weighed nothin’ ‘n dropped him on the grass.

“Nothin’.” Soda turned the full force of his big honey eyes on his older brother. Darry raised an eyebrow but let it go. He let everything go when it came to Soda. “He’s got a crazy rap, too. Man, you should hear half the stuff he brags about.” Soda leaned back on Steve’s leg and gazed into space in admiration.

“What’s his name, Soda?” Johnny had since resettled on the stair, though further back from Pony ‘n his antics.

“Dallas. Dallas Winston.”

Steve can’t put his finger on it exactly. Soda follows through and suddenly Dallas is just there. All. The fuckin’. Time. And Steve doesn’t want to hate him but there’s just somethin’ about him.

He’s just… wild. Steve is used to a certain breed of domesticated anger Dallas has never even considered. When Dallas wanted to hold up some kid for simply bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time he did. If he wanted to steal the kind of jewelry that could get you five years in the cooler for even lookin’ at too hard he did. If he wanted to drink a grown man under the table he sure as hell did.

But when he wanted to crash at the Curtis’ or sidle up in the kitchen with Mrs. C or cut totally loose with Steve’s friends he couldn’t be stopped. Dallas had appeared in Steve’s life one day and refused to be gotten rid of. He just simply… took up space.

“God, I don’t get it. All I ever hear about is Dallas this, Winston that. I’m so sick of it.” It would have been disconcertin’ to tell anyone else this but Soda usually, however, considerin’ the circumstances, Darry was the next best thing.

“Glory, I haven’t heard you bitch about anyone this much since Ponyboy spoke his first word.” Darry grinned at him and stretched back over the arm of Mr. C’s chair. I was one of those real rare days where only he ‘n Steve were home. “What’s your problem with Winston?”

Steve eyed him like he thought Darry was missin’ a screw. “Why don’t you have a problem with him? Have you heard about the shit he’s done? Aren’t you worried about his bad influence or some shit?”

Darry tried unsuccessfully not to scoff. Steve scowled at him. “Since when do you care about bad influence, Steven Thomas?”

“I don’t! He just- I just- look, whatever.” Steve pushed himself off the couch with a huff and Darry rolled his eyes but reached out and pushed him back down. Steve didn’t fight but crossed his arms and glared at Darry as he flopped back down.

“Just give him some time. I think there’s somethin’ else buggin’ you and Dallas is just your poster on the dart board.” Steve opened his mouth to interrupt but Darry just hushed him. “Look, I get it. But don’t come in here actin’ like you’re real worried about Dallas’ rap when we all know none of us are saints.”

And Steve’s thankful he doesn’t say it but they both know they’re lookin’ at the scars across Steve’s knuckles.

“Randle.” Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s the cold little smile across his face when he says somethin’ he knows will piss Steve off. Or maybe it’s that Steve fuckin’ falls for it every time. And it does piss him off.

“Don’t call me that.” Steve nearly bites his cigarette in half and shoves himself off the wall. He’d been killin’ time and skippin’ class and waitin’ for his shift so he could go down to the DX and bug Soda. If he went down now his manager would call Mr. C and he’d get his ass kicked for cuttin’ class. He’s beginnin’ regret both decisions. Or any choice he made to end up in the same place as Dallas alone.

“Why not?” Dallas leans against the street lamp pole and grins in a way that Steve knows he only does to show off his silver cap and needle incisors like a dog barin’ its teeth. Everythin’ Dallas does is so… cold. Practiced.

“Why should I tell you.” Steve jars Dallas’ shoulder as he passes. It hacks him right off when he hears Dallas let out a dry chuckle and start right off after him.

“Oh, I see.” Steve rips the Kool from his lips and whips around. “What did Daddy do to you?” And Dallas says it in this low little singsong that makes Steve’s head spin with the anger rushin’ straight through his body. Steve grabs Dallas in one quick movement, diggin’ his fingers into his shirt and jerkin’ him close.

“You don’t know me, Dallas. Don’t talk about my fuckin’ dad.” He shakes Dallas hard and his white blonde hair falls wildly in his face. And Dallas grins. He’s got these eyes that are so blue they fuckin’ glow. He doesn’t look like anyone Steve has ever met before. He looks like a ghost. And he doesn’t belong in Tusla.

“You think you’re the first person to ever have a shitty dad?” And Steve just wants him to stop fuckin’ talkin’. When his fist connects with Dallas’ mouth for a second Steve swears Dallas looks relieved.

When Steve slinks into the home after a late-night fight with his father that escalated smoothly into Steve dodgin’ his father's whiskey- slow fist and crescendoed with his dad screamin’ for him to get out. He hops the fence and opens the back door quiet as he can, intentionally avoidin’ the light still on in the kitchen.

He ducks down the hall and puts his hand on the door to Soda, Pony, and Darry’s room when he finally registers voices. He shakes his head hard to reorient himself. His dad had landed one wicked hook to his ear years ago and Steve’s hearin’ had a tendency to dip in ‘n out on one side ever since.

“Dallas Winston, what am I gonna do with you?” He finally makes out Mrs. C’s voice, all low and soft and that makes Steve’s stomach clench up, and flip over, and drop to his toes.

Dallas makes a little noise- not a word- just a sound Steve has heard before but can’t place.

“This is goin’ to hurt a bit.” Steve can hear a bottle bein’ poured out and he figures it's the peroxide from the first aid kit. Dallas must be real busted up if he’s lettin’ Mrs. C get anywhere near him to patch him up. Steve wants to grin at that but he just feels a little sick.

Dallas lets out another hiss and Steve realizes where he knows it from. It’s the sound a kicked animal makes. Steve has to squeeze his eyes shut hard to keep from bein’ suddenly, violently sick.

“You’re stayin’ here for the next few nights. You understand me? I won’t have you sleepin’ in the back of Buck’s so someone can kick you when you’re already hurt.” Steve can picture Mrs. C as she pushes Dallas’ hair from his forehead like she always did to her boys when they were hurt.

“Alright,” And Steve will never be sure if he actually heard what he thought he did that night for the rest of his life, “Mama.”

Steve tries to behave around Soda. Mostly because Sodapop Curtis is the best friend Steve has ever had in the world and he is utterly and delusionally convinced that Dallas and Steve would end up friends. And Steve doesn’t want to hurt his feelin’s by tellin’ him that is the most unlikely thing he’s ever heard.

“Steve ‘n Dallas can go.” They were all crowded around the livin’ room, hotly debatin’ who would have to go pick up the cookin’ oil Soda had forgotten from the store when he went alone. It was a regular argument.

Steve opened his mouth and muttered hell no at the exact same time Dallas shrugged and went ok. Steve rounded on him with a sneer and raised brows. Dallas just looked back at him cooly. Like he knew he wouldn’t really kick off with Soda around. He shot him a glare Dallas promptly ignored before turnin’ back around.

“Soda should have to go. He’s the one that forgot it!” Soda clapped both his hands to his chest and collapsed against Darry’s chest. Darry just rolled his eyes but put his hands on the top of Soda’s head, lookin’ down at him. Soda craned his neck back and met Darry’s eyes upside down.

“Did you hear that, Darry? My best friend- no- my brother throwin’ me to the wolves.” He draped one wrist over his eyes and huffed dramatically. Steve normally would have squirmed at the way Soda always managed to wrap him up into the family when he was teasin’ but then Soda’s peekin’ out from under his hand with his eyes gleamin’ mischievously so Steve opts to just tackle him instead.
Darry sees it comin’ and shoves Soda off his chest and into Steve who jumps on top of him and rolls to pin him down. Soda just goes limp, pathetically lollin’ his head to the side and stickin’ his tongue out. That is until Steve shoves his fingers into the ticklish spot between Soda’s ribs and he howls like he’s been shot and squirms away.

“C’mon Steve, you can take the truck. It’ll be quick.” And Steeve sighs, knowin’ he hasn’t managed to dodge the conversation. Soda lowers his voice conspiratorially and Mr. C clears his throat from the kitchen.

“No you can not, Steven Thomas. Not until I see a legal license.” Steve considers arguin’ that he let Darry drive for two weeks before he got his license so he could go to football practice and pick them up from school. This is basically the same thing. He opens his mouth and catches Mr. C raisin’ an eyebrow from the table, flippin’ his newspaper down and thinks better of it.

“Fine. But I can go by myself.” Steve rolls his eyes and climbs back to his feet.

“No can do lil’ buddy. You know the Socs are all hacked off about that fight Two was in last week. They’re lookin’ to kick someone’s teeth in.” Darry squeezes his shoulder and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Should just call Two and make him go.” He mutters and Mrs. C pipes up from the stove,

“Two isn’t here for dinner so he’s not responsible for you boys bellyachin’.” She’s got a faint lil’ smile at the end of her words so Steve doesn’t huff like he wants to.

“Fine.” He figures he’s put up the most fight he can without one of them sayin’ he’s whinin’ worse than Pony and that would really ruin his night. Darry ruffles his hair and Steve ducks under his arm to pull his sneaker on. Dallas already has his jacket on ready to go, leanin’ against the front door.

“Here you go boys,” Mr. C gets up from the table and drops a dollar into Steve’s hand. “Don’t be long. Mrs. C’s got her famous stroganoff on.” He crosses back into the kitchen and plants a kiss on her cheek. Pony, who spent the entirety of the bickerin’ with his eyes glued to the TV, looks up long enough to pull a face.

“We’ll make it back.” Mr. C shoots Dallas a fond smile Dallas’ eyes run right over and drop to the floor uncomfortably. Huh. Steve thinks. That looks familiar.

But then Dallas is bangin’ open the door and not botherin’ to hold it for Steve and the second he steps out he kicks himself for only havin’ on a t-shirt and his sleeveless denim vest. It’s not quite spring in Tusla yet and the afternoons get all cold and windy. But he’s not about to turn around and ask Dallas to wait while he gets one of Darry’s coats.

Dallas is already standin’ on the sidewalk, thumbs hooked in his pockets and scarred knuckles on display. It's a move Steve recognizes and it pisses him off . Steve sweeps down the stairs and blows past Dallas who catches up to him in two long strides. He’s got a couple of infuriatin’ inches on Steve that makes him want to scream.

If he’s gonna have to be stuck with Dallas he’s not gonna give him the pretense of bein’ happy about it. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and glares down at the sidewalk. Dallas keeps up easily.
“What’s your problem with me, man?” Steve pulls up short so suddenly Dallas nearly slams into him.

“What?” He veers around and studies Dallas who just stands there with his white hair blowin’ all crazy across his cheekbones.

“What’s your problem?” He doesn’t sound… mad. Or cold. He sounds curious.

“I don’t have a problem.” Dallas grins and it's not that practiced one. It shows off every tooth in his mouth.

“Liar.” Steve wants to be angry at that. But it doesn’t feel like Dallas is pickin’ a fight. He sounds achingly confused. And Steve knows why. He does. But there’s no way he’s tellin’ him that.

“I’m not. I dunno.” Dallas narrows his eyes and tosses his hair from his face. He reads Steve like an open fuckin’ book. He’s got that look in his eyes Soda gets when he’s seein’ more than Steve is sayin’.

Since when did Steve think Soda was anythin’ like this boy?

“Liar.” And Dallas knocks his shoulder once and leaves Steve standin’ on the sidewalk.

“Don’t you have a fuckin’ dad to go home to instead of waitin’ out in the Curtis’ yard like some mutt?” Dallas scowls at Steve, slams the gate open, lets it bang closed.

“The fuck did you just say, Winston?” Steve didn’t know what the hell his problem was. He hadn’t seen Dallas in three days and when he rolls back in like he never left he’s burnin’ anger from every fiber.

“You heard what I said. Ain’t you got somewhere to be?” And Steve can see the remnants of the cold smile cracked wide open ‘n blazin’. “Nah, man, I’m sorry, forgot you were just Soda’s lil’ stray. Followin’ him ‘round like a bitch.” Dallas barks a laugh and gets an inch away from Steve’s face. He can feel the heady spin of rage thrum under his pulse.

Last summer he and Soda had snuck out to see this shitty cover band play downtown on the Ribbon. Soda had howled the lyrics and danced with every person on the dance floor. Twice. But all Steve could focus on was the baseline as it beat through the speakers and straight into his chest. That’s what his anger felt like.

“C’mon, Randle. Someone forget about you out in the cold? Or are you just waitin’ where you’re supposed to? Such a well-trained thing.” And Dallas bares all his teeth and chokes out a hoarse laugh.

Steve realizes two things at the same time. Dallas wants a fight. Steve gets the distinct feelin’ that if he can’t rile Steve into a fight he will go straight out that gate and find the first Soc he can dig his fingers into.

Dallas is comin’ from a fight. There are a thin little collar of bruises wrapped around the sides of Dallas’ pale throat, two purple blooms that frame the cave in his windpipe. Steve doesn’t know anyone that fights like that. Tusla is broken bones and blood. It’s shattered pop bottles and switchblades. Not-

Oh.

“C’mon Randle.” And Steve registers the low note in the end of Dallas’ words. It sounds like… pleadin’.

Steve pulls his punch at the last second so it won’t crack Dallas’ ribs. Just bruise ‘em.

Dallas’ fist catches Steve right across the mouth. Steve groans, turns his head with Dallas’ hand to try to relieve some of the pain. He pulls back and sweeps a foot under Dallas’ legs and he yelps and slams to the ground. Before Steve can get down on top of him, Dallas catches the back of Steve’s leg and forces him down, slammin’ on his knees in a way that makes his joints crack.

Dallas doesn’t waste a second, he puts his foot straight into Steve’s chest and knocks him onto his back. He’s on top of him before they can blink, beltin’ him hard wherever he can reach. Steve grunts as Dalla’s fist connects with his ribs and he shoves the heel of his palm into Dallas’ nose. He grabs Steve's hair and slams his head against the concrete, letting out a guttural gurgle as blood drips from his nose and he chokes on it runnin’ down his throat. Steve takes the opportunity to flip Dallas off of his body. But he doesn’t clamber back on to him, just lays there tryin’ to catch his breath.

He can hear Dallas’ beside him, pantin’ hard and wheezin’ slightly around the blood pourin’ out his nose. Steve desperately wants to heave big gasps of air but he knows better than to try with the way his ribs are achin’.

Dallas is the first to sit up, hands swipin’ at the blood still runnin’ down his face. Steve grimaces as he watches his fingers come away stained red. Dallas groans and lifts up his shirt to carelessly press it against his nose.

“You know Mr ‘n Mrs. C are gonna ask about that.” Steve sits up slowly, reorientin’ himself to the dark lot. Dallas shoots him a hard look but peels his shirt away.

“Worry about yourself.” But he doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. Steve tries to shake his head again and everythin’ swims. He screws his eyes shut. “What’s wrong, man?”

Steve wants to laugh at that. Dallas had just kicked the shit out of him. That was what was wrong. But instead, he’s still feelin’ all the blood rush to his head so he just drops it down into his hands.

“Oh, fuck.” Steve can hear Dallas as he moves closer, reaches a hand out to touch Steve. Steve flinches. “Oh.”

He waits a moment longer until he’s sure he’s not gonna vomit or pass out and when he opens his eyes Dallas is lookin’ back at him with that searchin’ look he gets whenever Steve does somethin’ fuckin’ stupid like flinch at someone just tryin’ to make sure he wasn’t dyin’. He wants to tell him to fuck right off. That wincin’ at the person who just tried to bash your brains out wasn’t strange. But they both know better.

“He hurts you.” Steve bites his lip so hard he nearly busts straight through it. He swallows thickly, spits out a mouth full of blood and bile. “Doesn’t he.”

It’s not a question.

“Did it take you that long to notice?” Steve wants it to sound bitin’ ‘n sarcastic ‘n dry but his voice cracks a little on the end. He scrubs at his eyes and Dallas doesn’t even pretend to look away.

"How long did it take you?” Dallas runs a hand subconsciously over his throat and Steve glances down at bruises that are no longer there.

Neither of them says anythin’ for a long moment. A headache is startin’ to pound its way into Steve’s skull and his vision’s startin’ to swim. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, forgettin’ he wasn’t supposed to be takin’ deep breaths ‘n moanin’ at the ache.

“Fuck, man. I think I gave you a concussion or somethin’.” Dallas drops his eyes to the cracked pavement of the lot. He’s framed in the flickerin’ light of the lone street lamp and with his tousled hair glowin’ vaguely and dryin’ blood and black eye he looks like those martyrs that they’d talk about when Mrs. C drags them to church on Sunday mornin’s.

And the wave of nausea that hits him has nothin’ to do with his head.

“Let's get out of here.” Dallas is on his feet before Steve even finishes his sentence. He hesitates briefly, then offers his hand.

Steve studies him for a long moment. And takes it.

“That’s not what I meant!” Steve couldn’t remember what they’d started arguin’ about. One moment he’d been sittin’ at the bar at Buck’s, nervously checkin’ the door every now ‘n then to make sure Darry wasn’t on the warpath to kick his ass or Mr. C to come and collect him for bein’ places he had no business bein’ in. He didn’t know why Dallas had asked if he wanted to go. He didn’t know why he’d said yes.

But Dallas ‘n Steve couldn’t hang out without buttin’ heads. Steve didn’t know why. Maybe they were too different. But he knew that wasn’t it.

“Then the fuck did you mean?” Dallas rolls his eyes in a way that is distinctly Darry and that makes him want to glance over his shoulder to recheck the door. But he doesn’t because he’s lookin’ hard at Dallas and bitin’ his lip and he can feel a hotness crawlin’ up his throat and fuck.

Dallas raises an eyebrow, puts a hand across the bar, and snatches up a drink Buck poured for someone else. Buck shoots him a hateful glare but Dallas just turns his cool eyes to him and Buck looks away. Didn’t even matter Dallas was sixteen ‘n Buck was a grown-ass man.

“I just-” Steve tries and then stops. He knows what he’s tryin’ to say. He can picture it in his head. He knows what he means. He just can’t fuckin’ make it come out the way he wants to. Shit.

Steve wraps his fingers around the folds in his jeans until he’s white knucklin’ them. He stares at the bar top because he knows that if he looks up Dallas will be starin’ at him like people always do when this happens. Impatient and aggravated because Steve can’t put his fuckin’ words in order. It’s why he doesn’t bother to argue.

“I meant-” Steve feels hot tears of frustration press against his throat and crawl up behind his eyes and there’s not even a place he can look that he won’t find someone else lookin’ back and suddenly the bar is too crowded.

Fuck. Why was he like this? He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t even angry. He was just mixed up.

Be a man. Steve bites down so hard on his lip he tastes blood. What are you gonna cry? Like a baby?

“I meant- ” He tries again and a tear drips searin’ down his face. He clenches his fist. This was fuckin’ mortifyin’.

He feels Dallas’ hand come down on his shoulder and he jumps. He reels back but when he looks up Dallas is just standin’ there, drink forgotten on the counter. He jerks his head to the stairs and Steve gets the message, trails behind him. Someone tries to stop Dallas and he just bares his teeth and keeps movin’. He leads the way straight upstairs and down the hall and into a room the size of a closet.

Steve blinks as he takes in the jacket thrown on the bed and the sneakers kicked off against the wall. A switchblade and maybe four bucks are thrown on top of the shoes and Steve rubs a hand across his eyes.

“Is this… do you live here?” Dallas lifts a shoulder, drops it.

“Yeah.” He sits down on the bed, kickin’ off his boots and scrunchin’ up the blanket as he slides back against the wall. Steve sniffs, realizes his face is still wet, scrubs hard to get rid of it.

“Sorry about…” He kicks at the leg of the bed, shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know why that happens. It's like he just gets so worked up about not havin’ the stupid words and people always in a rush to get him to just spit it out he ends up cryin’. His dad had spent years yellin’ at him for that. And when he wasn’t yellin’ he was makin’ the kind of digs he howls and howls at and makes Steve want to put his fuckin’ fist through a wall.

That’s how it usually ends.

“Nah, man. Forget it.” Dallas has his head cocked to the side and he looks like he’s never been in a rush for anythin’ in his life. “What were you sayin’?"

Dallas shows at the Curtis’ funeral. Steve doesn’t leave Soda’s side for even a second. Soda presses against him and doesn’t cry at all. So Steve doesn’t either.

At the end of the service, when they’re all filin’ out and the folks at the funeral home are flippin’ out the lights, Steve looks back at the coffins they’ve closed shinin’ vaguely in the darkness. Dallas stands between them, ramrod straight, tremblin’ slightly. His fists are clenched so hard his knuckles are pure white. Blood drips from his hand and onto the tile.

Pure envy shoots through Steve’s body. God, he wishes he could be angry. He’d kill to just be angry.

But there’s no one to blame. Maybe Ponyboy was right. Maybe that’s why Dallas is so bitter.

The night Ponyboy and Johnny disappear is the worst night Steve has had in a long time. He holds Soda and watches Darry as he paces the hall, the porch, the kitchen, back again. He can feel Soda’s anger. But Steve knows what it’s like to feel like the only way to speak is through his fists. He knows anythin’ can become rage if you simmer it long enough.

When Dallas shows up they all take one look at him and know he knows somethin’. Steve has gone a long time without hatin’ Dallas. Maybe he hasn’t hated him since they were fourteen ‘n fifteen and lookin’ for all the world like they shared nothin’ in common and both knowin’ better.

But when Steve watches Darry demand to know where his kid brothers are and Soda plead and cajole and grasp at Dallas with nails that bite. Watches Dallas look away and shake his head and twist his ring the way he does when he fuckin’ lies Steve thinks maybe he could hate him.

Darry and Soda are back in the kitchen, Darry makin’ call after call and Soda hoverin’ by the receiver waitin’ to hear anythin’. Dallas slips out the back and onto the lawn. Steve follows.

“You know where they are, don’t you?” Dallas tips his head back, stares up at the sky.

“Yeah.” And he sounds so tired.

Steve feels the hate go straight out of him.

“Are they… safe?” Dallas squeezes his eyes shut hard.

“I hope so.” Steve reaches out, hesitates. And it’s like Dallas can sense him, even with his eyes closed. He leans into the arm Steve’s got hoverin’ in the air over his shoulder. He doesn’t know how to do this. How to… touch without hurtin’.

But he figures this is a start. Neither of them move, just stand there for hours lookin’ out to the horizon and thinkin’ of their brothers somewhere out in the night.

Steve hasn’t been to a proper rumble in years. A little gang spat here and there maybe. Nothin’ enough to feel like a real fight. God he’s missed them.

Soda hoots and hollers, Two crows, flips over on his hands to walk down the street. Darry lifts Pony straight off his feet and Steve flips off the porch and nearly cracks his head when he mistimes it. It doesn’t matter. They’re all so pumped full of adrenaline.

Pony’s home. Johnny’s back. Dallas is a hero though they didn’t put his picture in the paper. But Pony told them all in those low little tones he’s developed since the fire that Dallas went right in to get Johnny. And that’s hero enough for all of them.

He smirks at the thought of Dallas stuck in that bed and missin’ the first real rumble they’ve had since before Dallas had even heard of Tusla. Soda pauses between his third flip and forth and nudges Steve’s shoulder.

“What are you grinnin’ for?”

“Dallas is gonna spit nails.” He grins and Two spins around and howls a laugh.

“I bet he’ll show anyways. Hell, he’d crawl out of his grave for a fight like this.” Darry reaches over and pulls Two into a headlock.

“Damn right!” Steve sqwaks and shoves Soda who splits into his big signature smile. It’s not a long walk and they don’t settle for even one second of it.

When they reach the field they set the rumble for, though, Steve sobers right up. They all do. It’s just the nature of the thing. They can grin and wail and pull as many stunts as they like before they set foot in the place. But once you were there it was business.

Steve surveys the Brumley boys and the Shepard gang as Darry goes to talk to them. Tim catches his eye and gives him a nod. He’d know Tim had spent the day with Dallas in the hospital. It occurs to Steve that Tim and Dallas are nearly the same person. Cut from the same cloth. But Steve doesn’t think he could ever care about Tim. There’s just somethin’ in Dallas Tim doesn’t have.

Steve doesn’t know how long he spends starin’ out at Tim and tryin’ to see the difference like it could be tangible. But then Paul and Darry are circlin’ each other and Steve’s shootin’ a glance at Pony and thinkin’ damn maybe the kid shouldn’t be here. Then the nearest Soc is flyin’ at him and Steve is grinnin’ with every tooth and when his fist lands he feels the calmest he’s felt in weeks.

Someone whoops and Steve recognizes it, instantly. When he turns his head both Dallas and Pony are ganged up on one Soc, stompin’ him into the dirt. Dallas looks up and Steve ducks under the punch thrown his way. Dallas’ tooth gleams in the light of the big moon and he looks like in that field fightin’ like his life depends on it is the only place he was ever meant to be.

A fist creams into Steve’s ribs and he stops payin’ attention to anythin’ else. When Steve sweeps the boy off his feet and slams his foot into his mouth he laughs.

Maybe he and Dallas had more in common than he thought.

Dallas and Pony disappear the second the Socs drive off in the last car. The walk back home is a much more subdued affair. None of them have real bad injuries but Two’s leanin’ a little more on Darry than strictly necessary and even Soda doesn’t have anythin’ to say.

Steve thinks of the Socs as they lick their wounds and slam back the kind of expensive vodka greasers couldn’t afford to even look at too hard and tell each other that their loss was a fluke.

Maybe it was just easier to lose. When you were always beaten down at least you always had a reason to be angry.

When the phone rings Steve doesn’t even process it. Johnny is gone. Johnny is gone. Johnny is dead . But each time he thinks it he can’t make it stick. No, he’s not. He’s just down at the lot. He’s just at his shit parent’s house. He’ll be here for dinner.

“Yeah?” He has the phone in his hands. He doesn’t remember gettin’ up to get it.

“Hello? Darrel?” Dallas' voice makes Steve’s blood run cold. He sounds so fuckin’ small.

“Dally? No, it’s Steve.” Darry is suddenly behind him, hoverin’ by the phone. He looks sick. He looks like he knows somethin’ the rest of them haven’t figured out yet.

“Steve? I want to talk to Darry. Please.” And his voice cracks and Steve just stands there, white knucklin’ the receiver. Darry puts a strong hand on his shoulder, pries the phone from his hands.

“Hello?” Steve is so close to the speaker he can hear the relief in Dallas’ voice when Darry speaks. He makes a long, low noise and Steve thinks again of that kicked dog.

“I just knocked off a store, man. The cops, they’re lookin’ for me” Steve wraps a hand around Darry’s arm and Darry meets his eyes. “Meet me in the park?” Steve’s nails bite into Darry’s skin but he doesn’t try to shake him off.

“Yes,” Darry doesn’t hesitate. “Dally, are you alright?”

Another wordless sound. “Yeah… Johnny’s dead.” Steve chokes on the sob in the back of his throat.

No, he’s not. He’s just-

“We know.” And Darry pins Steve to the wall with a look that breaks his fuckin’ heart in half all over again. We know.

“Look, meet me in the park, will ya?” And Dallas sounds desperate. A wild animal. A shade crazier than the rest.

“Hang on, we’ll be right there.” Steve doesn’t think any of them have run as fast as they did that night.

Steve wants so badly to be angry. He wants to hate Dallas James Winston for the day he ever walked into his fuckin’ life. He wants to hate him for raisin’ an empty gun to a cop who never had no reason to trust a greaser. He wants to hate him for ever puttin’ Johnny ‘n Pony on that fuckin’ train.

Because it’s so much easier to be angry.

Dallas knew that. Steve knows that.

Dallas is buried in the plot the Curtis parents had reserved for their children. The family plot. Beside Johnny. Steve doesn’t know how Darry managed to make it happen. He doesn’t ask. Only Pony’s grave remains for him now.

Steve wraps himself in his stupid, sleeveless vest and slips in the mud of the recent storm in Dallas’ boots that are a little too big for him still. He doesn’t know why he came. He can’t leave.

He sits down in the grass and doesn’t even think about the way the cold sinks into his bones. He places one palm, knuckles scarred and healed, and scarred again, flat against the dark stone.

“You deserved better, Dallas Winston.” He bites at his lip, worries his fingers in circles over the granite. “We both did.”

I don’t hate you.

I never did.