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Dallas woke up to sun shining in his eyes, effectively blinding him and making his head ache worse. God, his pounding head was fucking killing him…
He let out a quiet groan and put his hand over his eyes, using his fingers to massage his forehead. Dally took his hand off his face and opened his eyes, finally getting a proper look at his surroundings.
…
Why the hell was he in the Curtis’ living room?
Oh. Right.
Fuck.
Dammit, he called Darry Dad. He was so fucked.
Maybe he could just leave before anyone knows he’s there? Nope, that’s not an option, his pounding head ache reminded him. How Two-Bit managed to deal with this everyday, Dally didn’t know. He’ll just have to face the consequences, no running from this one.
He moved his head slightly to look at the clock, it was 6:38 AM. That means he got… five hours of sleep. Damn. Could be worse. Once he went to school on only two hours.
After… some amount of time of just staring at the ceiling, wishing he could disappear, Dally finally sat up. He regretted doing that as nausea washed over him like he was being pushed underwater by waves.
“What the fuck..?” he mumbled as he put a hand over his mouth. His voice was raspy, so much so that it barely sounded like him, and glory, was his throat dry. Lord, where was the nearest glass of water? He slowly turned around to see the side table with a tall glass of water, a few pills, and a note that read:
Ibuprofen and anti-nausea meds for your hangover
-Darry
The handwriting was fancy and hard to read (Dally expected nothing less from Darry). Dally took the pills and downed them with the entire glass of water. He was still thirsty. He sighed and slowly got off the couch, trying to not trigger any more nausea.
Yeah, nope, he was going to throw up.
Fortunately, he was able to make it to the bathroom sink. He was clutching the sides of the small counter and shaking. The taste of stomach acid was sour and strong on his tongue, and— Gross, some of it ended up in his hair. He swallowed roughly and chuckled a miserable laugh. God, he hated vomiting.
He tilted his head up to look at himself in the mirror. His long, platinum hair was frizzy and all over the place. His face was contorted into something between a grin and a scowl, revealing his yellow, slightly rotted teeth. Vomit drooled from the corner of his mouth and dripped at his chin. His icy blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy. And he was still shaking.
He looked fucking pathetic. And he felt like it too. Guess he wasn’t as tough as everyone thought he was.
Glory, pull yourself together, Winston, you look like the pile of shit that you really are!
Dallas started the water and let that clean the sink. Once everything was down the drain, he took his jacket off and let it fall to the floor. Then he splashed the freezing cold water on his face, if he wasn’t awake already, that sure did it. He briefly thought about taking a shower, but then remembered that he would have to take his clothes off for that, and he couldn’t be nude without thinking that… he was there with him. That he was still had nails dug into Dallas’ shoulder, pinning him to his pathetic excuse for a bed, that he was still—
Stop. Stop it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what happens in the cooler. Just stop.
Dally ran some of his hair under the water in an attempt to clean to vomit out. It was mostly successful. He turned the tap off and squeezed the extra water out of his hair. He decided to put his hair in a braid to keep it out of his face. He brought all his hair to one side, split it into three sections, and started to braid them— just like how Two-Bit taught him to. When he was done, he took the hair tie that was chronically around his wrist off and tied it around the end of his hair.
Dallas looks at himself in the mirror again. He looked a little less like shit. And his head ache was starting to go away.
He put his jacket back on and left the bathroom. He looked at the clock, it was 7:12 AM. Okay, people were probably still asleep. He’ll just get himself a piece of toast and more water and then he’ll leave, like he was never there.
Dally walked to the kitchen, but yelped and jumped back when he saw the eldest Curtis brother leaning against the counter, sipping a mug of coffee.
Darry looked up from his mug. “Mornin’ Dally.”
Dally attempted to regain his composure. “Jesus Darry, you scared the shit out of me, man.” He walked over to the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water from the sink.
“Sorry. Do ya want somethin’ to eat?”
Dally took a sip of water. “Nah, I was just about to leave.” He knew he should stay, but really couldn’t face Darry right now. And his head ache was starting to clear up so he was probably fine.
“I ain’t good with people like Sodapop is, but I can tell when someone is avoiding something, Dallas.” Darry had a stern expression on his face that told you not to push him. But Dally never listened to stop signs.
“What? You want to talk about my feelin’s and issues? What do you take me for, some broad?” Dally shot back.
Darry opened his mouth, probably to yell something, but he closed it and took a deep breath. “Dallas, you can’t bottle everything up, it’s not sustainable. Now, I'm no Soda or Ponyboy, but you can still talk to me.” He sounded desperate, like he needed Dallas to talk to him.
Dally paused. “Maybe later, when I’m not hungover.”
Yeah, that’s right, coward, run from challenges like you always do.
Darry sighed. “Fine. But promise me that later will come, alright?”
Dally put his free hand in his pocket and crossed his fingers. “Promise.”
Darry nodded. “Alright, now let’s get you something to eat.”
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In the end, “later” never came. Dallas didn’t mean to die before it could. It just happened like that.