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Rain pitter-patters against the window pane, like it does right before the weather starts to pick up. Right before it starts thundering and it will be a few moments, Johnny knows it, has lived in Oklahoma long enough to know it, and during tornado season you don’t want to be caught outside when it starts to rain. So imagine his surprise when the conversation Dallas is having with Darry in the living room goes from talking to yelling. Dallas’s northern accent kicks up a notch as Darry suddenly sounds like a full-blown hillbilly, and their blowout ends as quickly as it started.
The door slams shut, Dallas leaves in a huff, and Darry comes storming in a moment later, pacing the length of the kitchen. He wants to ask what happened, ask about what exactly Dallas could’ve done to make level-headed Darry Curtis blow up like that, but watching Darry pace, body stiff with anger, huffing like he’s the big bad wolf? He knows that Darry would never hurt him, but doubt lingers in the corner of his mind. It shrouds most of his decisions and he doesn’t ask Darry what exactly happened even if voicing the worry of Dallas shouldn’t be out in this type of weather is on the tip of his tongue. But Darry starts to speak before he has the chance to say anything.
“That boy,” Darry states, voice hard with his back turned. “Ain’t no good, you’ll stay away from him if you know what’s good for you Johnny.”
“Dallas, you bastard,” Two-Bit mutters under his breath.
The light from the refrigerator glows outward, reflecting onto the white tiles of the floor, washing out Two-Bit’s already pale face as he goes from peering to basically inside the damned thing. Bringing his face closer and closer for what Johnny can only assume is dramatic effect. He shifts on the couch, trying to avoid the springs that are digging painfully into his back.
Two-Bit finally reaches in, pulling out an empty box of beer and—a note?
“I’ll get you back next time, Dallas” Two-Bit reads out.
A small, begrudging smile breaks out on his face as he starts to chuckle.
“I could learn a thing or two from him, Johnny.”
“I think he’s had a real rough go of it,” Sosa says as the chirping of crickets echoes throughout the darkness, stars up high in the sky.
Johnny prefers being outside at night, with the light of the moon as a guide. The ground might be hard but the darkness don’t seem to swallow him whole like it does at home. Staring into nothingness, anticipation for what might come gnawing a hole in his stomach. He much prefers being out in the fresh air, and tonight he’s found his way all the way out at Bucks with Soda. Trying to hunt up some action, at least that’s what the other boy says, though that’s not what Johnny believes because Soda seems to be in a sentimental mood, a reflective mood. More subdued than his usual never-ending energy.
They sit on the back of Buck’s porch, nursing warm beers, watching as Tim and Dallas stumble around. A few boys from Tim’s outfit are trying to help them set up a keg stand but Dallas stumbles over his feet a moment later, falling almost comically. Flailing his arms to try and keep upright, he loses the battle against gravity quickly. Pitching over into a ditch as the boys around him lose it but Johnny has never been able to find the humor in getting so drunk you can’t walk straight.
Soda seems to hold the same sentiment, pouring his beer out onto the ground a second later.
“Dallas?”
“Yeah, just, the way he acts. He’s been through some shit, even if he won’t admit it.”
Johnny is willing to admit that he ends up at the Curtis’s house more than his own. He ends up at Two-Bit’s often too, it’s something he had to accept when he was real young. That he wasn’t wanted by his parents, wasn’t wanted at home and it hurts but at least he can find solace in the fact that he is wanted elsewhere. That he’s loved.
He’s not sure Steve has been able to find the same comfort, he doesn’t seem ready to accept that he’s not wanted either, and Johnny isn’t sure he’ll ever be. He curses his mother for leaving, curses his father for kicking him out all the damned time. But he finds his way back there every single day without fail.
But Steve ends up at the Curtis house just as much as Johnny does, and when the front door quietly clicks open and then closes, he knows it’s gonna be another one of those nights. Shoes clatter to the floor, and the sound of sock-covered feet padding across the living room can be heard. He’s no doubt going to the linen closet, the closet that has an extra blanket and pillow shoved inside. He makes his way back, settling into Mr. Curtis’s recliner.
“Johnny,” Steve whispers harshly into the silence.
He doesn’t answer, but turns his head in acknowledgment, just barely able to make out Steve’s form in the darkness.
“Stay away from Sylvia, I mean it, she's no good.”
That makes red-hot embarrassment bloom in his chest, face getting hot and itchy. He didn’t do anything to catch her attention other than be a friend of Dallas’s. If he didn’t hang around the blonde, she wouldn’t have set her eyes on him. Plus, he’d be hard-pressed to believe that she’s a bad person. Maybe misguided but Dallas talks about her when he’s drunk, she’s had a hard life. Has a daddy who has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, and even with the things he’s been through he can’t imagine how that would begin to mess a person up.
But Dallas ain’t good, not to himself and definitely not to her.
“I’m just tryin’ look out for you Johnny,” Steve says, tone a bit softer, a bit more like he’s pleading. “Dallas would flatten you in a second if he ever found out.”
The days have been hard. Harder than before, it hurts to move now, and he’s been fawned over by all three of the Curtis boys like he’s some kind of helpless creature. He’s never liked feeling helpless, even if he so often is, but he keeps any of those thoughts to himself. He knows better than to turn away kindness.
Ponyboy is his babysitter today, drawing as they catch up on some reruns of I Love Lucy. They’d never admit to anyone other than Soda that they watch it, it’s a bit too feminine for any of the other boys to like. But Johnny thinks it’s funny and Ponyboy watches it without complaint.
“You drawin’ Dallas?” He asks, voice raspy.
Ponyboy nods, holding up the notebook for him to see. It looks like Dallas alright, a real pissed off one.
“He’s real mad ‘bout what happened to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, he scares me.” Ponyboy turns to look at him, offering a cockeyed smile. It’s one of the things he does that reminds Johnny of Soda. “He’s a good guy to have on yer team though.”
There’s a crinkle of a wrapper being opened, and cars zipping by on the street next to them. The candy red of the Twizzler Dallas is taking out of the pack is a stark contrast to his skin, opening his mouth to take a bite with those teeth that are just on the side of too sharp. One of his back premolars is capped with gold, it’s something Johnny has always thought it made him look tuff. One of the things that contributes to his aura of untouchable.
They stand in front of the Dime store, big shop windows allowing the fluorescent light to flood out onto the street, casting Dallas’s face in a white glow. It brings out his dark circles, a deep purple that makes his eyes almost shine. Bright and blue like a sheet of ice. All one color, he can vividly remember when he first met Dallas and how unsettled it made him feel. Like he was prey being stalked.
Dallas extends his hand, holding out a Twizzler and Johnny doesn't miss a beat as he steps closer to take it. He ain’t a big fan of licorice or sweets in general, but he takes a bite anyway. Feels it stick to his teeth as he chews, it’s starting to drizzle. This is the first outing from the Curtis house he’s been able to have since he got jumped. His cracked ribs finally don’t pulse with pain every time he twists, and his face ain’t swollen no more. It’s a good thing that Darry let him go too, he was on the verge of becoming stir-crazy.
Dallas brings his hand up to his own cheek, using his thumb to make a slicing motion across the top of his cheekbone.
“You gonna tell me who done it?”
“I didn’t get a good look at ‘em, honest.”
It’s a point of contention, that Johnny doesn’t have the want to go out and find the guys who did this to him. Won’t let Dallas cruise him around until they find them and let the older boy dish out his version of justice.
And part of the reason why is because he’s a coward; he doesn’t want to face those boys again, he sees them enough in his dreams anyway. But it’s also because he knows Dallas, better than anyone. Better than the fuzz, better than any broad, and better than the gang. He’s a grade-A asshole, he’s selfish, he’s rude and crass, and a number of other things that Johnny could tack on that list. But he’s also protective, someone that he can depend on, someone that chooses him. He’s not naive, Johnny knows how he looks, how he acts. How the boys on the street look down on him for it, how girls pity him. Poor little broken-down, abused Johnny Cade.
But Dallas has never offered him any of that. Just a steely gaze and actions that make him think that he actually means something. He’s been a sort of bodyguard ever since they first met and he knows that if Dallas ever finds those boys, there’s a real chance he’ll get booked for at least a few years and he’s not willing to be the reason that Dallas goes away. He’s not willing to lose the only sense of security he’s ever been afforded. There aren’t many good things in his life and he’d be a fool to let one of them slip through his fingers.
Dallas shakes his head slowly, gazing into the distance, jaw set. His eyes flicker back to Johnny’s, softer than they had been a moment ago.
“Yer too good for me Johnny Cade.”
He holds Johnny’s gaze as he reaches into his back pocket, digging out a switchblade, and doesn’t flick it out. Doesn’t brag about stealing it, or open his mouth even. It’s not nice like Two-Bit’s or Janky like the one Steve has. It’s simple, small even though but useful enough to have in a fight. A sturdy black handle, practical is the best way to describe it. Dallas flips it in his nimble fingers, thumb, and pointer finger making a quick motion of it before he offers it up to Johnny just like he did the Twizzler.
“Here.” Dallas rasps, jerking his hand in a take-it motion.
And Johnny does, plucks it right out of Dallas’s hand like it’s something special.
Neither of them has lost their staring contest, and Johnny just can’t seem to look away as something akin to desperation paints Dallas’s face.
“Just, be careful alright?”
Dallas’s stare is hard and unreadable. To most.
“You don’t want me to have it?”
“Naw, it’s not that, you just—you have to be careful,” the words are clear and concise, a repeat. “I don’t want you to get beat that bad again but y’know, yer jumpy. It’ll help a bluff but if yer gonna pull it, you gotta be ready to use it. It ain’t a gun, it don’t carry as much weight.”
“It ain’t like I’d ever stick someone with one of these.”
It comes out quiet, maybe a bit self-deprecating, but he slips the blade into his jacket pocket anyway, smoothing his hand over the cold plastic handle. Because deep down he knows—he ain’t ever gonna be beat that bad again.
“I don’t wanna see you get jumped like that again, but I don’t want you goin’ to jail either so just, be careful.”
Be careful, be careful, be careful.
Johnny offers him a small smile, staring up at Dallas from underneath his shaggy hair.
“Maybe some time in the slammer would make me tough like you.”
“You don’t wanna be tough like me,” A curt response, spat out harsh, fast, and rough. “‘M not a good person Johnny, ‘m not like you.”
He wants to look away, he probably should look away. Dallas has never stared at him so intensely, so tunneled-visioned, but he seems to get possessed before he can coward out.
Reaching out, Johnny grabs ahold of Dallas’s jacket, brushing his thumb against the track of the zipper before pressing his finger into Dallas’s chest. It’s not a hard press, or mean, it’s not poking or prodding. Just a soft push as he feels Dallas’s heart pump away steadily.
“You ain’t a good person Dal, but yer good to me. That’s enough in my book.”