"C'mon," she breathes the word and leads him down the alley. Everything is slick with the rain and Dallas pushes his hand roughly up her skirt, kisses and bites at her lips. She tilts her head back, moans, and puts both her hands on the back of his head.
Afterward he leaves her there, walks quickly back to the neighborhood. He isn't drunk, just pleasantly high, and he'd rather see Johnny than some trampy girl.
He has no idea what time it is but the sky is black and the streetlights shimmer through the haze of rain and Dallas' boots click on the pavement as he hurries, as he imagines tasting Johnny, his sweet dark taste, and the desire shows on his face as grim determination.
The lot is empty, the fire extinguished by the rain. Dallas feels the sharp disappointment like something twisting in his cells.
The Curtis house is dark, silent, but always the front door is unlocked and he pushes it open. At first he can't see a thing and the outlines of furniture becomes clear as his eyes adjust. And he hears breathing, sees the outline of a figure on the couch.
He comes closer, by the light from the window he can see it is Johnny, sleeping on his back in his clothes.
"Johnny," Dallas says softly, and touches his shoulder. Johnny jerks away, instantly awake, and his breathing is as fast and shallow as an animal.
"Hey, kid, it's just me," Dallas says, and Johnny's breathing gradually slows, even out. He's sitting up and rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands.
"Sorry, Dal," he says, his voice still sleepy, "thought you were my old man,"
He turns on the little lamp and draws in a sharp breath. Johnny is cut and bruised, one eye nearly swollen shut.
"Oh God," Dallas says, and drops on his knees in front of the couch, in front of Johnny. Johnny just looks at him.
Slowly, gently, he brushes Johnny's bangs away from his face, kisses his lips. His eyes are open and so are Johnny's and Dallas nearly can't stand it, the intimacy of the locked gaze, the slow, soft kisses.
He touches Johnny's shoulders, his arms, his back, all with a slow and steady motion. Sometimes Johnny winces if Dallas touches a place where he's hurt.
The quiet house, the Curtis brothers asleep in the bedrooms, Johnny's breathing quickening and not from fear this time.
Johnny…
He likes how Dally touches him, likes how his eyes are such a light blue, such a color he could never believe.
But it hurts because he hurts, his whole body, and there is hardly anywhere Dallas can touch him that isn't hurt.
He lays back, lets Dal straddle him, hold his wrists with strong but gentle pressure and kisses him again, harder this time, and Johnny tastes the beer and the cigarettes, and a taste like red licorice.
He thrusts his hips, tries to free himself from Dally's grasp, and almost like it when Dal's grip tightens and the kisses become rougher and he twists and Dallas smiles, his wicked wolf grin and he's hurting his wrists and Johnny winces, closes his eyes in pain.
