the next part is the epilogue!
Thunder rolls across the sky. Dallas' voice is a little worn out, the silence in the Viper's hide out filling the space. Ponyboy looks at him with something that Dallas knows is closer to sadness than anger, more than anything.
It's almost noon now, and more than likely, the storm outside won't let up. Not with how viciously it keeps coming down. "Lights might go out."
"I know," Ponyboy shrugs, used to the tornadoes around this time of year and otherwise. "Got matches and a candle if it does."
It's not anything substantial of a talk. Just filling space, waiting for Dallas to take on the last of it. Giving him the moment to arrange the memories, his words. "Was raining like this, in Jersey when I got in. Val — that big house of hers, could barely hear it but the windows? You could see it, all the rain coming down." He shifts closer to Ponyboy, half sitting up in the nest, not wanting to get too comfortable, to resist the temptation to bow his head, shove his nose right against Ponyboy's neck and sleep, never open his mouth again.
"Said you ain't go there much," Ponyboy's lighter voice soothes him, eyebrows working together. Dallas can just about feel him think, sew the details together. "Why? Was it too far away?"
"Not really," Dallas watches as Ponyboy makes that little cowlick of his worse with the way he nuzzles into the nest himself, the thunder rumbling again. "Had too much, had to take the train, make sure I went to the right neighborhood. Going to Carmine's was quicker, kept me close to Ace, the rest of Texas' outfit. And she had a husband — he ain't really like pups, and I ain't care for him."
"Was he there, when you showed up?"
Dallas shakes his head.
If Val is right about one thing, she's really not a mom. The soup in front of him is from a can, and it's almost too hot to eat.
Dallas doesn't complain, as he waits for it to cool off. His hands he cleaned himself, the shirt she gave him was from her husband, and right now, she's on the phone in the kitchen. She's clearly not like Ace's mother, who would know to close the door to the kitchen better while she's on the phone. He can hear almost every word she says, even if most of it's in Italian and he can't pick up more than a few swear words, his father's name, his name, and Carmine's.
Her tone is what's telling. There's nothing good in it, just worry, fear, anger.
Dallas thinks about Ace. About how he must feel now, about if he's okay, if there are more drunks and street tramps coming into the jail. If he will last there another day, if he wants Dallas there. If he's thinking about Marco, about the sound he made when he died.
The thought of Marco makes that angry, red haze of anger flare up in him again. It makes him remember his father's words, the feeling of Dallas' fist connecting with his face, the ache in his hands now —
There's a loud slam. He looks up from the still steaming soup to see Valerie running her hands through her hair, her face looking strange. Scared, more than a little upset. "Zia?" He rarely uses the term for her; she hates being reminded of it sometimes.
Her hand plunges into her robe's pockets. "Dallas, you should eat. Get some rest. Carmine will be here in a few hours. He'll have news." Her voice is clipped, angry, and Dallas is done with making people angry at him for the day that he doesn't have to. His body still feels strange after presenting last night, a fact that still makes him wince uncomfortably, limbs feeling a little too long, his mouth still feeling strange.
Val has no way to know that his teeth have shifted, that he still is cutting his cheek as he eats the soup, listening to her move around the kitchen, swearing and muttering to herself. The slight burn of the soup doesn't bother him, just slurping it up, letting it fill him.
When he's done, he staggers up, makes his way to the guest bedroom she always has. The bed is smaller than it was the last time he was here, sinking when he sits in it. The door's shut, and when he lies down, he doesn't know if he can sleep, or will sleep or what will greet him on the other side.
He's ten. Dallas is ten years old, and he feels different, as he listens to his aunt curse, as he hears the rain fall, as he remembers the sound Marco made, the way the bullets rang out, the way Ace had cried out. Something in him has fundamentally changed in a different way that couldn't all be presenting unexpectedly. Something has shifted in him, something that makes him want to punch his father again, want to aim differently. The anger in him that had mostly been held off seems like it can't be quelled anymore by hunger, by fear of the future.
Dallas wants to smash his father's jaw, break his nose, take out Marco's death, the twin's death out on him. His nails want to dig into his cheek, wants to know why he can't respect him, can't see him as an equal even if he's not the same as that squalling, little brother he has that gets all the attention.
Whatever box was keeping it all in, whatever was keeping it all pinned down, it's gone now. He can't put any of it back now, no matter what happens.
His body feels too strange, too wired to sleep. There's a need to fight it all the way down, to keep it away from him, but the rain, the bed, all pull and pull until he's forced into it.
No dreams visit him. Just blankness, as if he's blinked and then the shadows on the ceiling have moved, and he can scent Carmine in the house, mixing with cigarettes and coffee. Like before, it's as if the world has been turned up in his senses, as if Carmine is right in the room, pulling from a cup of coffee, as if Val is right there, tapping ash from her cigarette.
Dallas breathes on the linen, listens to Carmine and Val talk in Italian. Their voices are hushed, yet not so hushed that he can't pick out his name or his father's. At least, the name that Val uses for him; whenever she and Carmine speak together like this, he's found, she uses the name she baptized him with, as if his ears won't prick and know.
Every time she drops it in, her voice gets more frantic, scared. Carmine's is steady, upset, his scent coloring with the emotion as Dallas rolls on his side body tense. Whatever news Carmine brings it isn't good, and there's a moment where Val's voice breaks, and things go silent.
A horrible noise breaks the silence in what Dallas realizes belatedly is a muffled sob. There's the sound of a chair, and Carmine's voice.
Whatever it is is worse than he thought.
Carefully, he gets up from the bed, going to the door. He peers out, looking to the hallway, and he moves carefully, going down it, and finding the foyer. Across it is the kitchen, where he can hear that strangled sob coming out from Val, a string of syllables wrangling themselves out of her, Carmine's voice low.
Thunder ripples across the sky.
Dallas crosses the wooden floors, until he's walking into the kitchen. Carmine doesn't look up at him, at first. He looks like his hair has been tousled in the wind, his shabby raincoat splattered in places with rain, some buttons undone on his vest, the expression on his face pitifully sad as he attempts to console Val at the table as she hiccups and sobs into the palm of her hand, her cigarette lying on the table, smoke welling up, filling the kitchen.
"Zio, what's going on?" How he keeps his voice steady, Dallas doesn't know. Carmine looks at him finally, and so does Val. The expression on her face crumples with devastation, her pretty make up smeared.
For the first time, Dallas registers the utter defeat on Carmine's face. There's no hope, no warmth, as if all the light and wind has gone out of him. "Vi — Dallas," Carmine corrects himself, voice wobbling in his throat. "Can you give us a few minutes?"
"No," Dallas denies him, feels like he has to at that moment, that whatever horrible thing has happened, he has to know now. He's no longer a child. He's presented, he's more or less an adult now, and he juts out his chin. "Just tell me, zio."
Carmine has always been one to give news to others, at times for Texas. Dallas knows that. He expects that he's kicked out of the house. That his father will never allow him in. That he will have to move in with Ace's mother. That Odessa probably is very, very happy to never have to scream at him in the apartment again, that she is happy that Dallas will never darken her door and be cast out into the New York streets. Maybe Dallas can live with Ace.
It's not a bad thought, for the moments he holds it. That he could at least sleep in Ace's bed, hassle him after school. If anyone wouldn't mind, it'd be him.
"I hate what I have to tell you," Carmine speaks slowly, mechanically. "I tried to talk to your father for hours, Dallas. I tried to reason with him, but his word is law. You and I know that." He clears his throat, and Val curses, sobs. "He's decided that you are exiled, not just from his home but from New York entirely for ten years. From this moment, this minute."
It feels like his chest has been cracked open at the words. All those momentary thoughts, of grinning at Ace in the morning, of being able to see him again, of being at least close vanish all at once. It hurts. This is a punishment reserved for the worst kinds who have gone against his father and Dallas struggles, "So I'm — I can live with Val?" His voice wavers with hope, even though he knows that Val wouldn't be crying if that were true.
"No, nipote," Carmine says, expression falling more, "You are not allowed anywhere near where your father operates. He's ordered you to be sent out west, with one of our distant relatives. If you are to step foot in here, or New York or any other place that's his before you are twenty, you will be exiled for life or worse." Carmine's eyes shine with tears as every word is dropped, as Val chokes and Dallas feels suddenly as if his life has changed entirely.
Ten years. He can't come back for ten years. He won't be able to see Carmine or Val or Ace for ten years. He will be sent to some neck in the woods, left to rot all because he tried, he tried to do more.
His throat closes up. He shakes, and Valerie sobs in her kitchen and Carmine's eyes remain wet with tears.
The lights have long winked out because of the storm. The candles that Ponyboy lit are enough to throw them both into sharp relief, and Dallas doesn't have anymore words for a few minutes. All he does is bury his nose on Ponyboy's neck, breathing in his scent, feeling the edges of the mating mark, Ponyboy's hands pushed up the back of his shirt, their legs entangled. His own hands are gripping Ponyboy's hips so hard that he's sure Ponyboy will bruise as he lets the last of the memory go.
There's more. There's a lot more. Dallas inhales, Ponyboy sniffing, Dallas able to feel the column of his throat move when he swallows up a cry of his own. His thumb runs circles on Ponyboy's skin, not bothered as Ponyboy cries openly for him.
His tears are long dried out, the moment in the car notwithstanding. It's been a full ten years since it happened, even if his birthday is just in a few scant days. He's had the time to at least live with it, while Ponyboy hasn't. Crying isn't something he's done since, really, and hearing, feeling his mate cry for him feels...
It doesn't feel good or right. It pricks at the anxious feeling in the back of his mind whenever he upsets Ponyboy by accident, that he's not a good mate, that he's a bad pack member. It still, though, makes him feel relieved because Ponyboy cares. Ponyboy cares for him, about him, and it will always, always warm him even in moments like this.
"M'sorry," Ponyboy hiccups, pulling Dallas closer to him. "You didn't— you were just a pup. A pup." The words can't fix everything, can't turn back time. They still loosen something Dallas has been holding in him for years now, pushes back against the thought he had then that he was anything else. The soft, upset whine he gives in the back of his throat makes Dallas move from the warmth, niceness of his throat to look at Pony's reddened face, at the tears still rolling down his cheeks.
At least Ponyboy doesn't push him away when he moves on instinct, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick at Ponyboy's tears. There's no squirming, no teasing; Ponyboy simply allows him to do it, to give his own comfort that he can to Ponyboy here and now. It's not the same as what Ponyboy gives him, as the warmth Dallas feels that Ponyboy didn't run, that he stayed, that he listened to it.
Truth be told — even as Ponyboy sniffs, as his body folds closer to Dallas, legs against his, his salty tears on his tongue — he's exhausted with it all. Holding something to tight, so close for years has been so heavy on Dallas, and spilling it all out has wrung him out.
Even if he knows, as Ponyboy nuzzles his nose into his palm, as Dallas licks up the rest of his tears, runs his mouth along his cheeks and ears, it's not quite done. There are questions, loose ends to tie up tha the knows Ponyboy will pick at, that he needs to say.
Rain falls, Ponyboy wipes at his face, Dallas waits for him to talk more. They rearrange themselves, Ponyboy on his side again, face red, eyes red-rimmed in the light, and Dallas beside him. His own face feels warm with tears he can't shed, but he takes a breath. "Carmine walked me to the train station. Gave me a hell of a lot of money, tried to send me to Muskogee. Didn't want to; thought the name was stupid and by the time I got here, I just got off the train." He shrugs. "That relative was a fucking loon, we both knew. Just drifted around for a few weeks til I met Two-Bit in that old gas station across town."
Ponyboy knows how it worked out from there easy enough. He rubs at a still rolling tear on his face, sniffs. "Then you came to us." His voice is wet, upset, and god it makes Dallas' instincts upset to hear the pain in Ponyboy's voice. "Yeah, I remember. Saw you when I was with Mama, getting the mail. Scared the hell out of me."
A cracked, slightly crooked smile graces Dallas' face. "Little pup with huge eyes. Didn't even say a word to me til Soda did."
The laughter that goes up between them is wet, a little broken, warm. He's not kidding thinking about it either: the way Ponyboy had looked at him, fingers digging in Mrs. Curtis' jean leg as she had looked at Dallas, cigarette in her mouth, face serious. How he thought that Ponyboy was so damn small, and maybe not worth his time.
Now that's changed. He's sixteen, hair in a bit of a mess on the pillow, rubbing at his face, trying to sort his thoughts out. Dallas reaches over, rubbing a tear into Ponyboy's cheek, the heat of his cheeks stark. "So, what? If... if I ever went to New York, I'd have to avoid anyone with the last name Winston cause it could be him?"
"No, not Winston," Dallas trails his thumb down Ponyboy's cheek, his neck. "Ain't my legal last name, you were right about that earlier." The way he scrunches his eyebrows together makes Dallas' teeth ache, the expression so familiar with the question there. "Actual last name's Agnello di Dio." He hasn't said that name in such a long time that it feels almost unfamiliar. "Got Winston off of a pack of cigarettes."
A snort leaves Ponyboy that really makes Dallas want to lean over, dig his teeth into Ponyboy's pretty neck. "Pretty smart. Guess Dallas Agnello di Dio's pretty distinctive."
"Better than what my aunt baptized me with," he pulls a face which is the wrong move. Ponyboy's expression perks up, head lifting in curiosity. "It ain't like your name—"
"What is it?"
"Pony—"
"Come on," Ponyboy looks genuinely curious. "That's... she had to baptize you with your real name, right? What is it?"
Even saying it outloud isn't something Dallas wants to do. So he leans in close, says it in Ponyboy's ear, just for him. It's the only time he's said it in ten years, and the look Ponyboy has on his face when he pulls back is somewhere between very, very interested and thoughtful.
Dallas doesn't look away, challenging him. "Don't fit."
"It does," Ponyboy defends, sounding it out, letting it roll on his tongue silently, before humming. "Like Dallas better, though."
"Knew you would," he boasts, as lightning flashes, illuminating the room for a moment. Ponyboy's eyes look damn near amber in it, face a deep pink, tears just about gone now. It's a relief, Dallas' instincts calming just a bit. "Safer to not say it."
They lapse into silence again for a moment, Ponyboy dropping his gaze back to the nest below them. Dallas isn't sure what else to say or do, just anticipating whatever question Ponyboy has now.
Whatever other questions Ponyboy has, he doesn't voice them just yet. His hand just reaches out, pulls Dallas in until his nose is pressed against Ponyboy's neck, his scent taking over. His nose nudges against the chain on Ponyboy's neck where the medallion is.
He thinks of Ace. Of where he might be. If he was alive, still. For all that he has boxed up New York in his mind, for all that he has put it away, he still thinks of him from time to time. He still wonders if his cousin was out there, waiting for him.
"You never called or nothing?" Ponyboy's voice breaks through his thoughts. "The whole time you been here?"
His breath fans hotly over Ponyboy's neck and shoulder, scent making him calmer, shoulders looser. "Never. Terms mean I can't ever do that." The clap of thunder is almost funny with its timing. "Even when the cops were on me when you guys killed that Soc, I knew I couldn't call. Weren't gonna help me none."
Ponyboy's hand runs through Dallas' hair, and he shuts his eyes. It's soothing, quiet. "What happens when it's over? Would they... I don't know, take you back? Send you a card in the mail?" The bitterness coloring his tone makes Dallas' heart thump a little harder.
"Just means they ain't gonna shoot me on sight. Might work with me," his tongue flicks over the mating mark, thumb on Ponyboy's waist, rubbing absent circles. "Might not."
Silence falls again. Dallas rubs Ponyboy's neck, fingers tangling in the medallion's chain. He runs his thumb over it, remembering him and Ace wearing matching medallions. Of how he had clenched it between his teeth when he thought sometimes, how Ace used to do the same.
He wonders where he is now. If Ace were dead or alive, missing him or not.
He'd never see it on Dallas' neck ever again. It fits on Ponyboy's slim neck, pressed against his mating mark, medallion on his chest. Fits better, really, as Dallas watches his hand come up to run along the chain with a reverence he's never seen before.
Wordlessly, he opens his mouth, sinks his teeth into Ponyboy's neck, fingers digging into his side.
New York City wasn't his home anymore. Hadn't been in ten years. And that wasn't going to change any time soon.
Home was here, right here, Ponyboy whining in a nest, pulling Dallas closer in the midst of a storm. Its here when Ponyboy pulls him in closer, allows Dal to bury himself in his scent and his scent alone.
