A Splinter in the Sound Series
by infamouslastwords
Part Two | Nothing But Silent
Two-Bit stares at himself, image reflected in the grimy mirror above the only sink that isn't busted or holding stagnant water at the Dingo. Dark circles surround his eyes, skin stretched over his cheekbones like a too-tight canvas, frame threatening to snap under the pressure. There is a full ache between his temples that had stayed with him all day—a burning in his stomach from not eating anything. He thinks if he smelled or saw the wrong thing he's be dry-heaving. His face shadowed over by the bare bulbs in the bathroom almost does it.
He looks away, wiping his hands on his pants. Less than twelve hours ago he'd woken up with a strange smell on him, a strange knowing. He had walked through the day feeling like there was some kind of 'kick-me' sign on his back, guilt toward everyone he'd talked to like they knew what he had done. There was no questioning the whole thing's on his hands—ranking on Sylvia and Shepard, then the fight, then the alley. Two-Bit jolts internally, stomach juices sloshing around. Not even the shower he had taken made him feel clean. He doesn't think he'll feel clean for a long time, not with these lingering thoughts hanging around and replaying.
Washing his hands for the fourth time in ten minutes, Two-Bit focuses on clearing his mind. He breathes, heavy and deep, the stale air of the tiny two-stall, two-urinal bathroom. It wasn't quite the time of day for drunks to be in there praying to a porcelain god, but late enough for people like himself, people who had things on their minds, to be successfully drowned in drink. Not that it even helped—it only made him think more, imagine more, find parts of himself that a sober mind would stay the hell away from. He was four times out of five an ecstatic drunk, a further projection of himself, but the coin had been tossed and this one time, this twenty percent chance, left him not in the mood to talk or even look at anyone. Especially himself.
Drying his hands with a piece of toilet paper, Two-Bit looks up as the door is opened inwardly, creaking, another stepping into the room with him. Soles of shoes scuff, echoing off of tiles. Two-Bit feels a swell of fate in his stomach, like a balloon expanding. It hurts.
When the other sees him shoulders raise, a spine stiffens—everything awkward and protected and nightmarishly surprised.
"You look like hell, Mathews."
Pale eyes regard him with an inch of disgust, slim fingers sliding off the dingy door. The other seems pale, tinged yellow in the light, everything about him—skin, white-blond hair, sharp animal teeth, ice eyes. He stays by the door, directly under one of the few bare bulbs, body held as if expecting something. Two-Bit looks away, then toward the mirror, then directly at the sink. He holds the toilet paper in his fist, damp with water, feeling dumb for the umpteenth time that day.
"What's new, Dal?" he asks rhetorically, sarcastically, quietly. Dallas's eyes turn into slits, palms low on hips, forefingers in front pockets and ring fingers in back pockets.
"What the fuck d'you think's new?"
Two-Bit would have left by now, as soon as the other came in, but Dallas is standing by the door, guarding it with this bristled air. He doesn't want to go within arm's length of the guy. So he walks to the trashcan, throws the toilet paper away, leans against the edge of the sink.
"Though you said you'd never step foot in the Dingo after the manager almost killed us for fightin'."
Dallas sneers like he knows something Two-Bit doesn't.
"I say a lot'a things."
Somewhere in his stomach, Two-Bit knows Dallas was looking for him. There's a pang, a blanket of cold slowly covering his insides like how snow covers front lawns. They wait in silence, Two-Bit getting colder and Dallas looking meaner.
Finally, Two-Bit lets out a sigh.
"Dal… What d'you want?"
Hands come from hips, crossing over a chest. The other is only wearing a plain t-shirt, jeans. Two-Bit has his coat on, because he had been planning to leave since two hours and five beers ago.
"I wanna ask you where you get off, getting' me drunk like you did."
A knife of pain digs right between Two-Bit's temples. He closes his eyes for longer than a blink, opens them.
"We're not doin' this now, Dal. Not here."
Dallas takes a step forward—Now, Two-Bit knows Dallas' walk is strange because he jockeys, but this is a different kind of strange. It makes Two-Bit cringe.
"Like hell we ain't doin' this now." The towhead reaches for his back pocket, but Two-Bit can't move. "I plan on showin' you exactly where the fuck you can get off, doin' what you did to me."
"We were real drunk, alright? We shouldn't even be rememberin' anythin'."
Dallas takes another steps toward him, another, points to his chest.
"I was real drunk, Mathews. I remember." Anger flares hot in icy eyes. "You were fuckin' fine."
Two-Bit doesn't know what to do, so he washes his hands again. Turns his back to Dallas, who watches him in the grimy mirror, and wets his hands. He flicks them in the sink, walks back over to a stall to grab toilet paper, throws it on the ground.
"I ain't fuckin' fine now."
Dallas cusses at him, real good. He feels all kinds of nasty, unclean, angry, stoic. He feels ripped into shreds.
"Not bein' fine ain't good enough."
Suddenly Dallas lunges at him, fist barely missing his cheek, eye. It lands on the stall door, knuckles cracking. Two-Bit wonders why he hadn't brought out the switch, moving to the side, but Dallas throws another punch and this one is slowed out of pain, easily deflected.
"Dal—Dal—"
Something about the towhead being so close makes him angry, boiling hot blood going straight to his brain. He grits his teeth, trying to stop it, but something in him snaps. He thinks of murderers, momentarily, when he grabs Dallas's arm and bends it behind the seventeen-years-old's back, pinning his body to the inside wall of a stall—is this what people who kill people feel like, right before they do it?
"Fuck you, Mathews," Dallas spits, voice straight into the stall wall as the door snaps shut and locks. The sound of his cheek connecting was a sickening smack, skin slapped to man made material. Two-Bit twists the arm he's holding, making Dallas' knees buckle, muttering, "Shut up—" as he reaches in front of struggling hips, flicks open a belt buckle and yanks jeans to the filthy floor. As he did this his fingers brushed against Dallas' crotch, erection straining. Someone was lying.
He pushes Dallas further into the wall as the other shakes, as he pulls his own cock out of his jeans.
"What the fuck're you—"
He bites Dallas' neck through his t-shirt as he thrusts in without warning. Dallas cries out, a high-pitched roar, fists clenching so hard they turn white. Two-Bit groans, eyes closing as he swallows dryly, drawing in and out in quick succession. His free hand on Dallas' bare hip guides movements, fingertips digging into skin. The towhead lets out a string of expletives—"Fuckin' cocksucking bastard"—but moans as if he were granted salvation at the feet of holy Mother Mary herself.
Two-Bit twists his hips, digging deep, and feels Dallas clench around him. He slides his hand over the other's cock, chest tight, pushing his face between Dallas' shoulder blades. Dallas responds with a low moan, thrusting into Two-Bit's hand. He feels a trickle of sweat run down his spine—he's still wearing his leather jacket.
"You're gonna break my fuckin' arm," Dallas says, voice husky. "Lemme go."
Hesitantly Two-Bit does, the arm uncurling and returning to guide Two-Bit's hand more readily over a pre-cum slicked cock. He hears their heavy breathing reverberate around the shadowed stall, hears his own groan as Dallas twists in the right way.
Quickly, Two-Bit turns Dallas around and lifts him into the corner of the stall, entering again without skipping a beat. Dallas' shaking hands push off his jacket, letting it fall to the ground. They snake up to hook over the tops of the stall walls, so with each movement the whole structure shakes.
Two-Bit's hands return to steady slim, pale hips as legs to match wrap around his waist. Dallas does the same thing with his torso, stretching it in a way that makes Two-Bit insane. He stares as Dallas's head rolls back, throat bared, pale lips parted, chest moving rapidly, shallowly. He can't stop staring, even when the other's molten eyes open and focus on him. Even as the other twists, moans while holding eye contact.
"What…? Why're you lookin' at me like that…?"
Without thinking Two-Bit leans forward, hurriedly connecting their mouths, teeth knocking. Lips bruise, hot and callous. Dallas pulls away only to come back harder after a heavy glance, stronger, lips defter and tongue more forceful. The back of Two-Bit's skull is cradled, one arm supporting Dallas' weight. A moan transfers between their lips, a sound of pain. Their kiss is broken with a wince, Dallas tucking his head into Two-Bit's neck, crying out again. Two-Bit knows it's because this hurts—twice in the same twenty-four hours? Like having your insides blended with an electric whisk. Two-Bit can imagine what that feels like.
"Dal…"
Two-Bit feels the heavy familiarity of Dallas' lips on his, shushing him, hips twisting, bumping, haphazard. He knows the sounds the other makes, the way he looks; from the tilt of a smirk to ice eyes melting by libido, friction. But even now as he stares at closed eyes, a bitten lip… It shocks him into alienation.
He sucks on the other's neck, distracting, as he moves their position and sets Dallas on top of the toilet's water tank. He braces himself against that back wall with his right hand, left supporting the weight either one of Dallas' arms doesn't, locked against either stall wall. As he unhooks his mouth, leaving a red mark against pale skin, he sees the sinews in slim arms, straining, desperate. Two-Bit feels desperate as Dallas' hips flick, turning his legs to jello. White bites at the corners of his vision, Dallas' weight on his hips as arms wrap around his neck, a mouth kisses his own rough, with purpose. He sinks into it, knows Dallas is on edge by how much noise he makes, the way he squirms. There's pressure, so much pressure trapped in his body that when he climaxes, he can only think of a balloon being stuck by a pin.
Dallas is nibbling his ear when he pulls out, a sated smirk in the way the other slips from the water tank, runs fingers down Two-Bit's arms. He leans against the stall wall, and Dallas leans against him. A damp heat is shared between them—chests heaving and bodies shaking.
"Where's your two-bits, Mathews?"
Two-Bit lays his head back. Distractions, jokes, teasing—he can't talk forever. Sooner rather than later he's going to run outta breath. He's gonna run outta things to say to make them forget.
Wishing he had a weed, Two-Bit replies, "I ain't got none."
Dallas looks at him, eyes sharp and dangerous again. He cusses, bitingly cold, and then bends to pull his jeans back on. The towhead swings open the stall door, violent, as Two-Bit hurriedly gets dressed. There is a mild resignation in his arms, chest. He sees Dallas re-buckling his belt, still cussing, when a man walks into the restroom.
"Dal—"
The guy is stared at for a second, and without even blinking Dallas pulls his switch from his back pocket, flips it out. Two-Bit can only watch.
"Y'ever wonder what it's like to have a four-inch piece'a metal stickin' in your skull?"
The guy splits just as Dallas throws the blade. It lands in the drywall next to a swinging door, right where a head used to be. Two-Bit shrugs on his jacket and steps out of the stall, fixing his belt and staring at Dallas. The other kicks the ground, hissing and running a hand through his hair. Two-Bit's eyes are met, Dallas rushing him against the panel of stall separating the two doors. Their teeth knock together, angry and fighting and angry and kissing. Abruptly, they stop.
Two-Bit can feel whatever it is battling out inside Dallas' head, that look like maybe he'd be jumped on again, that look that maybe things weren't ever going to be enough. Eyes slitted, snake-thin, before they tear away from his and spit hits the tile floor.
Two-Bit reaches his hand out, trying to reconcile things, trying to hold on to that last thread of figuring things out. If he holds on, he can figure this out. If he holds on, this will makes sense; for both of them. He's offering Dallas the chance just as much as he's holding on to it himself.
But Dallas steps backward, shoulder leaning away from him. His fingers don't even graze the material of the other's shirt.
"Don't be a faggot."
Steely resolve eats away at Two-Bit's thoughts. Dallas obviously made up his mind.
Two-Bit's knuckles crack as they collide with Dallas' cheek, sending a vein of pain crawling into his wrist, forearm. Dallas hits the floor, sprawling, as he shakes his hand into the air.
Two-Bit spits. He can't taste anything, anymore.
"I liked you better fuckin' drunk."
Dallas raises himself off of the ground, rubbing his cheek sorely, as Two-Bit brushes past him.
He leaves the bathroom, leaves Dallas, nothing but silent.
A/N: This was written by request for aerodynamics (/u/1556904/).