March, 1976 – New York City
The last place Dallas wants to be is here, in the lobby of the building his father owns. It's not a bad place to be, in the sense that it was a nice looking lobby, done to the nines, gilded in places, with huge marble floors. On the street level of New York, it was fairly discrete, blending in with the other buildings as if it were just another place of business meant for men in suits with suitcases, going in and out, keeping their head down. Not a one of them would spare a second glance to him as long as he seemed to be the same to them as he moved through them.
Anyone else would see prestige, would feel as if they'd stepped into something almost decadent and beautiful with the way it looked, with the attention paid to it, with its stellar upkeep.
Not for Dallas as he steps into the elevator, pushing the button for one of the higher floors. Where most people could feel good in this place, all he can feel is apprehension settling on his shoulders as the elevator begins it's smooth ascent. Being here meant being summoned, and being summoned was never a good thing for him. Not by his father.
What it usually meant was that Dallas was going to be assigned a task. A task that is either difficult or very, very long in execution. Personally, he hopes that the task is something long, able to get him out of New York for a while. That would be dandy.
Knowing his father, though and the way he was, it would never be that easy. Every time Dallas wanted something from him in specific, it would always be the opposite. It was as if the old man could read his mind at times, always prepared to do what Dallas didn't want or need, intent to make his life difficult even without actively knowing it.
He stares at the elevator doors as it climbs and climbs, at his reflection from his brown hair that was long enough it was beginning to curl, to the suit that he was wearing with the first few buttons undone to help him acclimate to the heat outside, to the bruise still healing beneath one eye to the mating mark on his neck.
The mating mark that, if he looked at it long enough, Dallas knew would bother him by how faded it is against his skin, almost no more distinguishable than a birthmark. To look at it would be to acknowledge exactly why he wants to leave New York for a long time, and digging that emotion up around Texas? That would be a mistake.
Instead, he breathes deeper, thinking of what things he needed to say: how Shepard was handling the shipments, how much they would need for the summer, what was and wasn't selling at the moment. Movies made crime look and feel kind of easy compared to the reality of it all, to the business that it really was.
A soft ding interrupts his thoughts, the doors sliding open. Dallas walks out into the lobby of other elevators, feeling that old memory creep up on him again as it always did, of running like his life depended on it away from his father's office, of breathing hard, head swimming after he'd presented at the age of ten in a jail cell against his will.
The place has hardly changed since then in any way that truly mattered beyond the carpet, the old green one swapped out for a red one. Dallas keeps moving along, turning into the corridor, nose flaring when he catches an assortment of familiar scents, ranging from a cologne that could never really cover up the excess of the night before and the other to the more soothing scent that was more natural, pack like.
It doesn't take long for him to see the people who said scents belonged to: on one side of the corridor was his youngest brother, crouched on the floor with that always deer in the headlights expression he got whenever Dallas showed up — expected or unexpectedly. "Oh, you got a call too?" His mouth quivers, blue eyes wide. His hair is slicked back at least, even if his suit looks shabby on his form, and he obviously had splashed the cologne on to cover whatever he'd actually been doing hours ago. The watch he wears is expensive, glimmering beneath the lights on in the corridor.
"'Course I did. How'd you get one, Austin?" Dallas flicks his eyes over him, mouth in a half sneer as he realizes that the suit jacket he has on is two sizes too big — grabbed hastily from a bodyguard probably. "You ain't supposed to be reporting to him til next month."
"He knows as much as you or I do," the droll voice of his other brother responds — of the three of them, he's the one who's least bothered by all of this, as usual. And as usual, he probably knows more than what he'll let on, his eyes flicking up from the book he's reading. Where Austin had slicked back his hair, his was allowed to grow out, the ends curling a little, his five o'clock shadow neater than Austin's. The suit he wore was pressed sharply — even on a short notice, he'd made sure to look smart. "Which is nothing."
"Antonio, you don't have to say it like that," the whine in Austin's voice would be pathetic in anyone's voice, yet the way he speaks makes it all the worst, with that pale imitation of someone bigger than him. His eyes swivel to Dallas' again. "He said he'd be out in about five more minutes."
Dallas stays where he is, looking at both his younger brothers, hands going in his pockets. Neither of them have mating marks on their neck, both of them entirely opposite and he has to keep himself restrained here. For now, at least. "What about Carmine or anyone else?"
"Nothing," Antonio's eyes, as dark as Dallas' own, slide back down to his book. The title is long — Dallas can only see the word Sybil on the front between his fingers. "All I got was a call to show up here. No hint of any other word, at all." The page turns. "You'll have to tough it like the rest of us." Despite the coolness in his tone, there's no outright annoyance, always a good thing for Dallas when it came to his middle brother.
He thinks that Austin is going to start asking a question when all three of them hear it all at once: the shuffling of their father's feet, raised voices. Dallas stiffens where he's standing, ears straining until the door finally opens. Standing in the doorway is their father: of all of them, he's the shortest with his hair graying, slicked back appropriately, and in the best, most expensive blue-green suit out of all of them. The cufflinks he has glitter in a way that would've made Bob Sheldon green with envy if he were still alive to see them.
"Inside, all of you," Texas commands, all three of them coming to attention. As always, this room makes Dallas feel tense, uncomfortable despite how roomy it is, despite the sunlight filling it up as he files behind his brothers. Towering over all of them like this is always a weird sensation for Dallas as he ducks inside of the door, into his father's office.
The desk his father had made for him is as polished as ever, the oak imposing. The door is shut, Texas going around his chair. The couch in front of him, as far as Dallas is concerned, is a joke. Only Austin sits down, shifting like a nervous little kid, his fingers dancing on his knees. To his right, Antonio tucks his book beneath his arm, and to his left, Dallas stays, closest to the door.
"What, you two don't want to sit?" Texas seats himself in his chair in that imposing, throne like way he treats it, eyes narrowing. "Fine by me, your knees are younger. What I've got to say isn't necessarily about the business — this is a family matter." The bottom of Dallas' gut threatens to spill out with how uncomfortable those words make him, a skin crawling feeling taking over him. Nothing about a family matter was ever good.
For him, at least.
Antonio seems to become more alert while Austin looks a little nervous. "A family matter? Did someone get hurt?"
"No, no," Texas' expression softens as it always does in the matter of Austin. "This is about your nonno. Grandfather," he looks at Dallas as if Dallas has forgotten the language. "Nothing terrible has happened to him, there isn't that sort of emergency. He needs us to come visit him in Palermo — for about two weeks. Immediately." His finger taps at the great oak desk beneath him, his eyes harsh and flinty in his face. "There's a situation brewing in Palermo that he only trusts family to take care of. So he's extended this to everyone — your mate included." There's no need to specify which of them has a mate, and still Dallas has to fight to not clench his fist. "The flight leaves tonight at 10.15 pm. I need you all there by 9.45, no exceptions. Anyone who isn't here will be left behind, no matter what. Do you all understand me?"
It's Austin who nods eagerly. Dallas does the math in his head for how long a flight must be between them — ten hours, probably. Landing very, very late at night in Palermo. "What about Antonio's pup? His wife ain't here."
"I have her covered too," Texas looks at him dismissively, as if it's insulting, the idea he'd ignore his granddaughter, particularly one from his favorite son. "You worry about you and your mate. It'll be warm this time of year, and you need to pack for at least two weeks, possibly a month."
"A month?" The way Austin's mouth gapes is hilarious, full of the simpleton kind of alarm he's so good at. "Pops —"
"A month. Now go," Texas cuts him off, and waves his hand dismissively, the light from overhead making some of the gray in his dark hair standout. "No one can be late, at all." That's about as harsh as he'll ever be with him, and Dallas doesn't wait for the rest of the dismissal — just strides out, trying to figure out exactly what was going on.
He expects Antonio to follow him, which he does at a close pace. Austin is two paces behind, enough to lose him when Dallas picks up the pace, and to entirely desert him when the elevator opens. Dallas smacks the CLOSE DOOR option hard, Antonio hardly able to slip in as they leave their youngest brother.
"What the hell was that?" He looks at his brother, at the thoughtful expression on his face. They looked similar enough at times — only Antonio had a bigger, more Siclian like nose, and had a deeper undertone than Dallas. More like their other relatives, while Dallas looked as pale as their mother did most of the time. "You know anything about this?"
"No, nothing at all," Antonio runs his fingers over his chin, his eyes half narrowed. "Last time I saw nonno was when he heard you were exiled. He's never approved of anything Pops has done with you so the situation has to be dire." The book he has is tapped against his thigh, his eyes running over Dallas' tense form.
Of everyone here, Antonio is the only person Dallas trusts. He's the only one he can trust, has been able to trust since they were children. Being distant in front of their father was necessary, even if the frustration in Antonio is sometimes at a boiling point. To have the old man think that they were close was not a good idea, and these moments together were always vital for them.
It stings a little, thinking about it. All those years they could've been siblings. And that was without the thought of another set of brothers Dallas had known almost all his life, ones that were worse off than them right now.
He shakes his head. "If you need help, let me know. Johnny and I are gonna get packed. He better have something good for him on that plane. Johnny hates traveling, it's always a hassle."
Antonio hums. "So you still haven't talked with him, have you? You think he's going to be happy, joining you on this?"
Dallas doesn't answer his brother. The elevator doors open. "I'll see you at the airport later."
The last thing he hears Antonio say is, "Are you even going to ask if he wants to go?"
When he steps into the apartment, Dallas sort of wishes that Johnny wasn't here and he hates himself for thinking that. If Johnny weren't here, this could be a phone call or a note. This could be simple.
Like most things, though, it wasn't.
He hates that he is even thinking about that, about avoiding Johnny, about making things easier. Avoidance isn't something normal to him, and certainly not something he wanted in a relationship with a man he's cared about for most of his life. It's difficult for him to walk inside of that apartment they've had since he was twenty years old, and to look at Johnny at the table, his eyes big in his face and full of something that Dallas isn't sure is trepidation or unease.
No matter what the emotion actually is, it's painful. It makes the silence of him putting his keys down harder as he looks around him: at the photos on the wall of the gang that are hanging up, at the decorations they've had in the apartment for years, at the way that most of the things they have is sparse and neat, almost too neat even for him.
"Hey, Dally," Johnny's smile is at least warm enough from where he is. The wheelchair he's in and out of is parked at the very back of the kitchen, and he's dressed in his usual shirt and slacks he wore for his shifts. The light above him illuminates the scars that criss cross his arms, and the one on his cheek that Bob Sheldon had given him all those years ago. "Didn't know you'd be back so early. What's going on?"
In his head, Dallas knows that if this were five or six years ago, he'd have come over and kissed him. Not stood awkwardly at the edge of their kitchen, not knowing what to do with his hands. "It was important, just not the usual kind of important. Didn't know you'd be left off early from the hospital."
"Wasn't supposed to. It's just one of those days," Johnny shrugs, his hand curling around the bowl in front of him. Dallas feels some familiar frustration in his chest. "I'll work a double tomorrow to make up for it, so we don't get behind on the bills next month."
"Get behind what? The building is owned by Antonio, we don't have to worry about that," Dallas shifts impatiently. "We could pay next year and no one would give a damn."
Johnny sets his jaw, looking so much like he had at the theater years and years ago, determined. "It ain't fair if I don't pay too, Dall. You know it ain't fair."
"Who gives a fuck about fair when it doesn't matter?" The frustration gets stronger, and Dallas remembers he doesn't have time for an argument. "Look, you might not be here tomorrow anyway. Texas needs me at the airport. My grandfather needs us to come over to Palermo to meet him." The look on Johnny's face melts from determined to outright confusion. "It'll be for two weeks, and nonno — my grandfather bought you a ticket to come with us, if you want."
The confusion on Johnny's face deepens drastically. "Me? Your family hates that you got a mate." That nervous look he gets on his face sometimes rears up, distrustful. "Why? I don't — I don't wanna get mixed up in all of that. You know I don't."
Dallas shrugs, still shuffling at the edge of the kitchen. "Beats me. I've barely met the guy. All I know is that he got the ticket for you, and if you want to come, you can come. I have to be there, no matter what."
As usual, that makes Johnny's face twist further into distrust whenever his family comes up, whenever the obligation to work for them comes up. He grips his spoon tighter in his hand, shaking his head. "Dally, you don't have to —"
"Yeah, I do," Dallas raises his voice, shaking his head. "He called us up, he told us we got summoned. None of us can say no except you."
A silence descends on the apartment. Years worth of arguments, of dislike settles into that silence. Dallas doesn't know what to do with it, the way that Johnny's face clearly spells out distrust, displeasure at all of this. It's never how things are supposed to work in relationships like this, in their relationship and it keeps getting worse and worse.
"Johnny, you don't have to. He just offered," he tries to keep his tone neutral. "We gotta leave in a few hours, and it'll be two weeks we gotta pack for. If you don't want to go, you don't have to."
Still. Johnny pushes his chair back. "I'll come. It's just two weeks, and I've never been outside the country before." The words come out half mumbled, eyes lowering as he says it.
Dallas wants to say No one's forcing you.
Instead, he dutifully nods, retreats not to their room, but to his. Johnny's room is opposite his, a fact that bugs him, and he starts pulling down bags. If Johnny said he'd come, he had his own reasons. Maybe good ones, maybe bad ones, but he'd said he'd come.
In the pit of his stomach, Dallas wishes that Johnny would at least tell him what those reasons were. Fight him some more, argue with him, explain what he was thinking about it now rather than keeping it to himself. What he gets instead is silence as Johnny shuffles to the closet, pulling down his own pack and joining in as they get their things packed. Only a few words are exchanged here and there about what was and wasn't necessary, a few clarifications on what they could and couldn't take on the plane, and the sound of zippers and clothes being folded and things tucked away, Johnny and Dalals not really working in tandem so much as around each other as best they could.
This isn't how mates are supposed to be. This isn't how two men who have been attached at the hip since they were teens supposed to be. The thought nags and nags at him, even though he thinks that the determined look on Johnny's face is about him, in some way. Somehow, Johnny thinks he's doing something good for Dallas, that he's supposed to and needs to be here and Dallas doesn't understand it even though he wants to ask.
As they finish, he walks back to the living room, looking for one last thing when he spots the photo on the mantle they have, the one that both of them look at from time to time: the mounted photo and article from September's edition of Tulsa World, 1965. The wide eyed shock on Johnny's face, one of Dallas' mugshots on the far right and dead center, Ponyboy Curtis with the blonde hair, half awake, exhausted and still covered with ash and smoke from the fire.
The picture draws him in, the way it always does: Dallas taking in the way Ponyboy looks so small, so tired in it. Certain details jump up at him: the still to be treated burn on his shoulder, the unlit cigarette in one hand that dips towards the ground, and the brown jacket wrapped around his waist that Dallas had given him so many years ago. Dallas feels weary, old as his eyes rung over it, wondering where Ponyboy was now, if he was even alive.
What would Ponyboy think, if he knew how their lives had changed? What would he say, if he could see them again, his two buddies?
He hates that he doesn't know. That of everyone, that's the missing puzzle piece for where and who they were now and it felt as if he'd never find an answer to that question.
"You thinkin' about him too?"
"Yeah," Dallas tears his eyes away from it to look at Johnny, folding up an old shirt with a sad look on his face that Dallas feels every inch of in that moment. "His birthday's in what, two months?"
"He'd be twenty-five, yeah," Johnny's voice trembles as he says it, that sad look on his face deeply familiar to Dallas. From his place in the living room, it's obvious to look at the places on Johnny's forearms and upper arms where he'd been operated on with skin grafts, the slight tremble to his frame when he'd been standing too long. "I- I, uh, talked to Darry earlier today. I think he wanted to talk about him, y'know? He always calls closer to his birthday. He sounded awful... I don't know. Sad, tired. Still won't let me bring him up when I try."
"So why keep trying?" Dallas snaps, walking over to take the shirt from Johnny's trembling fingers. "Every time someone does, you never get a straight answer."
For once, Johnny raises his voice just enough. "He was my best friend, Dally. I oughta know where he went."
Dallas can't and won't argue with that.
The airport isn't crowded when they get there. It never is at this time of night, and Dallas doesn't mind having Johnny in a wheelchair with how busy they have to be. The sight of his father, though, with his brothers makes Johnny visibly tense as they get closer. It's not just the fact that Texas hated mates in his line of sight, and it isn't just the fact that Johnny's in a wheelchair.
That tension, though, isn't something that Dallas wants to deal with at the moment. Not with how quickly they need to get boarded on without incident. As usual, Austin looks like the problem child — he's not there yet, while Antonio is on time as always.
In his arms is his daughter, a sleepy two year old with a mop of inky black hair on her head, her fist shoved in her mouth, blue eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Dallas gives her a slight smile, barking out, "We already got the luggage boarded. We're ready."
Antonio waves at them, dressed in his suit and coat, his hair freshly trimmed, his face shaved, and respectful as he says, "Good to see you, Johnny. It's just going to be us, he bought out the flight."
"Has anyone heard from Austin?" Texas demands, his eyes narrowed. "We've got about ten minutes, then we need to leave. No exceptions."
"No, he ain't said anything to me," Dallas lets go, knowing Johnny doesn't like to be pushed around his father if he can help it. He watches carefully as Johnny grips the sides of his chair, propelling him towards Antonio and his waiting daughter. "We just packed up, called who we needed, and came. Passports are done."
Texas scoffs, shakes his head. "Go ahead, board. I'll wait for Austin, see if I can't get him on here faster." A dismissive hand is waved in their direction, which Dallas ignores. He waits for Johnny first, who hands his ticket to the waiting attendant, then Antonio, then himself.
Instantly, he's hit with a blast of cold. The creaking sound of Johnny's chair fills the air only for a second, then overtaken by the sound of the idling plane. Outside, through the cracks of the artificial walls, he can see a bit of the night sky.
He's only been on a plane a few times. Never this far, and never for this long. A mild feeling of trepidation hits his gunt, then he's striding behind Antonio on board with his feet hitting a ruddy red carpet beneath him, his senses overwhelmed for a moment. The plane is clean, orderly, with bright lights that Dallas knows is going to give him a headache well into the hours-long plane ride. There's a surprising amount of room on here — it might be one of those Boeing's he's heard about — with enough room for Johnny to get his wheelchair to the very front of the expansive amount of seats.
Johnny gets up on steady enough feet, making his way to one of the bigger, plush chairs in the front. Following suit, Antonio sits on the row on Johnny's left, at the window. "You wanna look outside, Art?"
"Yeah, yeah," the three year old presses her nose against the window, eyes wide. Dallas doesn't sit just yet, instincts unsatisfied, glancing at the stewardesses at the window. Both of them have that flat, neutral scent that betas did. No omegas and judging by their dark hair, probably Sicilians like his family.
So more than likely, hired or paid off. Which guaranteed a degree of safety here.
Some of his guard goes down, which is a relief. Quickly, he speaks to them in brief Sicilian — mostly to say hello, some to show them what to do with the wheelchair. Both women talk back in easy tones, with some surprise at how he sounds. Dallas finally throws himself into the seat one over from Johnny. "You gonna stay awake all flight, Art?"
"Mm-hmm!" The little girl turns and beams at him. "Allll night!"
"If you ever wanna sleep somewhere, you can sleep between us," Johnny pats the seat between him and Dallas, "We got room."
"Thanks, Uncle Johnny," Art looks up at her father, eyes big. "Is nonno coming?" Antonio looks towards the entrance, his expression unreadable beyond a light amusement.
Dallas wishes they could just take off without Austin. The engines seem to whirr louder, Antonio turning to whisper something in her ear. For his part, Dallas glances at Johnny, who's eyes are drifting around the cabin, looking at the attendants and interior with curiosity. The questions he has are obvious on his face, questions Dallas isn't itching to answer.
Whatever they are, Johnny doesn't speak of them. He just straightens up, murmuring, "Here they come."
The sound of feet scuffling against the connector hits Dallas' ears, then the wave of alcohol follows. It almost burns his senses as Austin stumbles onto the flight, steered there diligently by Texas with an air of more amusement than exasperation or anger. Texas barks off orders, Dallas deeming it not worth it to glare at his youngest brother.
"Oh hey, Johnny," Austin waves drunkenly. "Didn't know you was coming."
It's artful, the way Antonio's tone hits a note between annoyance and faint droll amusement. "He said it at the meeting. Bathroom's that way."
Dallas can't wait for this to be over.
By the time Austin is in his seat, with water and a blanket, Texas has finished giving instructions. The plane is closing, and the lights begin to dim as the engines roar. He makes sure to listen for the first few moments as the attendants give their instructions over the speakers about seatbelts, to lean back, and not to make too much noise. Time hangs somewhere in there, between that feeling of sudden take off and when he realizes that he's swimming in a half collection of a dream and the present.
He knows it, always when he's at the edge of one, unable to entirely remember it all. Everything is mired in black and white, the sound empty on the landscape, not a single scent hanging in the air. The church on fire, the blood curdling scream when Johnny had been hit by the beam and the sound of it echoing through him almost.
Ponyboy, in his hands, trying to get back in the fire, and the taste of smoke in his nostrils mingling with fear when he sees that the jacket is around his waist and not his shoulder, and god, the fire is everywhere, everywhere.
All it takes is one errant scent of food to push Dallas out of that, for the scent of fire and smoke to dissipate, for the sound of the roaring plane engines to fill his ears, mixed with the sound of someone eating something beside him.
The plane around him slowly comes into focus, and then Johnny beside him, eating a half wrapped cracker with a pensive expression on his face, the light above him flicked on dim. He doesn't seem to notice Dallas at all as he comes to, his eyes focused on Johnny's skin. Neither he nor Ponyboy had come out of that unscathed, and no matter how long it had been, it still reminded Dallas how he had messed up with them both.
It still makes him uncomfortable, unmoored to look at Johnny's scars, to consider how long it had been since they had finally been together and fear more and more that maybe it wasn't enough to keep them together. Not anymore.
Not because Dallas didn't feel it, but because he was starting to think that Johnny didn't. Or if he did, it had changed in a way Dallas wasn't sure of, didn't know how to address. It wasn't something he was going to address now, as Johnny eats another cracker, clearly still awake. "Guess Art didn't come over here."
"Nah, she fell asleep right when you did," Johnny whispers, glancing over at Dallas. Dallas can see better that he's reading a worn copy of Gone with the Wind — figures he'd bring that. He shifts up in the chair as Johnny continues, "I'm gettin' there myself. Still on hospital hours."
Rolling his shoulders, Dallas surveys the plane. It's still and quiet, with Texas in the furthermost seat. He's got a blanket over him, his stern face looking less severe. He looks younger than he should regardless, his hair dark against the chair. Dallas shifts in his seat again, keeping his voice down, "You said you'd be working a double. They take it okay you were gonna be out that early."
"Yeah, course they were. They know to give me the time off," the tone's a little clipped, a warning sign that tells Dallas he should just drop it. "I'll see what else they need me for when we get back. I'm sure they'll need the extra help."
"Johnny, why are you always doing all that extra shit for them?" He can't help himself, snapping the words out. "I had to go in there and force them to treat you like everyone else, and they had to get bitched at to even give you half of the shit you were supposed to —"
"Dally, I don't wanna argue, man," there's a distant quiver, upset in Johnny's voice. Even if he didn't glance towards Texas' seat in caution, Dallas can see it in the way he grasps his book tight and the way his scent shifts on a dime. "I'm just – I'm gonna. It's what I want to do." There's a snort from Texas' end. "Please, Dally. I ain't new flew before, I don't—"
Dallas isn't proud that the way he almost barks out the word Fine causes Johnny to flinch. Nor is he proud of the fact that he stays up an hour, waiting for Johnny to say something more only to fume at the sound of turning pages until they stopped.
All he knows is that when he dreams again, Johnny's back in there, the sound out again, everything in black and white. It's the morning after they mated and Johnny's smiling at him in a way that feels warm, that he and Dallas mean something, that they wanted to be together. The Tulsa sun is warm even though he knows he can't feel it, and when he inhales, he feels comfort.
In the dream, he doesn't take Johnny's quiet for a closed door, doesn't see his caution as something to beware, just enjoys the phantom memory of what sun felt like on his skin.
At least until the dream changes and they're in a kitchen together. Dallas can see Johnny mouth the words, Why do you have to stay here? They hate you, they don't even want me.
Dallas remembers saying, It makes us money. It helps me take care of you.
He remembers Johnny going quiet, and of his eyes getting a little glossy. Remembers how quiet he'd said, You don't always have to take care of me. Dallas remembers how he had shaken his head, ready to protest. Remembers the phone call shattering through their words, and how he had wanted to tell Johnny that of course he'd take of him, they were mates.
Something in him tells him that this moment was important. That maybe, maybe he'd missing something he should've seen. What was it? What was trying to push him towards this, over and over again. He twitches, the smell of acidic fruit hitting his senses.
The world comes into sharp focus as a woman's hand nudges him awake. The engines are on a different hum now, and the air feels warmer around him.
They'd landed.
Traveling overseas wasn't something Dallas usually did for something like this, and it usually never felt this odd as the car pulls into the winding roads. It's brighter here, greener than what Dallas had expected as they make their way towards his grandfather's estate.
That was the word, more or less as it had been described by the driver before there'd hit this quiet patch. Texas had hardly kept himself on his feet at first, having to remember some old manners of his. Getting into the car, getting their things had been a mostly hurried affair, only hindered by Austin getting sick in a bag as the flight had caught up with him.
Johnny and Dallas hadn't exchanged much more than pleasantries, the air between them stiff. The itch to just start the argument, get it over with was exhausting, and Dallas tries his best not to do anything except keep an arm around Art as they traveled.
The radio was on, the car mostly silent as they made their way deeper into the slight strip of countryside. Or something else — it was so green out here, so unlike New York or Tulsa that Dallas cares enough to take it in for a moment. It's hillier, the air clearer, than Tulsa while populated in parts almost like New York.
Still, it's not really much to dwell on, as they round one last bend to a straight road in a more remote part of Palermo. The trees are denser until Texas taps his nose against the glass. "That's the orchard. We're not too far along now."
"Oh, I hope we can go picking for some oranges again," Austin yawns, "I remember you told me about that. Isn't that where you and Zio were when he lost his eye?"
"Not exactly," Texas gives Austin a smile that Dallas feels is strange on his face for all the times he's never seen him this complacent. "It's further in." He looks at Art in Dallas' lap. "Let's not talk about that with Artemisia here, though. She's not old enough for that story."
Only Dallas can see the discontent on Johnny's face at that. Dallas for his part doesn't know why; it wasn't as if he was missing out on anything by not hearing Texas' stories. Antonio gives a nod of agreement. "Way too young. Wow... is that it?"
Collectively, they all turn their heads out of the windows to look at what Dallas wouldn't call just a house as it rises in the ever lessening horizon. It's more like a castle — hell, as more and more of the tan bricks emerge, as more and more of the grounds around, he realizes that calling it anything else was selling it short in a a big way.
Most people would feel some kind of resentment in their chest if they had lived the life he had — of being kicked out when he was ten, of being homeless for most of his life or on the verge of it, of living in a cramped, shitty places, of having to be looking from the outside in to see something like this, that their family owned, that he could've been apart of.
Dallas isn't them, though. He can only feel mounting caution build up in him. He wasn't stupid, he knew what his father trafficked in, in how much they could have if they really wanted to. This, however? A castle?
This was something that felt as if it went beyond a simple criminal history. This was much, much bigger, and as the car enters the circle in front of the house, Dallas isn't sure if he should say something at all. The car glides through a pair of gates, up a gravel road and to the face of the house — which Dallas can see is more of a light tan, with high arches in front of a pair of steps. Above that is clearly another story, with arching windows framed by brown panes.
It's expansive, and while Dallas could stare at it more, his eyes are instead fixed on the older man who stans at the steps, watching them with a careful gaze. Wisps of silver hair float lightly in the wind, with dark eyebrows of a man older than his father, probably late fifties if Dallas had to guess.
He's got dark eyebrows, and his face is close to Dallas', just with more age to it. He's dressed in a black suit with a dark red shirt, his expression startlingly close to Texas' own as he watches. It's not entirely angry or upset, but it is the same nose, a mouth close enough to his that doesn't seem entirely pleased with what he's seeing. He's about Texas' height himself, his jaw set as he watches them come out of the car one by one, allowing well dressed servants to walk over to get their luggage.
"I can get up the steps on my own," Johnny whispers to Dallas, watching him hook his finger into the car door. "Won't need it til we're inside."
"Okay," Dallas still opens the car door first, allowing Johnny out. The man's scent is easily enough to catch, with that similar mark to Texas' to let them know they were family. It was different though, in a way Dallas can't describe. Only that he's certain the man is older, and something in his scent tells him his temperament is different from Texas' own and like the rest of them, he was an alpha.
That seems to be true, because when Texas approaches him, he doesn't necessarily lean in forward instead flitting his eyes from Texas to Austin who's hardly cleaned up, to Antonio with a yawning Art in his arms, and Dallas and Johnny coming from the rear. "Francesco. I'm glad you brought everyone." He looks at Dallas the longest, a slow smile on his face. "It is good to see you, all of you. I don't wish to have you waiting. Dinner, first. Everything else, after."
"Of course, sure," Texas doesn't react overtly to his real name being said, not with anymore than he would anyone else. "We'll wash up first, it was a long flight."
Nonno looks at Art, his smile widening. "It was, yes. Artemisia?" He seems to be just as warm to her as he is to Dallas, a fact that Dallas thinks will probably not hold.
They follow him up the steps, Dallas making sure to linger a step or two back as Johnny walks, a hand out in case Johnny needs it. Johnny accepts it as they make their way up two sets of stairs, his grandfather addressing the others as they go. Dallas doesn't pay much attention to his words, just looking around him at the utter decadence around him. In front of him were two brown doors that were shut, and another in front of him that was wide up, leading up another flight of steps. To both his left and right, there were other closed doors, with shades drawn. Who or what was in there was anyone's guess at the massive sizes they were. His feet were clicking around well polished patterned marble of red, black, and red-orange tiles.
Johnny gives him a glance that Dallas can read easily, without the words he mouths of, Socs would be jealous of this!
That isn't a lie. Any Soc would go green with envy at all of this as they continue up another flight of stairs, and then another, before turning right. All of it's a lot to take in — from the old designs on the roof top that are in patterns Dallas has only seen in old textbooks, to the marbled walls around them to the lanterns hanging from the ceiling that glowed softly.
There were staff there, smartly dressed and most of them similar to the attendants — thought others were of any kind of dynamic. They're lead into a room with a long brown table with dark wood, with food on top of it already. It makes Dallas' mouth water at the sight of all the different meats and pastas there. The little food he'd grabbed on the way off of the flight wasn't enough for him.
He glances at Johnny, expecting him to say that he was tired. Instead, Johnny just turns towards his grandfather asking in a surprisingly strong voice, "Where should we sit, Mr. Winston?"
The older man looks shocked for a moment, and then harumphs. "I am not a Mr. Winston. Is that what you go by, Francesco?" Texas rolls his eyes in response. "I am Vincenzo Agenello di Dio, and Vincenzo is fine. I take the head, and the seats to my left and right are for friends. Anywhere else, please."
"Friends? You're already having meetings?" Texas' eyes narrow.
"They aren't involved in this side of it. Stop being paranoid," Smoothly, Vincenzo pulls out a chair for Artemisia, switching to English, "A cushion?"
"Yes, please," Art replies, standing in the chair with a grin. Vincenzo nods to a servant, who backs out of the door quickly. Dallas doesn't want to think about how many eyes he's got here, or the fact that he'd spotted a man or two patrolling as they'd driven up.
Instead, he picks a chair to Vincenzo's left, as Johnny takes a seat opposite him. The plates look just as decadent as the rest of the house, the edges painted with a bright blue pattern that he finds fascinating to look at. It seems more like art you'd find in a museum than something you'd eat off of.
He hears steps louder than most others as everyone gets in their seats, with Austin getting to sit furthest away. Johnny's eyes are big as they always are at huge amounts of food like this, and Dallas can't blame him. Texas sits opposite Dallas, with Antonio and Artemisia beside him, apparently unfazed as ever at everything around him.
Vincenzo greets someone in the other room, and Dallas is about to tune it out more when he catches onto a familiar omega scent. One he hasn't caught in a long time and for a second, Dallas thinks he's gotta have something crossed as Vincenzo speaks clearly, "Is Atreo' still asleep?"
"Yeah," the voice that floats through the room, and Johnny looks up sharply to hear it. Dallas can't blame him, not when through the doorway comes Ponyboy Curtis, his hair a shaggy brown around his face. That's him — from his scent to the scars around his arms that Dallas remembers, and is fully to be seen with the light blue shirt he's wearing. The blue jeans he's wearing are a little worn at the knees, and he clearly doesn't see Dallas or hear the sharp intake of breath from Johnny. "He said he's tired, he'll eat later."
"Ponyboy!" Dallas and Johnny say his name at the same time, Dallas louder than Johnny. He doesn't care that he makes Austin jump. What he cares about is when Ponyboy seems as shocked as they are when he looks at them. He's got a pair of gold hoop earrings — his mother's — in both ears, and a class ring on one hand.
He'd changed from a scared kid that Dallas had last seen in 1965, who hadn't yet really developed past Sodapop's shadow, to someone who looked better than Soda. There was a slight sun-like warmth to his skin from being outside, and he'd gotten a little bit taller, features sharpened just enough to be attractive, but not too sharp. Only enough; he still had puppy fat to his face that made him look cute, clearly within spitting distance of twenty-five, even though he could clearly pass for a little younger.
"Dallas? J-Johnny? What are you two doing here?" Ponyboy's voice is soft, still with that Southern accent of his and the surprise on his face is genuine. "How – How do you know Vincenzo?"
Vincenzo looks between them all, his disbelief evident.
Dallas has a million, a million questions in that moment as he ranks his eyes over Ponyboy's form, over the burn scars on his elbow and upper arm, over the earrings in his ears, over the light blue he's wearing.
He's not even sure if he's going to get a satisfying answer to a single one — only sure that he'd better start getting them quick.
thanks for reading! see you next update!