Dalpiss Winston

It took a hell of a lot of coaxing to get him to throw off the blanket and sit up on the couch, the house feeling strangely quiet and empty around him. He shouldn't have been surprised: Darry and Steve and Soda would be at work now, and Pony was sick as anything. Dally– 

No. 

He wasn't going to think about that. 

He couldn't think about that. 

Instead, he focused on the fact that the radio wasn't on. The TV wasn’t either. He grabbed the remote just to have something to do, but even Mickey couldn't get his mind off of everything. 

Christ, what was he going to do? 

After a while he wandered into the kitchen to get himself coffee and properly wake up. Maybe that would make a difference in the brain fog clouding his head. The coffee pot was empty like it usually was when he got to the Curtis house, only this time he wasn't lazily stopping by for a mid-morning chat and an episode of Mickey. Darry tried to keep the coffeepot full in the mornings, but none of them were ever very good at sharing, and it usually fell to Two-Bit to make a second round. 

It was only once the coffee was percolating that he realised he’d made enough for two, like he always did. 

Dally had always liked to stop by in the mid-mornings, too. 

He drank the whole pot. He didn't want it to be wasted. It didn't do anything for him, aside from giving him a tremor and a mind that raced a mile a minute. 

At least the brain fog was gone. 

After the coffee, the Curtis house felt too small, too silent to sit around in by himself. He thumbed the smooth handle of the switchblade in his pocket, looking for comfort and grounding. He’d panicked and slipped it out of Dallas’ jacket before the police had pulled him off of the boy– and that’s what he had been, wasn't it? Just a boy. 

He had been seventeen. Younger than Two-Bit. 

Seventeen was much too young to die. 

Something odd twisted in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t stop thinking about that stretch of pavement by the lot, how it had glowed a gaudy shade of white-gold in the halo of the streetlight, what it would look like now after everything. He had been past there a million times, he knew the street off by heart, but now he felt like something was going to be different. 

He didn't deliberate over it, just made for the door. He’d see for himself. That would make him stop thinking about it. 

It wasn't a long walk to the lot, but it gave Two-Bit time to remember last night. He remembered running, sneakers pounding the pavement to the rhythm of his rabbit-fast heartbeat. We need to get there first. I need to get there first. He remembered the sound of the sirens getting closer, the way his heart dropped when the first police cruiser pulled to a stop. 

He remembered the look in Dallas’ eyes, the same look that always heralded something brave and stupid and reckless. 

He felt sick. 

If he had only been a moment faster, maybe he could have stopped him. Maybe he could have snatched the gun from those quick, slight hands, maybe he could have tucked it away and the police would only have given Dallas a sentence like usual. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Maybe wouldn’t change the past, and it sure as hell wouldn’t bring Dallas back. 

They hadn't come by to scrub the blood off of the asphalt yet, and as he approached the lot, he could see the shadow of exactly where Dallas had lain bleeding out the night before. It turned his stomach, something cold and awful settling to form a lump in his throat, but he couldn't look away. This is the last you’ll ever see of him, he thought. This is the last part of him that will ever be real. You’ll have your switch and you'll have his jacket, but you'll never have him again.  

He sat down right there on the curb next to the rust-red stains on the concrete, tracing his fingers over the dappled spots. The blood hadn’t dried all the way, and it flaked off in damp patches, marking the pads of his fingers. He didn't brush it away. How could he? It was the last time he would get to touch and to hold that courageous, idiotic, headstrong boy. 

Instinctively, his hand went back to the switchblade in his pocket. He pulled it out and flicked it open, watched the blade pop out and shine in the mottled sunlight. The smooth curve of the metal was untouched, not yet marred by anything more than the fingerprints Dallas had left on it when he’d borrowed it. Because of course Two-Bit had let him borrow it. What else had he been supposed to do? 

“Lemme borrow it, doll, c’mon. Just this once and I’ll give it back. I’ll make it up to ya, even.” Dallas had grinned, that sharp cunning smile that Two could never say no to. He sighed, already digging in his pocket. 

“Fine. But I better get it back, ya hear me? This thing’s my pride an’ joy.” 

“Thought I was your pride an’ joy,” Dallas teased, pulling the switchblade from Two-Bit’s open hand. He tested the mechanism, flicking the blade open and shut a few times, and Two had to swallow hard. Suddenly he didn't mind so much that he was lending it to Dal. “You’ll get it back when I’m done.” 

He didn't expect a thank you, not from Dallas. The quick, rough kiss the boy pressed to his lips was thanks enough. And Dal’s word was good: he’d get that blade back, he knew. 

He had gotten it back. Even in death, Dallas had kept that promise. Suddenly the sleek black handle of the switchblade didn’t look so pretty anymore. 

He hefted the thing in his hand, feeling the weight. It would be so easy to draw the blade across his own skin, to mix his blood with the viscera that already tainted the ground…

Two-Bit closed the switchblade hurriedly, shoving it deep into his pocket. 

He wasn’t here to do that. He couldn't forgive himself for that, anyway. There were people who needed him. 

They had lost so many people already. 

He walked back to the Curtis house slowly, dragging his feet. The wind was cold for the time of year, and he wrapped his arms around himself protectively. The trees above him shook their leaves, and it sounded like the whisper of a distant gunshot, the quiet thud of the body of a boy, who really was quite small when you thought about it, hitting the sidewalk. He sped up his pace. 

When he made it back to the house, there was still no one else home. He didn't like to feel so alone. It made him feel small and scared, like a child in need of comforting. He sat down on the couch again, because there was nothing else to do, and he turned on the television. 

This time the screen was full of news about a hoodlum boy who had been shot to death by police officers in the East end last night. He watched the whole program, listening to them talk about a boy who must have been Dallas, but really didn't sound like him at all. 

When it ended and began to loop, he watched it again. He didn't know what else to do now that he was alone. He hoped someone else would get home soon.