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broareweabouttoviberightnow · 3 months ago

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"I dunno. A car it's like... like I dunno I guess like," Steve bites his lip, leans back over the hood of his glorious beater he's been lovingly, 'n often painstakingly, fixin' up. There's a hotness burnin' up the back of his throat that pisses him off to no end. He shuts his eyes, runs a hand over his face, tries again.

"Like, when you work with a car there's just- like- there's kinda these-ugh!" Steve scowls. There are tears of frustration burnin' up behind his eyes 'n that just pisses him off more. He knows what he's trying to say so why can't he just say it.

"Take your time, man." Soda tilts his head to the side, absentmindedly pulls a thread out of his DX shirt. He's not like most guys Steve knows. The kind that make him feel like there was somethin' fuckin' wrong with him for needin' a minute to put his words in order. Or the kind that politely looked away when hot tears stacked up behind his eyes. No, Soda looked right at him like he had all the time in the world 'n he was spendin' it on purpose with Steve. Just waitin' on him to say what he meant.

God. Sometimes Steve felt like the luckiest guy alive. But then Soda leans over 'n steals the last bite of Steve's hotdog 'n the effect is mildy ruined.

Steve pulls his knees up across the hood 'n rests his head back on the windshield. He can feel the Tusla sun beatin' down even through his DX shirt. It had been a slow day. A Thursday in the middle of August when the end of summer clung to everythin' 'n hung heavy 'n slow in the air.

"When you're workin' on a car, only half of it is knowin'. You gotta be able to sorta sense some of it." Steve wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. "Does that make any sense?"

He peeks around his leg to see Soda. He's layin' flat on his back on the car parked beside Steve's. A beetle bug that they were supposed to be replacing the oil valve gasket in. But it would be a quick job 'n even Soda wasn't immune to the way August made you want to just sit still for a moment. The hood on Soda's was significantly more sloped 'n he kept almost slidin' off. But when Steve looks over Soda's got his head to the side, blinkin' at Steve, blonde hair fallin' in waves around his eyes.

"Oh. Like a horse." Soda nods to himself, almost slides right off onto his ass again.

"Huh?" Steve sits up, raises an eyebrow 'n Soda slips off the front, clambers onto Steve's beater.

"Like a horse." Soda's grinnin' wide with all his teeth like only Soda can.

"Ok. Wanna elaborate?" Steve have never gotten into the rodeo thing as much as Soda had. He'd go, sure. Hell, he'd ridden once or twice but he was never like Soda. He had loved those things. Well. Until.

"When you're ridin' a horse, right? You can't think about it like you 'n the horse are two separate things. The second you do that, that horse is gonna realize it don't want you on it one bit. You gotta sense what it wants. What it needs. 'Cause the horse sure as hell ain't gonna tell you. I figure, it's the same with a car, right? Like, sure, you can teach someone how to ride but they gotta have that extra somethin' that makes you good at it. You can teach any loser to fix a part but it takes somethin' to be a mechanic. Right?"

Steve blinks at Soda. Once, twice. Soda's eyes are bright 'n focused like they always are when he talks about ridin'.

"Yeah, somethin' like that."

"Well, that makes sense. You put that real good Stevie." And Steve snorts 'n doesn't remind him one bit that it was him that put it all together.

Soda grins at him, worries his lip, 'n slouches back down. "I miss it. Y'know?"

And Steve does know. 'Cause whatever you needed to go all the way? Soda had it. Soda absently runs his thumb around his kneecap, frowns.

That was the problem with these slow August days. They were fit for rememberin' even when you didn't want to.

"Hey, Steve?" Soda folds legs up under him, pushes his bangs from his eyes.

"Yeah, Sodapop?"

"I think you got it. Whatever it is. You're gonna make it big time. One day I'm gonna turn around 'n you're gonna be on the front of one of them car magazines." Steve's heart does a sudden, violent ache.

"Yeah, I'll be the girlie in the bikini, draped over some hot rod." Steve leans back on the windshield again, drops a hand to his forehead.

"Nah, that's my job. Lemme be the arm candy, it's all I'm good for." 'N Soda's grinnin' 'n laughin' but it's not funny. Really.

A car pulls into the DX 'n Soda slides off the hood 'n goes to take their gas. Two kids clamber out, hay clingin' to their clothes, wreakin' like a stable 'n huge grins plastered on their faces. Soda pulls up short, mid-step.

Steve hurries to catch up with him. Soda's got this kind of, longin' in his eyes, his smile waverin'. Steve puts a hand between his shoulder blades 'n Soda's grin pulls right back up at the corners like a puppet.

"Shame they ain't girlies, could have gotten a real sweet tip." Soda starts back up again, takin' long lopin' steps.

"Hey Soda!" Soda stops, spins halfway around. "Some people get it for one thing. Cars or horses or writin' or whatever. Whatever you got Soda? It's better than all that shit. 'Cause you don't fix up cars. You fix up people."

Soda blinks at him. "You didn't stutter or nothin'."

"I didn't." Soda tilts his head, the boys in the car hit their horn, a song blasts from a passin' truck, the sun beats down.

"Like horses?" Soda's hair is like a halo in the light, his eyes big 'n waitin'.

"Like horses."

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broareweabouttoviberightnow · 3 months ago

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I just saw you were taking requests! :D Lately, I've been obsessing over Buck's and Dally's relationship. Do you think you could write something about them? Preferably a sickfic/whump, but no worries if not.

@fefe-the-cat I HOPE THIS DOES YOU JUSTICE!!! This is where I kinda admit I've never thought much about Dally 'n Buck but this was fun to explore!! TYSM for the ask!!! fic below the cut!!

CW: mentions of vomit and throwing up!! nothing graphic!!

Dallas rolls over, grabs the bucket he'd stolen from the shed 'n brings up the only thing left in his stomach: bile. Waves of nausea roll over him, causin' his shoulders to buck 'n his elbows to buckle from where he's tryin' to hold his weight. He lets himself collapse face down on the bed, buryin' his face in his sheets.

Shit.

He doesn't know why he thought he'd be over this by now. Glory, kill him now. He'd felt like shit yesterday mornin' when he'd woken up thrown unceremoniously into the back bedroom at Buck's. He hadn't been surprised, per say. Wakin' up at Buck's almost certainly meant he'd gotten piss drunk the previous night without one of the gang to drag his sorry ass back to Darry. He'd chalked the sickness in his stomach and heaviness in his limbs to forgettin' to stop before the tequila shooters.

That had become a harder beleif to hold as he crawled into bed last night feelin' worse then when he'd started. By the time he woke up this mornin' heavin' dinner he'd accepted it.

He finally stops chokin' on nothin' 'n sits up and against the wall. He was beginnin' to really regret not just draggin' his ass to the Curtis' place. But he didn't want to do that to Darry. He wasn't that selfish. If he wound up on their porch with the bug he'd pass it to Pony who would give it to Soda, would pass it over to Steve who'd hot potato it to Johnny and it would swiftly wind up with Two and finish out strong with Darry. Sickness made the ranks of the gang like clockwork.

No, he was determined to figure this one out himself. He'd be fine.

Dallas dragged his head off the mattress, instantly heavin' again. Fuck, how Darry could take care of all six of them without losin' his mind was beyond Dallas.

A knock pounds on the door and Dallas runs a hand over his mouth to wipe away the bile, scrubs over his face, pushes back his hair. "I'm not runnin' the fuckin' ponies today, Buck, piss off."

He's not necessarily surprised when, instead of retreatin', the door flies open. Not shocked but still irate. Buck stands in the doorway lookin' pissed as all get out before he gets a good look at Dallas. He softens instantly, cockin' one eyebrow.

"You look like shit." Dallas rolls flat onto his back, stares at the celin'.

"Gee, thanks." He pushes himself to sit when Buck doesn't leave. "Fuck off, I'm fine." Buck rolls his eyes. Well, that was new. Usually, when Dallas told him to get lost he'd mutter about some fuckin' kid who thought he could order his grown ass around 'n then promptly get lost.

"Move over." Buck crosses the room in three strides, not that it was impressive, the room was practically a renovated closet. Dallas was more amused with the fact it took him that many.

"Buck, leave me alone. I feel like shit, I'm not runnin' those fuckin' horses." Dallas squeezes his eyes shut 'n bites down hard to keep his teeth from chatterin'.

"Yeah, no shit." He nearly jumps out of his skin when Buck's hand comes down on his forehead. He snaps his eyes open again, bats his hand away.

"Buck, get the hell out of here, would ya?" He tries again. Buck pulls the cig that's burnin' down to nothin' from his mouth, stamps it out on the bottom of his boot, and tosses it out the open window. He reaches over 'n wiggles it shut. "I wanted that open." Dallas shoots him a glare even though he was gonna close it himself the second he got the man out of his room.

"That's probably why you got sick to start with. Close the fuckin' windows in winter, why doncha?" He rolls his eyes and sounds too much like Darry for comfort. Dallas kicks him in the thigh.

"I'm not sick." Buck actually laughs in his face.

"Sure. Do you vomit on the weekends for fun now?" He kicks the bucket Dallas dropped to the floor. Dallas glares at him. "Look, I'll go get that Darry guy, he can come scrape you off the ground." Buck goes to walk out 'n Dallas snags a hand around his wrist quick as quick.

"Leave Darry out of this." Buck stops, fixes him with a stare. "I don't want him to worry or nothin'."

Well. That wasn't the answer Buck had expected.

"Fine." He shakes Dallas' hand off 'n Dally lets it drop to the bed. "But I'm not gonna let you die in my back room. Bad for business." Dallas rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. Buck disappears into the hall, returns with a thermometer.

"I don't need that shit. I'm fine." Buck shoots him an incredulous look Dallas pointedly ignores.

"I don't really care if you think you don't need it. Either you're openin' up for it to I'll get Darry down here to open your mouth for you." Dallas scowls as Buck plays the only card in his hand. He wasn't sure what Darry Curtis had on the rabid dog that was Dallas Winston but whatever it is, does the trick. Dallas leans over 'n snatches the thermometer, shovin' it into his mouth. "Now keep it there. God knows it'll be hard since you can't ever seem to keep your mouth shut." Dallas shoots him a glare 'n he doesn't need words to convey how close he is to kickin' Buck's ass. Buck just grins.

After a long minute, Buck plucks the glass from Dallas' mouth 'n checks the readin'. He lets out a long, low whistle. "Holy shit, kid."

Dallas momentarily stops scowlin' 'n Buck swears he hasn't seen the vulnerable look on his face since Dallas was fourteen 'n rollin' into Tusla with an accent so strong you couldn't understand a damn thing he said and the hunted look of someone much, much older.

"I think you're out for the count, kid." Dallas is still so focused on the red line he forgets to be agitated with Buck for callin' him a kid. Buck puts one hand on his chest 'n pushes him back down to the pillows.

"What does it say?" Dallas puts up a decent, three-second fight before he goes white 'n grabs for the bucket. Buck worries his lip, runs a hand up the kid's back.

"Says you're sick, dumbass." Buck sighs, stands up once Dallas shoulders stop shakin'.

"Don't go." Dallas' hand snakes out again, this time fingers diggin' deep into Buck's wrist. He freezes, takes in Dallas' gaunt face, his sudden desperation.

"I'm not goin'. I'm gettin' you a glass of water since you've been yackin' nothin' since yesterday." Dallas hesitates a moment 'n Buck doesn't try to pry his fingers off.

"Fine. But don't you dare come back here with medicine. I won't take none of that nasty shit." Buck rolls his eyes and crosses back to the door.

"You'll take whatever I want you to so I don't have to have the cops carry your skinny ass out of here in a body bag." Buck pretends he doesn't see the middle finger Dallas throws as he leaves the room.

When he comes back the kid is suddenly much more subdued than he was when Buck left. Buck deposits the shot glass of cold syrup and water on the nightstand.

"What is it, kid?" Dallas leans back against the wall, pulls his knees up to his chest.

"Buck, am I gonna die?" And the question jars Buck so hard he chokes on whatever he was gonna say.

"Are you gonna what?" Dallas turns the full force of his cold, ice eyes to Buck.

"Die." He deadpans.

"What the hell made you think some little cold is gonna knock off the unkillable Dallas Winston?" Buck smooths a strand of white blonde hair from his forehead. He knows he must really be feelin' whatever bug he's caught when he doesn't fight it at all.

"I dunno. I don't get sick. Last time was... New York." He trails off, buries his head down in his knees. He doesn't need to clarify what he means.

"Yeah, well." Buck picks up the glass, forces it into Dally's hands. "This time you got people lookin' out for you. Ain't no stupid bug gonna kill you, kid."

Dallas takes the cup, swallows a tentative sip. "I guess."

"Look. You're tired. You're half delirious if the nonsense you're spittin' says anythin'. Just try to go to sleep. You'll wake up feelin' better." Buck takes the water, swaps it for the shot glass of medicine. Dallas knocks it back like he shoots vodka- makin' a face 'n then pretendin' he enjoyed it.

He eases Dallas back onto the bed, decides fuck it, the kid was as much Darry's problem as he'd once been Buck's. A million years ago. He'd call him once he got the kid down.

Dallas' eyes flicker shut, blonde lashes fannin' across his cheeks. Buck smooths his hair back one final time, pulls the blanket up 'n over him.

He's nearly out of the room when he hears Dalla's hoarse mutter. "What is it, kid?"

"Thanks, Buck. For everythin'." Buck isn't sappy or nothin' 'n if you asked he'd swear he had no idea what you were dreamin' up. But if he wipes a tear off his cheek as he pulls the door closed, well, it was deserved. He had a soft spot in his heart for that stupid kid. Sue him.

#AH!#ive never written a sicfic before!!#this was fun!!#tormenting my rat son by giving him ppl who care about him #(hes fine he doesnt need that)#(hes a liar)#hope you enjoyed!!!#cw vomit #cw throwing up #sickfic #dallas winston #buck merrill #the outsiders #darry curtis #my writing #writers on tumblr

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