#pony n johnny cajole him into playin some time

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

WAGH!! guys. y'all know what today is. it's tidbit tuesday time again!!! (not really a tidbit I started writin' 'n got so drawn in I accidentally pretty much wrote a whole fic) (sorry!!!) (also this is a part 2 of sorts to another fic I wrote here!!) (enjoy!!)

It's a Friday night which can really only mean one thing for the Curtis household: it's alive. All seven of them clustered together. Voices risin' 'n fallin', pans clatterin' together, bodies runnin' up 'n down the hall, someone thrown to the ground, a fresh bruise where an elbows been jammed into a rib.

The TV's playin', flippin' on interval back 'n forth between two shows every commercial break. The record player's on 'n takin' up a prized 'n rare space on the couch. Soda's got his guitar pulled up in his lap, catchin' every other chord. He's already kicked both Steve 'n Two hard onto the floor for tryin' to move it (to their mutual outrage).

Darry's in the kitchen, nose stuck down into their ma's cookbook, pluggin' through a casserole that both Pony 'n Dallas had raved over last month (a hard sell, at least on Dallas' part).

Dallas is propped up on the counter, absently recountin' a fight he'd seen down at Buck's. ('N you weren't involved?) (C'mon, Darry. Have a little faith in me.) (I have a little faith. That's the problem.)

"So anyways. I'm watchin' this guy, right? Man, he was like four sticks 'n eyes. Picture Pony. Just a twig right-"

"I heard that!" Pony shouts, somehow managin' to pull his rapt attention from the Friday night cartoons to defend his honor over the sound of Two puttin' up a decent fight Johnny's world-famous poker skills 'n Soda managin' to get two whole chords right in a row.

"Guess I don't need to get your ears checked after all, huh? With all the sorry I didn't do the dishes I didn't hear you ask you've been doin' lately you had me real worried." Darry shoots back before Dallas can cut in, pinnin' a carrot to the cuttin' board 'n slicin'.

Pony grumbles but doesn't say anythin' else, distracted by Steve palmin' dial on the TV 'n switchin' it back to whatever beach flick he'd been tryin' to watch.

"So anyways. I'm watchin' this guy run his mouth 'n Jesus. Look, I'm all for a bit of talk. But at some point, it's pack it in or pack it up-"

Two wails, throws his cards on the table 'n Johnny chuckles to himself. "Jesus Christ kid. What do I owe you now? My firstborn?"

"Ah, yeah." Johnny shuffles the cards up again, twistin' them in his hands like real professional dealers did. "Somethin' like that. But I'm feelin' generous. You can keep that, Two. I'll settle for, what, the hundred bucks you're up to now?"

"Aw, damn. Must've left it in my other pants pocket." Soda howls, momentarily distracted by the prospect of a good joke. He kicks him in the spine from where Two's folded up in front of the coffee table 'n Two twists 'n grabs at his ankle, tryin' to drag him off the couch.

Soda hollers, writhin' 'n twistin' desperately away. "Not with the baby!" He clutches his guitar up to his chest, 'n Two relents with one final lungin' jab in Soda's side he wails at.

Darry rolls his eyes, dumps the carrots off the cuttin' board 'n into the mixture of meat 'n vegetables in the pan. "You were sayin', Dal?"

"Hm? OH! Yeah, so the guy gets up from the bar 'n I'm thinkin' to myself like holy fuck. He's dead meat. Ain't no way he's walkin' away from this-"

"Hey!" Pony dives on Steve, rolls 'n ends up flat on his back. "Stop changing' the fuckin' channel!"

Darry looks up, narrows his eyes 'n tries to guess whether they'll escalate or not.

"Stop actin' like a brat!" Pony lets out an indignant noise, decides to play dirty 'n reaches up to grab a fistful of Steve's hair 'n yanks.

Darry sighs, wipes his hands on the front of his apron, flips the stove on.

Soda's back to playin', hard 'n fast 'n at least two of his strings are wound too tight.

"You were sayin'?"

"If I'm a brat then you're a bitch. No actin' necessary!"

Darry groans, shakes his head in exasperation. "One sec, Dal." He disappears into the livin' room 'n Dallas can hear him manhandlin' Steve 'n Pony off of each other 'n poppin' 'em once for good measure. 'Course Dallas doesn't see 'cause he's too busy puttin' his fingers down in the casserole to fish out a piece of ground beef.

Two 'n Johnny are back to playin', Soda's finally found a good pace, catchin' most of the notes. He's still playin' a bit too hard-

"I saw that." Darry bats Dallas' hand away 'n Dal scowls at him but pulls his fingers back. "Now, finish what you were sayin'-"

There's a sharp twang 'n Soda's playin' abruptly stops. "Ow! Shit."

"What's wrong?" Dallas leans so far forward on the counter he nearly falls off 'n Darry absently puts a hand out to catch him. Soda's got his finger in his mouth, the guitar slung haphazardly down in his lap, one string snapped clean in two. "Oh, shit."

He hops off the counter deftly, crosses into the livin' room, 'n fishes in the discarded guitar case. "Anyways, Dar. So this guy, he's like four times this kid's size. No kiddin' on that either." He pulls out a coiled G string, flattens it out between his fingers. "'N I'm thinkin' ok. Man, this kid's gonna get creamed. Like pounded into the fuckin' floor."

He pulls Soda's guitar off his lap, props himself up on the arm since the records player's still skippin' 'n spinnin' on the couch cushion beside Soda.

"'N Buck comes out from behind the bar, like he's gonna do anythin' to stop the guy, right." Dallas idly unstrings the snapped G, nimble fingers pullin' the bridge pin out 'n tossin' the discarded end at Soda who catches it easily. "But naw, man. This kid, I swear I ain't never seen someone knock out a guy like that. Shit." He lets out a long, low whistle, winds the new string in.

He pauses, plucks at it til he finds the sound he wants, nods self satisifed, 'n sweeps it back into Soda's hands. "Jesus, man. It was crazy." When he looks up Soda's starin' at him, that shit-eatin' grin that tells Dallas' he's made a mistake somewhere painted across his face. "What?"

He twists 'catches Darry lookin' back at him with a raised eyebrow like he's let somethin' slip he hadn't meant to. "What?"

Two, Steve, Pony, 'n Johnny are all starin' at him, mouths gapin', arguments 'n games forgotten 'n Dallas' sinkin' concern is startin' to bleed into irritation. "Will y'all stop lookin' at me like dead fish 'n tell me what."

Pony blinks at him, once, twice. "Dallas. Can you play the fuckin' guitar?"

Oh. Well. Shit.

There's a brief pause. A second where no one says anythin'. 'N then Soda howls, gigglin' so hard he grabs for his side 'n dissolves. Darry snorts, turns his head 'n disappears back into the kitchen when Dallas glares at him.

"Well, Dal." Soda composes himself. Blinks at Dallas with big, stupid eyes. "Guess the cat's outta the bag!" 'N it takes every goddamn thing in Dallas to not pick that stupid fuckin' guitar right up 'n crack it over Sodapop Curtis' dumbass fuckin' head.