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broareweabouttoviberightnow · 3 days ago

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I was torn on the song for this one but I think I gotta go with this one >:D enjoy!!

(also taggin the wonderful @doylldonmagar) (this is the soda n dallas guitar fic!!)

Who's creepin' out from under a stairway/ callin' a name that's lighter than air

Dallas pulls a face the second he swings the door open. The Association's Windy is scratchin' on the old record player Dallas had stolen from Buck's 'n swore up 'n down to Darry he'd bought. He didn't go for their lastest album but he couldn't get away from the goddamned thing. Especially since Darry had gotten real fond of it.

Dallas leans back 'n glances at the driveway- empty. Darry's work boots aren't at the door either so Dallas figures he must still be out. He kicks off his own shoes hodge podge 'n throws his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs.

Whose bendin' down to give me a rainbow?

The record player's not where it usually is, thrown open on the kitchen counter where Darry can get to it the easiest. But it was always gettin' moved from place to place. Laundry room, bathroom sink, coffee table, back porch step.

Everyone knows its Windy-

A flat A. A sharp G. An E string wound so tight it sounds like it's about to snap. Dallas cringes hard. Jesus what the hell was that.

He sticks his head through the living room 'n Soda's splayed on the couch, record player propped on the couch cushion beside him. He's got a beat-up, busted, but still fuckin' gorgeous Gibson guitar slung over his lap. Dallas watches him for a moment more to see if he'll look up 'n when he doesn't he leans one shoulder against the door frame 'n lets out a low whistle.

"Holy fuck, Soda. Where'd you get that?" Soda jumps out of his skin, nearly jars the guitar straight onto the floor 'n they both dive for it. Soda catches it by the neck 'n hoists it back onto his knees.

"Jesus, Dally. Give a guy a warnin'. I thought you were a hood or somethin'." But he's grinnin' so Dallas just rolls his eyes 'n drops down onto the sofa beside him. Soda elbows him 'n shifts the record player down to the coffee table. "Though, I guess I wasn't wrong about the hood part."

"Yeah yeah. I dunno if you've noticed lately, but you live in a house full of hoods." Soda winks at him, splits off another toothy smile, 'n sticks his bony elbow into Dallas' ribs again.

"Exactly." Dallas bats him away 'n the guitar pitches dangerously on Soda's squirmin' lap.

"So you gonna tell me what this is about?" Dallas kicks his feet up on the table, the record player skips once 'n cues up Six Man Band which he might have been able to dig if he didn't have to hear it twice a day since the record hit the stores. He groans 'n leans over to turn it off 'n Soda kicks him.

"You can't tell anyone." Dallas raises an eyebrow 'n twists to stare at Soda over his shoulder.

"What, did you steal it? I ain't gonna tell anyone. I'm no rat." He leans over to at least change the song 'n Soda kicks his leg over Dallas' wrist.

"No, I didn't steal it. I bought it. Y'know. Not all of us are hoods." Soda howls at his own joke 'n Dallas yanks his wrist out 'n grabs the neck of the Gibson, whiskin' it away so he can properly sock Soda without riskin' the guitar. Soda giggles, cryin' out indignantly at the attack like he didn't ask for it.

"So why can't I tell anyone? Assumin' you got it by the legal means." Soda wriggles back up on the couch from where he's slid down 'n takes the Gibson back from Dallas.

"I dunno. I dunno how to play yet. I'm tryin' to figure it out still." Dallas rolls his eyes, leans back beside Soda.

"Only you would buy a guitar 'n have no goddamn clue how to play it." Soda strums absently along the strings 'n Dallas flinches. B's too sharp. "Glory Soda I don't think you have a single string in tune."

Soda shoots him a dejected look 'n a little connivin' grin. "How would you know?"

Dallas makes a lil' noncommital sound 'n reaches over, tunin' down the E, up the A. He plucks on the G until it reaches some arbitrary sound Soda doesn't hear. "Try it again."

Soda runs a thumb over the strings again 'n this time they actually sound like they're meant to. He nearly drops the guitar in surprise. "How did you do that?"

Dallas shrugs a shoulder, fiddles with one of the scratches on the fretboard, tryin' to buff it out with his fingers. "Dunno. No reason." Soda narrows his eyes, gets that look on his face he gets when he's he's schemin'.

"Tell me how you knew how to do that or I'll tell Dar about that time you got pissed off at Pony 'n stranded him at the drive-in 'n he got lost 'n we had to go find him." Dallas scowls at him, thinks seriously about crackin' that stupid guitar over his head.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would." Dallas glares at him.

"I seem to remember a certain someone ditchin' with me, Sodapop Curtis." There was no way he was goin' down for that alone. Soda wiggles his eyebrows, bites his tongue between his teeth.

"You really wanna bet your word against mine when it comes to Ol' Dar?" Dallas' scowl deepens 'n Soda keeps right on grinnin' with every tooth. He really didn't. Darry liked to think he was equally fair with all of them. 'N he was. Mostly. But goddamn if he had to play chips against any of them he wouldn't pick Soda.

"Fine. God Soda you're the worst of us sometimes." Soda sends him a wink 'n Dallas rolls his eyes but can't help his chuckle.

"Y'know you love me."

"Shut up. If you keep runnin' your mouth I ain't gonna tell you anythin'." Soda pouts cartoonishly 'n Dallas shoves him hard, sighs. "I lived in a goddamn bar, Soda. You gotta be useful somehow 'n I wasn't wipin' down no fuckin' tables."

Soda's jaw falls open into a gleeful whoop. "God Dallas," 'N Dallas knows exactly what he's about to say before he even opens his mouth, "you were the entertainment staff!"

"Oh that's it-" Dallas slides the guitar onto the coffee table 'n tackles Soda to the ground in one swift move. Soda hollers 'n dissolves into laughter, not even puttin' up a fight until he's rollin' around on the ground crackin' himself up. Dallas scowls at him, gives him one good kick in the side Soda hardly notices. "I'm not teachin' you anythin' then. You've pissed me off."

Soda snorts, tries to catch his breath 'n rolls up to his knees. "Wait, wait- I'm sorryyy. C'mon. Show me a lil'." He blinks his stupid big eyes 'n Dallas glares at him. He'd never admit it but he understood why Soda could get away with goddamn murder.

"Fine. Sit your ass down. 'N if I ever- ever- hear a word about this I'll cave your fuckin' skull in." Soda hoots 'n clambers back onto the couch. "First of all, you can't start with playin' bull like that." He points one accusin' finger at the record player, now still 'n silent, havin' reached the end of the record.

He pulls it off the turn table 'n shoves it back into its sleeve like it burned him. He fishes around under the coffee table where the rest of the records are 'n resurfaces with The Animals.

"Aw, Dal. Ain't you played that one enough?" Soda wrinkles up his nose 'n Dallas whacks him on the back of his head.

"Shut up. Look. One: it's a good fuckin' song. 'N two: it's easy. You can't start with shit like harmonies. You gotta start with simple riffs." He lines the record up, drops the needle down 'n the openin' notes of House of the Rising Sun hiss out the speakers. "Listen. A minor, C, D, F. A minor, C, E, E. Then the first one again." Soda stops complain' 'n furrows his brow, listenin' hard.

"How do you know that?" Dallas shrugs a shoulder again.

"Listen long enough." He pulls the guitar off the table 'n deftly plays along. "A minor, C, D, F, A minor, E, A minor, E."

The song spins to a close 'n Dallas hands the Gibson to Soda, showin' him where to place his fingers. "Look. I'll strum. Just play the chords." He leans over 'n restarts the song. Soda clumsily manages the first three before he hisses, pulls his fingers away.

"God this shit hurts." His fingertips are already red 'n he sticks them in his mouth like that'll help.

"Yeah, you'll get used to it." He holds his hand out so Soda can see the odd pattern of callouses along the tops of his fingers. Soda eyes him 'n grabs his wrist so he can see better.

"I always wondered where you got those." Dallas shoots him a look 'n pulls his hand back.

"God, Soda, you freak me out with the noticin' shit." Soda had a habit of always pickin' up on the things you thought he didn't 'n noticin' the traits you didn't even know you had.

Soda grins, readjusts the body 'n puts his fingers back on the board. "Guess you're not ready for me to reveal your poker tells?"

"Nah, man, you can tell me those any day."

"Hm, nah, I think I'll hold onto those. Poker's way more fun when I can tell you don't have shit." Dallas scowls but leans back in, shovin' Soda so he can get his arm around the body.

Soda bites his lip, refinds the chords. Loses them again. He stumbles through another verse 'n then lets out an aggravated huff. "I dunno what it's supposed to sound like."

Dallas stops strummin' but doesn't pull away. Instead, he fixes Soda with a stare that could pin him to the wall. "I'm gonna tell you somethin' 'n if I ever hear anythin' about it I will strangle your bum ass 'n throw you in the fuckin' river. Do you hear me?" Soda raises both eyebrows but nods fervently. "It helps if you sing."

For a moment Soda registers pure shock 'n then bites back his smile 'n nods again. "Ok. I swear to God I won't tell anyone, man. Can you...?"

Dallas sighs, squeezes his eyes shut 'n cannot believe he's about to fuckin' do this. "Alright, get you're goddamn fingers on the board." He snaps 'n Soda grins 'n jumps to move. "Ready?"

"Uh-huh." Dallas takes a deep breath 'n stares down at his hand as he starts strummin' again.

"There is a house in New Orleans/ They call the risin' sun-" Soda's head whips up 'n Dallas can see his jaw fall open from the corner of his eye. Dallas can feel the tips of his ears go all red 'n he nods pointedly back at the fretboard. "And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy."

They both lose track of how many times they play the song. Just over 'n over. Only movin' to lift the needle back to the start of the record 'n play it again. It's dark outside, Soda's fingers are cut up 'n marked 'n Dallas' throat aches. "And God, I know, I'm one."

A long, low whistle comes from the doorway 'n both Soda 'n Dallas whip their heads up, necks crackin', spines protestin'. Darry's leanin' against the door in a way that gives Dallas deja vu. "Holy shit. You boys are good." Dallas shoots up, jarrin' Soda so hard he nearly bounces off the couch. Darry grins, double takes the guitar. "Glory Soda, where did you get that?"

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