it's always so fascinating and heartbreaking when a character in a story is simultaneously idolized and abused. a chosen prophet destined for martyrdom. a child prodigy forced to grow up too fast. a powerful warrior raised as nothing but a weapon. there's just something so uniquely messed up about singing someone's praises whilst destroying them.
dally is aged up in this to about 20 or so. idfk if there are drug dealers back in the 60s. nothing has happened in this, yet. i’ll play around with the idea of it. there’s not much since i planned it to be just like stupid strangers(acquaintances??) to lovers w some fluff at the end. that’s it. but, sit back and enjoy.
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TW:drugs mentioned but not taken, swearing, alcohol mentioned/used, slightly suggestive, cigarette use
word count: 1,042
og req / @let-down-and-hanging-ar0und <3
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“Same thing, huh?”
“Man, c’mon? Hey, d’you get new paper? Almost burnt my damn hand off trying to smoke one.”
“Yeah, I got something new come in, stupid. Should be better. It’ll cost you less this time, sorry.” You didn’t really mean it.
Exchanges of goods and cash. It’s the same conversation you have with him every deal. You never caught his name - his real name - but he told you to call him Winston. You were his dealer since about a few months ago. Things were casual, give the merchandise and get the money. Good flow of funds. In terms of personal life, the two of you never talked that much. No need to. I mean, you two smoked a cancer stick together once or twice, bantering and making small talk, like coworkers did. You remembered every time he looked at you. Meet ups got closer and closer together. Usually, it was every week or so. Not weird, maybe he’s got buddies that burn through it lightning speed. That or he’s just a druggie. Either way, you try not to get close to him. You try not to get close to anyone at all. You try not to get attached to him. It’s easier that way. Right. It’s what you’ve convinced yourself. You’ve lived by that. So, why the fuck are you here cradling your regular?
Late night, back of a DQ, cold draft on skin, flickering lights that only come from the burning end of a cigarette. Your cigarette. They last longer when you’re alone. The minutes ticked by painfully slow. He’s not here. He’s never late, even if he is annoying when he shows up. Which you remember is all the time.
“Where the hell is he?” You kick a piece of trash to the side, pushing your fists deep into the pockets of your leather jacket. The clatter is the only sound that echoes. You got here, busted ass trying to, for him to be a no-show. Why the hell are you even mad? It’s not like you’re missing out your meals for the week. You’re missing a talk, but nothing actually important. A heavy sigh lets out, and you flick your weed to the sidewalk. You need something to step on. It crunches under your boot. And, for a fleeting moment, you feel guilty, or maybe dumb was it. It was worth more than being stepped on. You need a drive to clear your head. You walk yourself back to the car that’s parked a few blocks away, for, y’know, safety measures. Yeah, like the cops are actively out for your arrest.
Driving around the empty streets of east side Tulsa is a good way to clear your head, hoods passing by, a rumble every so now and then, the fuzz on every corner. That’s cause it’s the same, isn’t it? It isn’t clarity, rather familiarity. You drive around absentmindedly before slowing down once you reach the quieter part, a neighborhood, all cookie cutter houses. Nothing’s special about this place.
“Dally, what the hell?” Someone calls out, peeking out the front door of one of the houses. He looks vaguely familiar. Maybe you’ve seen him roof houses. Or maybe he’s the stripper you saw at the club. You can’t tell.
“C’mon, Darry, I’m just…” he starts, rubbing his forehead lazily. Oh, so there’s your regular, and he’s clearly hungover. Your foot slams on the brake, hurls the car forward. It barely deters you, and you throw yourself out.
He’s jerked back when you grab him by the collar. “Hey. The fuck were you? Never mind, you were getting your ass boozed up. Yeah, real tuff, Winston.”
“And who are you?” Darry gives you a look that makes you clench your teeth. “Better yet, what are you to him that you can manhandle him? You’re probably some hook up of his.”
Dally rolls his eyes, prying your hand off his shirt. “Relax, man, you too Darry. He’s not a hook up, unless you wanna change that,” he grins and glances at you from the corner of his eye. Even with that expression, you know there’s something worn down about him. “He’s a friend, met him at a party.”
“Alright, fine. I believe you, Dally. Need a place to crash? Pony and Soda are asleep, so just… be quiet.”
“You know it. Blew some alcohol at Buck’s place, blacked out, and my head’s pounding like a bitch right now.”
“You can stay here. I mean, at my place. It’s not far,” you suddenly cut in. Yeah, real smooth, jackass. Why the FUCK did you say that? You could’ve left this bum here, not your place. Sure, it’s run down, it’s beat up, it’s perfect, but where you live is a house, not a home. You feel guilty, or just bad. Dallas’s is probably a disaster hungover, and you don’t want these this guy to have to deal with that. It’s not sympathy. It’s desire more like.
“Well, aren’t you feeling generous tonight?”
…
Before you fucking know it, the two of you are laying together in bed, taking turns hitting a cigarette. In the corner is your leather jacket sitting with his, mixed in with your shirts. The smell of nicotine in the air is what you try to focus on.
“Your head still hurts?” You don’t turn to your side, like he does, but your eyes meet his calmly. “I don’t drink. I wouldn’t know what a hangover feels like.”
Dally takes a deep drag from the cig, opening his mouth slowly for the smoke to do the same. “Not as much. I didn’t think it would turn out like this.” Neither did you. Nobody did, huh? But, it’s what a sensation in one’s chest, eating them out and erratic, would want. A gentle sigh pushed from your nose.
“Sleep then.”
Your arm slides over the sheets to wrap around his neck, the warmth seeping in. As you do, you take the stick from his lips. You pull it to your own. The movement draws the two of you closer. Right. No need to talk. He closes his eyes, and you know he’s not falling asleep. You do the same when you bury your free forearm there. Is it casual now?
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should i make a part 2?? idfk yet, but i tried something new with my writing. im kinda rusty cause of writers block. anyway, dm me or drop it in my ask box if you wanna request
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