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It happens by accident. They're kickin' it at the Curtises one rare afternoon that most of them have off of work. Three-quarters of the way through his beer, Dallas realizes he still has his ring on. It’s a thin gold ring on his left hand. Nothing fancy. In fact, it’s kind of cheap and scratches easily, but it’s all they could afford. There’s a reason he usually wears it on a chain, anyway. A few reasons.
He was wearin’ it around the house last night and he hadn’t bothered to take it off for work, since he was working the overnight shift and nobody there really gives a shit. Except Becky, who seems to flirt with him more when he has it on, but she's a slut anyway.
But anyway, he’d kept it on the whole night, and there was no point in takin’ it off again when he got back. He’d whip anyone who tried to get him to admit it, but he likes having it on. It reminds him he's got somethin' good to come home to. ‘Course, it’s not like he needs to whip anyone over it – no one's ever asked; pretty much anyone who matters doesn't know.
Until tonight, apparently.
He’s sitting on the couch nursing a beer when Sodapop notices. Soda is on the arm of the couch, leaning against Dally's shoulder and talking about some entitled customer he had a couple weeks back, where he got to pull the “I am the manager” card to avoid giving him a discount. Dally’s only half listening, because Sodapop smells like sweat and motor oil and bubblegum, for whatever reason, and Dallas is only human. It’s not his fault that Soda is so hot and so distracting. But that also means he doesn’t realize the conversation has moved on until it's too late.
"Are you... Married, Dal...?" Sodapop asks slowly, squinting down at his hand.
His blood turns to ice.
"Uh," he stammers, his brain going stupid in surprise, “Um.”
"Who's married?" Steve asks as he wanders in, cigarette in one hand and chicken wing in the other.
"Dallas, apparently."
He frowns. "To who?"
"Yeah," Two-Bit chimes in, leaning over and slapping Dally on the shoulder, "What unlucky broad got saddled with your sorry ass?"
"You wish you could have a piece of my ass," he retorts, rolling his eyes.
Two-Bit laughs. Steve sits down between them and takes a moment to stare hard at both items in his hand before confidently taking a bite of his cigarette, swearing, and putting it out on the couch.
Soda, on the other hand, is busy chewing his lip.
"For real, man, who is it?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowing in thought, “Do we know her?"
Johnny appears in the doorway then, two unopened cans of beer in his lap. Dally grabs one as he rolls by.
"What's goin' on?" Johnny asks, maneuvering carefully between the coffee table and the couch.
"Do you know who Dally's married to?" Two-Bit asks, kicking the coffee table back, out of his way.
"Uh," Johnny stammers, his eyes going wide. He darts a look to Dally, who grimaces. Johnny raises an eyebrow. Dally suppresses a sigh; he's gonna be hearing about this one later, that's for sure.
"Yeah, he knows," Dally decides, taking the second beer off Johnny's lap.
Johnny's second eyebrow joins his first under his bangs, but he busies himself with transferring to the couch to avoid saying anything else.
"Figures he'd know," Steve mutters.
Sodapop leans over and Dally's brain freezes again. The blond taps Johnny on the shoulder once he’s settled in between Dally and Steve.
"Who is it?” Soda asks, his tongue poking between his teeth.
"Don't bother askin' him," Two-Bit cuts in, "If anyone can keep a secret, it's Johnnycake."
"Clearly," Steve adds.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dallas huffs, but Steve ignores him.
"She live with y'all or somethin'?" Soda continues, also ignoring Dally despite being all up in his space. Traitor.
"What's it like livin' with a married couple?" Two-Bit asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Steve shakes his head. "Nah, there’s no way she lives with them, have you seen their place? No woman lives there."
"Hey!"
Johnny just laughs. "Is he wrong, man?"
Dally glares. Yeah, sure, their place is a mess, whatever; this house ain't a palace either. "Ain't my fault we got one good leg between us," he says, waving his cane.
"Ain't my fault you don't dust," Johnny shoots back.
Dallas rolls his eyes.
"I told you, Johnnycake, I'm dustin' shelves all day at work, I'm not gonna come home and –”
"Wait a minute..." Sodapop cuts in, narrowing his eyes. "It's you!" he exclaims, pointing to Johnny.
Johnny keeps his face carefully blank. “What?”
But the bastard just nods rapidly like he's finally understandin' something, looking between them. Dally feels the urge to lean away from Johnny, but that would bring him nose-to-armpit with Sodapop and he can’t – he can’t deal with that when he’s trying not to bust down the closet door.
“No, it's – it's gotta be you,” Soda says more confidently, “You’re Dally's wife! Or, uh..."
Steve tosses what’s left of his chicken wing at Sodapop. It hits him in the arm. "You dumbass, Dallas ain't a cocksucker."
“What about me?” Johnny asks indignantly, taking a swig of his beer.
Steve gives him a flat look.
He huffs and looks away, his ears turning red.
Dally tries not to snort.
“I dunno, man,” Two-Bit says thoughtfully, “if Dally was gonna suck anyone’s cock, it'd be Johnny’s.”
“Wh – what’s that supposed to mean?” He balks.
Two-Bit shrugs. Dally reaches over and smacks him in the back of the head. The fucker has the audacity to laugh.
“Hang on, how does Johnny even…” Sodapop starts, making a motion with his finger.
“Can you fuck off?” Dally growls.
"You want a demonstration?" Johnny asks. Dallas puts his arm around him.
“Oh, yeah, they’re definitely married.” Two-Bit decides.
“Is he right?” Soda asks curiously, “Are you two married?”
Dally glances at Johnny. Johnny softens, looking him up and down with a question in his eyes. He sighs. Well, whatever, it’s not like they’ve been able to decide on how to tell the gang anyway.
“Yeah,” Dally says quickly, like if he says it fast enough it won’t make him feel like his skin’s being turned inside out.
“Yeah,” Johnny agrees, smiling at Dally like he’s somebody to be proud of, “Yeah, we are.”
Choruses of “Woah!”’ and “No way!” ring around them. Dally kinda wishes he were dead.
“What are y’all yammerin’ about now?” Darry asks, his voice rough with sleep; he’s had a few overnight shifts himself lately, and has taken to sleeping in the afternoons to make up for it.
“Dally and Johnny are married,” Sodapop announces, cool as anything.
Darry’s eyes go wide.
“Uh,” he stammers, looking from Dally to Johnny and back, “To… who?”
“To each other.”
“Oh.” He shifts, suddenly unable to look at either of them. “Thats. Unexpected.”
Soda frowns, studying him. “Did you… know about this?”
His face falls. “Oh, shit, um, the iron –” he turns and nearly runs out of the room. Sodapop follows him, bewildered, limping slightly.
“Hang on, Darry–!”
Dally clenches his jaw. His husband has, what, like, two or three one-night-stands with the guy and suddenly he can’t lie for shit about it? Some friend he is. Dally’s going to beat him with his Goddamn cane.
On second thought, considering what Johnny’s told him about those one-night-stands, he’d probably like that.
Johnny squeezes his knee. Dally pinches the bridge of his nose. Normally he’d just cut his eyes to him and they’d share a look, but now he tries to school his expression. He feels like he’s on display at a fuckin’ museum or something, or on an autopsy table, like he’s been cut open and everyone can see inside him.
It doesn’t help when Steve leans over, studying him.
“That –” he points to Dally’s hand, to his battered, scratched up old ring, “Ain’t new. How long’s this been goin’ on?”
“Fuck off,” he says, just to remind himself he can still say it.
Johnny squeezes his knee again, which isn’t helping, damn it.
“Dal,” Johnny murmurs, looking at him carefully.
Fine, whatever. He scrubs his face with his hands and sighs.
“Shit, I dunno, eight years?” He glances at Johnny for confirmation.
“Nine?” Johnny guesses, making a face, “That winter it –”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, right.”
The pipes in their shit-ass apartment down on 33rd had burst in the middle of the night, and they’d stayed up ‘til 4 dumping every towel they owned on the bathroom floor to try to soak it up. When they were done, they slumped out in the hallway, where Johnny had stared up at the ceiling and murmured, “only time we clean this damn place.” Dallas, despite being shaky with exhaustion or maybe because of it, had laughed so hard his stomach hurt. He rested his head on Johnny’s wheel to collect himself, and while he was staring cross-eyed down at the spokes, he thought: yeah. Yeah, I could do this forever.
“You’ve been together since, shit, 1974?” Steve asks, flabbergasted.
Dally huffs a dry laugh.
“Man,” Johnny says, “We’ve been together since 1967.”
“What?!” Two-Bit exclaims, nearly falling over in his seat. “What – why didn’t you say somethin’?”
Dally glares. “Oh, fuck off, like you woulda taken it well?” He’s heard how he talks – how they all talk – about the guys who get caught behind the Jay’s, or, hell, about Pony’s ex-girlfriend. To hear him say that shit about – about Johnny? Yeah, no fuckin’ way.
“Point,” Two-Bit shrugs, and takes a drink.
Dallas settles back into his seat.
“Ain’t like –” he starts, glancing at Johnny, “Ain’t like it’s been easy.”
“Sure ain’t,” Johnny agrees.
Steve looks thoughtful for a moment, lighting a new cigarette and handing it to him. It’s a little sticky from the chicken wing, but, like, whatever. The hood studies his ring. “I hear that.”
Two-Bit takes a noisy slurp of beer.
“Hang on,” the big guy says, leaning forward, “What about that girlfriend Johnny’s always talkin’ about? The one who likes –”
Dally coughs, his face getting hot. Beside him, Johnny snickers.
Two-Bit lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Dal, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Literally,” Steve snorts.
“Fuck off,” he grumbles again, taking a drag.
“Is that your word of the hour, man?” Two-Bit jabs.
“Would you rather I tell you to go fuck yourself?” He asks hotly, flicking his ashes in his direction.
“Don’t need to,” the hood says with a wink, “I got people for that.”
“Hang on,” Steve cuts in, frowning, “How did Darry know…?”
Johnny’s eyes go wide this time.
Dally lets out a barking, surprised laugh.
“That’s all you, babe,” he says, slapping Johnny on the shoulder before grabbing his cane and stumbling to his feet.
“Babe?” Steve and Two-Bit say at the same time.
Dally hobbles out to the kitchen as quick as he can. His foot’s kind of asleep so it takes longer than he wants it to. When he glances back, Johnny is flipping him off over the back of the couch. He rolls his eyes, fond.
In the kitchen, Ponyboy is pouring a glass of water. He smiles when he sees him, and leans back against the sink.
“I’m happy for you,” he says softly, earnestly.
Figures this is the one time the damn kid is actually following the conversation instead of bein’ a space cadet.
“Yeah, well…” he looks away, chewing on his lip, “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Pony says, shrugs, and wanders off.
Dallas hooks his cane over the edge of the counter and grabs another beer from the fridge, then picks at the leftover rotisserie chicken for good measure. In the living room, Johnny’s telling them about some disaster date night of theirs, where the waitress kept hitting on Johnny and then three different people – including Two-Bit – interrupted their dinner trying to buy grass off of Dal. It had been one of their anniversaries. The night had ended in a fight, but Johnny’s able to spin it into something funny now.
It’s kind of insane, just… Hearing him talk about it. He feels like he’s entered the Twilight Zone. Here he is, nearly forty years old, standing in the kitchen and staring at his feet while his husband gets ribbed by their friends like Dallas is his Goddamn prom date.
That’s what the fight had been about, if he remembers right. Not being able to tell anyone that they were celebrating. That they’d had somethin’ to celebrate.
Dally spins his ring around his finger. Johnny glances over and catches his eye, smiling.
“Hang on,” Dallas says slowly, finally registering what Johnny’s telling them, “That ain’t how you said it.”