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Dally’s drunk, he knows that much.
Buck’s bar blurs before him in a mob of color and sound—Hank Williams playing somewhere in the distance, the clink of glass against glass, slurred cheers over games of poker and pool. Familiar, but it’s getting to be around the time that even he calls it quits.
Even so, he stays rooted in place, grabbing the sturdy wood of the bar for purchase as his feet sway slightly under him. He can almost hear Tim Shepard jeering at him, something about not being able to take his liquor, talking just to be saying something because he knows he’s full of shit.
Dally snorts, then, and takes another sip.
Across the bar, something like five empty seats down now that people are growing tired of standing still, he spots Soda chatting up some broad who’s hanging onto his every word, his lips forming responses Dally can’t even pretend to decode from where he’s standing. The dim, hazy red light bathing the room casts shadows so deep people can’t see who they’re taking home, but he knows he’d recognize Soda’s face anywhere regardless.
Soda tips his head back in a laugh, the sound just barely audible over the music, and Dally catches the shine in his eyes, his hand empty where a glass should be. Yet, Soda leans against the bar like he owns the place, watching the girl in front of him with something that looks a little too much like interest.
Sharp spikes of bile rise like darts in Dally’s throat and, like clockwork, he swallows them down, hoping like hell that he looks unaffected as he brings his drink to his lips again.
Eyes sharp over the rim of the glass, he watches them closely, the burn of the liquor doing nothing to hide the way his chest constricts. He watches the way Soda’s lips curl into a smile as the distance between the two of them shrinks, leaving nothing but an inch in between.
Tracing her fingertips over the muscle of Soda’s arm, the girl tilts her chin up and gives him a catlike smile, blithe but all too transparent—and Dally finds he can’t tear his eyes away, wondering distantly whether Soda’ll take the bait.
Dally hopes—thinks—he won’t. He’s always been smarter than people give him credit for, especially with people. But Dally’s got no way of knowing, not this time.
Not until Soda glances his way, flashing a smirk that weakens his knees so bad the fear of falling crosses his mind for the second time in one night.
Jesus, he feels like shit.
The bar feels too thick with heat all of a sudden, too full of people pressing into his space, but Dally dons the liquor like armor if only for a moment, downing the rest of the glass and letting it wrench him back into shape as he offers a casual nod back.
The next time Soda looks—if there is a next time—Dally’s gone.
He feels sharp nails digging into his shoulder like teeth, some lonely chick no doubt, trying to pull him back to the bar. But he shrugs her off easily, disappearing out the door without looking back.
The door squeaks shut behind him and the cool night air sings against his skin, a relief Dally could collapse into—if he believed in that sort of thing—from the nauseating swirl of thoughts in his head and the returning lap of dizziness against his skull.
Dally closes his eyes to block it all out, thankful for the press of a brick wall against his back that anchors him to the ground, and for the fact that Buck’s too busy to mind him during these parties—because he’s not sure he’d ever live down being caught, not like this.
He takes a breath, feeling the fog of the alcohol start to lift as the air breaches his lungs, and leans his head against the wall, looking up without seeing.
The thought of Soda emerges again, somewhere between it all, and Dally braces himself for something, his entire body tensing and all breath leaving his lungs as he feels Soda’s lips on his.
Real or imagined, he couldn’t give less of a fuck. All he knows is that Soda’s hands are tracing trails of fire along his skin, pulling him in close like he can’t bear to be more than a hair’s breadth away.
And just like that, Dally feels drunk all over again.
So he keeps his eyes closed, chasing the feeling even after it’s gone. Holding onto it, because he’s certain he’ll never get this chance again.