Archive of Our Own ^beta

After the secret breaks out over them, everything changes, and yet nothing changes at all.

Johnny still wakes up, gets breakfast, goes to his job, comes home. He still reads books about convicts, about space loneliness, about what to do. He also starts to drink beers that have long sat dormant in his icebox, he starts to think about all the years that Dallas had been gone, he starts to consider that maybe he's lost the man he's loved since he was ten years old to something inanimate, something that could never think, something that could never really replace human life, yet inexplicably had.

He doesn't know what else to do with himself for the first weeks. All he can do is go on autopilot, going to work, picking up the basic needs he had, and going back to a home that doesn't feel like a home.

When they had first moved into this place, it had been the ideal home. It had been on sale for almost half the price of other places, it had been tucked into a place in New Tulsa that he'd never dreamed he could afford. Dallas had been so excited to go there with him: he'd placed magazine cut outs together on their little icebox, he had pretty much resorted to just eating butter sandwiches to save on money, and he'd even gone to strip parts to sell them for every nickel and dime they needed to afford it.

The luxury homes had been abandoned by the rich, and being able to get even one unit was a miracle. Johnny had thought when they'd turned the lights on, when they had looked at the beautiful carpets, when they'd even engaged with the little mechanical pieces of the house. Pieces that they'd disabled as soon as they could — they weren't rich, and those things couldn't replace real people.

Dallas had made fun of it until Johnny had laughed.

He'd felt in love then, happy.

Right now, though, the man sitting across from him at breakfast is a stranger wearing Dallas' face. A stranger who Johnny doesn't know if he hates, if he loves, if he wants to transform back into the man he knew, if he wants to even look at in the first place.

He doesn't know anymore. The world has turned on its head in a way that he'd never expected and now, he needs a beer to sleep, a beer to think about the words Dallas had said, a beer to just get through the day.

Dallas never says more about what happened. He keeps his mouth shut, pantomimes the ritual of what they were: he cleans up behind Johnny, he gets the bills together, he asks about his day.

It's just a performance, though, they both know it. If it weren't one, Johnny wouldn't feel sick whenever he reaches out to Dallas' hand on reflex and Dallas seems to have forgotten what to do when his hand touches his; if it weren't one, he wouldn't be lingering outside of the shower door when Dallas climbs in, turns the water on and stands there for minutes, for hours; if it weren't one, Johnny wouldn't feel like he has to lie whenever Angela calls or Two-Bit sees him at the bar or when the therapist assigned to him checks in on him.

How can he tell her that all the work he'd done to get Dallas home was in vain? How can he tell her that even if he doesn't say it, Dallas wants to go back, wants to leave him for that awful, wet asteroid? How can he tell her that he no longer feels as if he's enough?

All he can do is watch Dallas, pick out the changes now that there are no more secrets between them: the fact that he openly looks forward to rainy days whenever the report predicts them, how genuinely happy he seems to get when rain lashes down on them; the tender look on his face whenever he sees rain jackets when they pass by them in an attempt to shop together, how his eyes linger on a the traditionally colored yellow ones and that he buys one, yet never wears it; the look on his face when he sees androids now, the stormy look he gets if someone's rude to one or if someone seems to treat them they way should be. Now, he holds contempt in his face the same way he would if someone would be cruel to Johnny or maybe a dog. It startles him, how much it overtakes his face, his scent rising, his teeth bared.

More than that, the formerly closed door to his studio is kept ajar sometimes. Johnny catches snatches of sounds, some of them old Elvis Presley sounds being played, sometimes an old cartoon of Jack Frost playing that Johnny hardly recognizes, sometimes it's just sounds of rainfall being played while it shines outside. The few times he dares to actually peer inside, there's a riot of color there, figures twisted and tangled up in each other, jagged lines that suggest a face.

Every time, his heart thunders in his chest, everytime he feels as if the floor will swallow him whole, everytime he turns away and leaves, like a coward, hands shaking until he finds himself in front of the ice box again, reaching forward for another beer can.

The bed is no better — more often than not, he sleeps and wakes alone with no indent, no warmth beside him. The rare times it happens, Dallas sleeps on top of the covers, turned away, his arms wrapped around a pillow. He can tell that he's tried to give some affection from the ruffle of his hair or from the way the blankets are made up around him and yet, every time, it's clear Dallas can't bring himself to do it.

For the first time, sex is important in their relationship. Before, it had always been almost at the bottom of the rung for them, impeded by Johnny's aversion after his parents had done almost everything to beat love and affection out of him. There had been times when things had almost happened, and he'd pulled away, Dallas understanding.

Now, he craves the feeling more than he had in the years Dallas had been gone. Now, he wishes Dallas could even give him a pity kiss, could cup his cheek, hold his hand, fuck him in that slow way he had sometimes when they'd gotten there. But there's none to be found – no kisses, no hand holding, barely a meeting of eyes. For once, he wants to give Dallas all those things that he'd feared, wants to show Dallas that he's someone to want, someone he did want.

But every time their skin comes into contact with each other, every time Johnny tries to kiss him, Dallas turns away or he snatches himself back or he retreats away.

Only once does Johnny lash out, half drunk, "You liked kissing a fleshlight over me? Kissing – some made up piece of silicone, wires?"

It's things they've joked about before. Things they said to themselves about Cherry Valance and her lines of dolls, about Bob Sheldon demonstrating the usefulness of their empire of synthetic beauty. That Dallas would want to prove himself, would want to kiss him, fuck him.

This Dallas though, hunched over in the kitchen, isn't that one. This Dallas is the one who bares his teeth at Johnny like an alpha on those old reels, gone crazy over an omega. "He wasn't a fleshlight. He was a real as you and me, and you say that shit to me again —"

"You'll what? Hit me like my old man?" Johnny snaps back, desperate, angry. "Like you swore you'd never do? Like you swore you loved me!"

The silence that descends on them is full of resentment, full of anger, full of hurt and all those ugly, awful things that Johnny never thought they would be. At the edge of his eyesight, he can see that there's a stack of beer cans on the table higher than what he thought they'd be. In front of him though, there's just a shadow of Dallas, and he lets the hurt out more, "You fell in love with something that wasn't real, you hide it from me and you just – you came back here, to do what? Play pretend? Fall back in love with me?" He lets out a sad, high laugh. "What was your plan, Dally? You always have one — what was it?"

He's pleading now, desperate to hear it, hear what Dallas had planned, what he wanted. Instead, Dallas' face shuts off, his emotions hiding behind his features as he stands up, grasping Johnny's elbow. "You're drunk. You need to go to bed before you say some shit that you're gonna regret."

"Did you even tell him that you loved him? You ain't never, not once told me you loved me," Johnny can't stop the words, can't stop the singular, awful hurt. "Did you, Dally? Did you tell him?" He feels Dallas pull him towards their bedroom, the place where they once shared their dreams, where they were happy, that now feels like a tomb. "Dal — tell me the truth."

Dallas just pulls him, pulls him until Johnny is stumbling, crashing into bed. He wants to know, needs to know.

But the drink is strong. It drags him into sleep.

Dallas doesn't tell Johnny the truth. He suspects that Johnny knows the truth, even if he could never divulge it to him, could never recount it.

Not when it had been so sudden, the sound of Tim's gun, the shock of seeing the white fluid staining Ponyboy's overalls and coat, the wide look on his face. How could he divulge what it had been like, seeing him stagger, fall to the ground? How could he tell Johnny that a piece of his soul had been ripping out of him when he'd cradled Ponyboy's head, and Ponyboy had said, Dallas? It hurts. What's happening?

Saying those words hadn't been a triumph, hadn't been something he'd wanted. Cradling Ponyboy, trying to think of how to help him – and knowing it was futile.

He hadn't said I love you because he wanted to. He had said it because it was all he could think to do, all he could do to reassure Ponyboy, to wipe that pained, shocked expression off of his face in his last moments as Tim's gun issued smoke, as the rain lashed against the windows, as his world shrank.

It had been real, what he'd said, what he felt. It had been worth Ponyboy giving him a lopsided, happy smile, as the lights had fluctuated, glowed, and then dimmed, as his voice wound down with, I love you too, Dally. I love you.

Johnny deserves the truth. He knows that. He owes him that as the man he had killed for, protected, took the fall for. He owes him because he had loved Johnny once, and Johnny had loved him.

He also doesn't deserve it, as Dallas goes to his studio, shutting and locking the door. He doesn't deserve to know that night after night, Dallas shuts himself in his studio, to keep away from Johnny's touch, to keep away from his anger, to keep away from the quagmire they're in now.

He doesn't deserve to know that when he curls up on his mattress, surrounded by art of Ponyboy smiling, of Ponyboy in the yellow raincoat he loved so much, of the old plants they used to plant together, of art of the Sun Domes they enjoyed so much, he dreams. He doesn't dream in black and white anymore, lacking color.

No, he dreams in full color now, in full sound. Dreams of a vast factory, like the one Cherry had him working in. Except at every place, doing every task, it's a Ponyboy. A Ponyboy in the water suits they used to dive with, sewing up a patch in one of Dallas' old sweaters, humming as he does it. A Ponyboy naked as the day he was activated, with no attachments, operating one of the factory arms to build the microchips they all needed. A Ponyboy with longer hair, dressed in his favorite pair of overalls, working a loom as fast as he can. A Ponyboy with soft breasts and short hair going over factory reports with his eyes glowing, hooked up to the main computer. A Ponyboy with a gash on his face, stapling it together, white liquid seeping out of it, the factory equipment stained with it all.

Rows and rows of Ponyboy's there, working together in tandem, filling up every inch of the floor. All of them steady with their tasks, all of them not recognizing Dallas as he walks between them like a foreman. They all allow Dallas to reposition their hands, to fix their hair, to adjust their equipment. Sometimes one will give him a sweet smile, or one will admonish him for not eating or another will express anger that he's not caring for himself.

Always, though, he knows the Ponyboy he really wants: a Ponyboy hidden among them, dressed in that yellow raincoat, drawing alone. That is the one that Dallas always finds, that always lifts his head up and gives Dallas the smile he's been waiting for, always pulls him down for a kiss.

He always says, I love you.

And in dreams, Dallas repeats it back: I love you.