dallas winston hated how much he could yearn.

he could feel it trembling through him, and it felt like it was snapping his ribs, felt like acid welling up in his throat, had him half collapsed to his knees.

he could never do anything peacefully, though, could he? not even love.

you'd said that to him once- teasing, almost light, and that had damn near made him jump out of his skin- you'd glare at the flowers in a field, dally-, you'd said, voice all too soft for you to be speaking to him, but you were, and he'd spun it around in his head for weeks. -and they'd wilt, you know.

he'd only rolled those icy eyes of his- lucky, pony had called you, because dally wouldn't have hesitated to whip anyone else who would say that to him- only exceptions being you and johnny.

and- and, he wasn't some homosexual, or nothing like that. it just- you were-

blast it all. he desperately wished he hated you, like he hated everything else in the world- because that would have made this so much easier, because then he wouldn't have to think about all this.

he'd talked to a damn priest, for pete's sake. a confession booth. he was half-crocked, though, so he didn't figure it had a lick to do with you, even if he'd murmured something hoarse about how he felt like he was choking on air when you touched him.

the priest had told him to pray. he'd yet to clasp his hands. he wasn't all too sure that anything at all could wrench you from his mind's grip.

and anyways, he slept on your couch more often than not. more often than he slept on the curtis', at least. sometimes not your couch, if he was feeling some particular way- a way he wasn't exactly sure how to describe, but he knew it felt bad. something in his chest.

those nights he slept on your bedroom floor, half dressed only in his blue jeans and achingly vulnerable for once in his life. he was beautiful when he was asleep. if he could be beautiful at all.

tonight had been one of those nights- where his chest felt tight and he felt sick but not nothing like pneumonia, like someone was squeezing his stomach empty and all the acid had to come out through his eyes and nose and mouth, and it'd burn his brain on the way up. he never told you that was what it was like, but when did dallas winston tell you anything?

he was curled in on himself protectively, eyes shut tight in an attempt to will away the burning sensation and the quickening of his breaths, and even though your carpet made his face itch and bloom red, he was certain he was infinite more comfortable than he'd be on the couch, because you were sitting on the floor next to him.

he didn't know exactly why you were sitting on the floor. the lamp was still on, and it burned through his eyelids, but he was too tired to care, only curling further in on himself- white-blonde hair forming a sort of halo on his head, scarred chest rising and falling as rhythmically as he could manage.

and you were talking. about...something, scrounging through your drawers for what he was pretty sure was a blanket. you'd murmured something about him freezing to death on the floor like that, and he'd cussed at you when you'd lightly suggested him sleeping on the bed.

glory, he was tired. and you were so warm next to him.