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But now, as Tim stared at the skull run that he wore on his left hand, a frown on his face as his chest hurt in an unfamiliar way, he wished for just one more damn night with the loud mouthed Yankee—the seventeen year old had really made himself at home in Tim's life—and it didn't matter what they were to do, just one night would be enough for Tim; it wouldn't but he could fool himself into thinking it would be.
Tim scoffed as the nickname he'd stuck Dallas with when they were 14 and 12 came to mind, it was a stupid nickname that Dallas had detested, which only made Curly call him that even more, even after Dallas saved their lives; or maybe it was because Dallas had saved their lives, proved he cared and gave a shit about not just Tim but his twins too, and maybe Dallas let himself be called a name that he clearly didn't like because he cared about them.
