Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the Tulsa fairgrounds, drenching the rodeo arena in a golden, feverish light. Heat sizzled off the packed dirt and every breath tasted like dust and sweet hay. The air was electric with the murmur of an eager crowd; boots stomping on wooden bleachers, an announcer's muffled voice crackling over the PA, the distant bray of cattle, and the high neigh of anxious horses. Dallas Winston stood near the chutes with one boot propped on the bottom rail, smoking and rolling his shoulders and trying to ignore the sweat trickling down his back. He loved the rodeo—lived for the wild, eight-second dance on a bucking bronco—but the moments before a ride always set his nerves on edge.

The seventeen year old scanned the throng through a haze of cigarette smoke. He could see a couple of familiar faces leaning on the fence; Sodapop Curtis with his easy grin and Steve Randle gesturing excitedly as they bantered about the riders. Dally smirked despite himself; those two never missed a chance to soak in the action and he could appreciate that. Just behind them though, half hidden by Soda’s wide shoulders, the New York hood spotted another, smaller figure. With a shock of auburn hair and a determined set to his jaw, Ponyboy Curtis, Soda's kid brother, stood with arms crossed tight just on the other side of the arena.

Dallas sighed a low curse under his breath because he could hear Steve’s bitching already. Ponyboy wasn't supposed to be there. Darry said the rodeo was too rowdy, too dangerous and there was too much chance the kid would get underfoot. Soda didn’t seem worried though, throwing a smile and a quip back at his baby brother who just stood by, stubborn as ever, chin lifted in quiet defiance as if daring anyone to send him away. Dally’s jaw ticked as he pushed off the fence and strode over to the greasers, keeping his face neutral. He could respect a feisty little shit that never knew his place (had been one himself), but still…it was a bit annoying. 

"Thought big brother said no tagalongs," he muttered around his cigarette, nodding toward Pony without looking directly at him. The last thing he needed was the kid thinking Dallas wanted him there.

Soda just chuckled, shading his eyes from the sun with a hand. He looked fond, not put out. "You know Pone; tell him he can't do somethin’, he'll do it twice just to rub it in. Plus his birthday’s comin’ up, he wants to get out and have some fun."

Steve rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, an ugly snort crinkling that big nose. He hated having Pony along for almost anything they did. He huffed, "I told the runt not to come." 

Dal only grunted, his gaze shifting to Ponyboy skeptically. The kid had edged closer, trying to act casual. He was maybe a dozen paces off, pretending to study a barrel by the fence. The thirteen year old looked out of place in all the dust and commotion, his scuffed up canvas sneakers not clinking and clicking like the cowboy boots all around. His hair was dripping grease in the hot sun and the cuffs of his jeans were already caked with dirt. Still, Dally could see a spark of excitement in his gray-green eyes.

"Long as he stays behind the fence, it's fine," he conceded. He didn't have time to babysit, and he really didn’t give too much of a shit, but he spotted the way Pony’s shoulders straightened, his face going smarmy and smug. The baby greaser was pleased with himself for sticking his nose in and getting away with it and Dallas turned his face before any of them could catch the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Damned if the kid didn’t have some balls.

A crackle from the loudspeakers jolted the moment; the announcer drawled Dally’s name and number, drawing a fresh round of whoops from the crowd. Even though they were standing two feet from him, Steve and Soda hooted and hollered like all the rest, backing away from the fence to find a seat. Pony trailed behind, looking stuck between following and staying right there at the post. Dallas gave a sarcastic tip of his hat and the younger teen sneered before sculking after the others, shoulders high and tight near his pinkening ears. Dallas scoffed.

It was time. 

Jogging back to the chute, Dally pulled in a deep breath, tasting dirt and adrenaline, and swung himself up onto the waiting bronc. Beneath him, his mare tensed, a coiled spring of muscle. She was a big bay with wild eyes called Trigger for the quicksilver way she could shoot off a rider if he lost focus. Dallas tugged his hat low, secured his grip on the worn leather rein, and nodded sharp at the gatekeeper.

The gate banged open in an explosion of motion and horse and rider burst into the arena. Trigger bucked high and hard, hindquarters kicking toward the burning sky, and the crowd’s roar surged in response. Dally moved on instinct and grit. He rocked with the mare’s lurching rhythm, boots shoved deep in the stirrups and one hand clenched around the rein while the other lashed free in the air. His vision narrowed to the blur of a dark mane and the sweat flying off the horse’s neck. Each violent jolt sent a shock up his spine, rattling his bones. Dirt and hot wind whipped at his face. 

It was fucking fantastic.

Eight seconds. It was only eight seconds, but each one stretched out long and mean riding a small earthquake. The world shrank to just Dallas and the bronc; even the crowd’s hollers dimmed to a heartbeat thunder in his ears. He gritted his teeth, every muscle burning as he fought to stay in sync with the animal’s fury. Somewhere behind him a bell clanged—eight seconds done—but Dally held on a tick longer just to be sure. Just to prove he could.

Finally, he released the rein and let himself be thrown clear. The momentum sent him rolling hard across the dirt. He tucked in an elbow to avoid a stray hoof and came up on one knee, spitting filth. A pickup rider galloped over to draw Trigger away, the mare still crow-hopping and tossing her head in defiance now that her rider was off. Dal sucked in breath after breath, heart hammering. Pain sang through his legs and shoulder (he’d have a bruise or two tomorrow for sure), but he was grinning like a fool, sharp teeth flashing. The rush of it, the sheer life of it, coursed through his veins like wildfire. He felt like he could swallow the sun. 

He pushed to his feet and gave his hat a quick dust-off, raising it toward the cheering section out of habit. Over the raucous applause and the drawling announcer and the ringing in his ears, one voice cut through—high and bright. Dallas could hear Ponyboy whooping for him, hands cupped around his mouth and screaming his head off. The sound made Dally chuckle under his breath. Steve and Soda were right there with him, hollering and jumping and being general pains in the ass, but Pony was still the loudest. The older teen felt a swell of pride he wasn’t expecting—pride that their youngest gang member was able to see this, to see him . He smothered it down and tried to look nonchalant as he limped out of the arena, already craving a Kool and a bag of ice like no one’s business. 

Back behind the chutes, after Trigger was brought in, Dally handed off his saddle and headed toward the holding pens, still riding the adrenaline high. A few fellow riders slapped him on the back as he passed, congratulating him on a hell of a show. The New York native just shrugged one shoulder in response, playing it cool, but he couldn't keep the satisfied glint out of his eyes or the cocky swing out of his step. He was loosening the grip of his riding glove when a flicker of movement caught his attention near the side fence. Soda and Steve usually came to the rodeo specifically to see him, but stayed seated for other riders out of respect and sincere interest. However, just beyond the rope that marked off the pen area, Ponyboy was slipping through where he had no business being, his skinny body sliding through unnoticed far away from the crowd and his brother. Dallas huffed in annoyance.

The kid had ducked under the tape, curiosity drawing him forward, and now was stepping cautiously along the fence line, eyes huge and bright as he took in the horses stomping in their enclosures. Dallas watched the way his eyes jumped from mount to mount, apparently looking for one horse in particular, hands shoved deep into his jean pockets. He kept walking and walking until he spotted Trigger in her pen, his sun flushed face lighting up with interest. As he stepped towards her, Dally thought, You better not.

Trigger was still tossing her head in agitation, left to cool off by her handler, so there was no one right nearby to tell Pony to back off. The mare was lathered with sweat and temper, skittish with post-ride nerves. Ponyboy edged nearer to the pen, one slow step at a time, as if approaching a skittish dog, his hands finally coming up out his pockets. He had to crane his neck back to look up at her, his already small stature looking absolutely miniscule near her thundering frame.

Too damn close , Dal thought with a rising alarm, feeling the way his face had pinched with anxiety. The kid was barely a few feet from the gate where the mare now paced, ears flattened, her muscles bunching. She was unsettled, liable to kick or bolt with no warning and Pony was raising a hand as if to stroke her heaving side.

“Hey girl,” he cooed, his voice hitting Dallas’s ear even with all the commotion of the ongoing rodeo around them. Dal wasn’t really hearing it anymore. “You Dally’s?”

The mare’s eyes spun in her skull and honestly, right up until that point Dallas hadn’t planned to do a damn thing. If Ponyboy got his fingers bit off or his chest kicked in, it was no less than he deserved. The kid wasn’t even supposed to be at the rodeo, nevermind poking around in areas that were so obviously off limits. If he’d ended up dead or a vegetable it would’ve been his own fault, but when Dallas saw Trigger toss her head back, clearly ready to rear up, he couldn’t stand to see it happen.

He whistled loud and sharp, a sound that cut through the heavy air like a knife. 

Everything stopped on a dime. Conversations nearby cut off mid-sentence. A couple of ranch hands snapped their heads around. Even Trigger paused, hoof raised in mid-step. It was the type of shrill, commanding tone that cowboys used to call in rowdy steers or that hoods used to warn others police were on the way. A whistle that said, hold up. Danger. Stop fucking around.

Ponyboy jumped bad, his whole body jerking like he’d been shocked. He stopped, hand still outstretched and whirled to face the source of the noise, eyes wide. In the time it took him to recognize who had made such a jarring sound, attention snagged, Dallas had closed the distance between them in long, angry strides. He snatched out with a calloused hand and caught Ponyboy by the upper arm, dragging him back from the unpredictable horse. 

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he barked, voice just as rough as he wanted it to be but probably still too loud to be near a bucking bronco. Trigger whinnied in her pen. “You got a death wish, kid?”

“I wasn’t gonna touch her!” the boy snapped, defensive, face flushed with indignation. Dallas’ grip on his arm was crushing, he could tell from the way the teen tried and failed to twist away. He was pissy at being manhandled and Dallas shook him, practically knocking his feet out from under him in the dust.

“You idiot, you were close enough to get your head kicked in! That bronc doesn’t like anyone crowding her, especially not some wide-eyed kid who doesn’t know his asshole from his elbow!”

Pony had looked stunned when Dallas first ran up on him, expressive eyes huge with fright and incredibly young. Now he was sneering, mouth twisted over his teeth in a snarl and Dally could see the fourteenth birthday on the horizon. Could hear the type of shit Soda and Darry were going to have to put up with. He shook the kid again as if in preemptive punishment -he was furious for some reason. 

The youngest Curtis brother scowled. He grouched, “I was just looking!”

“If you want to look , you do it from behind the fence,” Dal snapped back, finally tossing the boy’s arm away. He stumbled and spat a string of petty swears, but Dallas only glared at him. He could hardly see straight, he was so annoyed- didn’t even know if other people had wandered over to check what all the commotion was about. His pulse was thundering in his ears like it did after a ride and his breaths were coming in big, nostril flaring pants just like Trigger.

“This is bullshit,” Pony hissed, voice dropping low over the curse like Darry would appear and make him wash his mouth out with soap. He was angry, sure, but Dallas could see the way his chin threatened to tremble, the way his eyes were too shiny and wide. “Nothing even happened.”

“It’s about what could have happened, Pone,” the older teen groaned, rubbing a dirty hand over his dirtier face as he tried to calm the fuck down. A taste like bile was on the back of his tongue and he was realizing with mounting horror it was the taste of narrowly avoided panic.  “You can’t just wander up to a horse that riled, kid, you coulda been killed.”

Ponyboy’s defiance faltered momentarily, his petulant pouting turning to concerned consideration before shuttering off again. He rolled his eyes, ticked his jaw, shook his head and looked away; all the signs of an agitated animal. Dallas just watched him, hands on hips, and let the kid parse it out for himself. He was clearly thinking. Gray-green eyes traveled up and down the fence-line, squinted at Trigger, and swung away again to study his dirty sneakers. His arms were crossed and he was tapping his foot in a quick staccato beat, shoulders high up by his ears.

“Sorry,” he mumbled after a time, sounding like the words had been punched out of him. Dallas raised his brows expectantly. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“You spooked the horse ,” the seventeen year old corrected, exasperated when the kid just blinked at him. For a moment they stood there, the nearby clamor of the rodeo still muffled as though someone had thrown a blanket over it. Dallas’ muscles had held tense to Trigger for eight minutes, relaxed, and then tensed all over again seeing Ponyboy so close to her. His whole body ached and he could feel a headache starting to stab behind his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Pony said again.

Dallas sighed so long and loud an appaloosa two stalls down knickered with unease. He huffed, “Just stay back where it’s safe, alright? Or shit, go find Soda or something, I dunno.”

“Alright,” the kid agreed, probably reluctantly. He shrugged off and once he was a bit further away the normal buzz of the rodeo gradually seeped back in—like a radio clicked on after sudden silence. Dally forced himself to move, clenching and unclenching his hands as he headed in the opposite direction. His fingers still shook slightly, an echo of adrenaline he tried to dismiss. There was still lots to do around the rodeo and he devoted himself to doing it rather than having to go over and explain to Sodapop why he’d almost let his little brother get kicked into brain damage. He wanted a smoke bad. 

Minutes bled into hours and the sun dipped lower, lengthening the shadows of the grandstand across the arena. Dallas busied himself checking tack, brushing saddles and avoiding stock duties. One asshole tried to tell him to go muck stalls and the hood was sure to show the guy where he could shovel his shit. At one point Steve and Soda stopped over to say they were heading out and compliment him on a good ride. Ponyboy wasn’t with them as they sauntered off and Dal figured he’d slunk home with his tail between his legs after their little spat. He told himself he was glad.

So imagine his surprise when he looked up from taping a busted stirrup to spot the kid planted nearby, hovering just at the edge of the off-limits area. It wasn’t a wonder how he hadn’t noticed him before, Pony was being uncharacteristically still, a thoughtful furrow in his brow. He’d kept his distance but hadn’t left, as if tethered to the spot by some invisible line. Dallas only watched him out of the corner of his eye, never shooting him a direct look again as he worked and watched the other riders. Every time Dally glanced over his shoulder, he found Ponyboy. The younger teen’s eyes rarely left him, shining with a mix of regretful embarrassment and an unmistakable admiration that made Dal’s skin feel tight. He tried to act like he didn’t notice, but it was no use; he was acutely aware of Ponyboy’s presence, the kid’s gaze warm like sunburn on his skin.

When the sun was almost gone Dallas risked a glance under the brim of his hat. Pony had propped his elbows on the top rail of the fence now, leaning forward slightly whenever Dally moved farther away, as if ready to follow him. The thirteen year old’s face was streaked with dust and sweat had plastered a few stray hairs to his forehead. He looked younger than he usually did hanging out with the gang—eyes wide and earnest, his earlier bravado drained by the heat and the scare. Dally frowned, wondered where the kid found the nerve, and swore under his breath. 

When he blinked he saw Pony standing by that wild horse, a spark of something he hadn’t felt in ages striking up his spine like a match. Fear? Worry? Dallas wasn’t sure. He wasn’t afraid of anything, he didn’t worry about anything (except maybe Johnny, but this felt different). The uncertainty of the emotion made Dally’s throat constrict around a feeling almost like panic, but stranger. He didn’t fully understand it and he hated not understanding things. He finished his chores in a huff.

When the crowd was gone and Dallas had a healthy stack of bills in his hand he glanced over and Ponyboy was still there. He caught Dally looking and perked up, gray-green eyes expectant and the older teen slouched over. Sunset casting the sky in vibrant gold and yellow hues behind Pony’s head, Dallas allowed himself a half-second to really see the kid standing there—alive, safe, and stubborn as ever. The kid offered a tentative  grin, all lopsided and hopeful and it made Dallas sigh. He nodded once and plucked his hat off his head just to fling it in the kid’s face.

“C’mon,” he drawled, trying to keep his tone casual. “Let's go find some trouble.”

Ponyboy brightened and scrambled under the fence without hesitation, hurrying to Dally’s side. He shoved the hat onto his own head like he was playing dress up or something and the eagerness of his gate was impossible to miss. Side by side, they fell into an easy stride toward the street with the younger teen matching Dally’s pace. He chattered softly about how impressive the ride had been, how he’d never seen anything like it. Dallas only responded with a grunt or the occasional short answer, but inside he felt something warm unfurl; a cautious contentment. The hood raked a hand through his hair and stole one more glance at Ponyboy trotting beside him. Pony looked at him a little differently now, and Dally supposed he was doing the same. The orange sun was melting into the horizon, bathing the fairgrounds in a hazy amber glow. As they walked on into the evening, the sounds of the rodeo fading behind them, Dallas got the unsettling sense that something fundamental had shifted.

Chapter Text

It was a sweltering afternoon behind Buck Merrill’s place, the sun pouring over the backyard in a blinding haze. It was a day so hot not even bugs were buzzing, the area was dead quiet, everyone lying prone somewhere indoors hungry for just a shred of cool. Dallas lounged shirtless in one of Buck’s busted old lawn chairs, just barely in the shade of the ramshackle house as the afternoon drew nearer and shadows started to shorten. Sweat trickled slowly down his bare shoulders in the relentless heat, but he still kept a weed dangling between his lips, its smoke curling upward in ghostly ribbons. An old transistor radio sat off to his right, sputtering static and half of an Elvis tune that warbled in and out. In the distance, beyond the fence, the low rumble of traffic on Tulsa’s roads hummed like lazy thunder, almost drowned by the crackle of the radio.

"I've searched and I've searched-
But I couldn't find
No way on earth-
To gain peace of mind."

Dally took a drag on his cigarette and squinted across the yard. Near the crooked back fence, huddled close to the only tree big enough to offer shade, Ponyboy Curtis and Johnny Cade were killing time. Johnny sat propped against the fence post, arms around his knees, while Ponyboy sprawled in the dirt beside him. The two younger greasers were talking in low voices, heads close as if sharing secrets with the weeds. Pony had a stick in hand and was idly scratching lines into the dry earth, sketching shapes or letters that Dal couldn’t make out from where he sprawled. Every so often Pony would swipe sweat off his face, pushing his shaggy hair off his forehead in the process. It was longer now, the ends curling at his nape. He looked relaxed, completely absorbed in whatever quiet conversation they were having.

For a moment, Dally found himself just watching Ponyboy, the way the heat haze distorted the kid’s face and turned his grey-green eyes hazel without him even knowing it. Since the rodeo, the baby greaser had been hanging around Dallas more. Giving Steve a much appreciated break from his obnoxious tagging along, now Ponyboy could usually be found not too far from wherever Dal was. If the New York hood went strolling through the DX, Pony was two aisles away, pocketing candy bars and bottles of pop. If Dallas took a step out at the diner to have a smoke, the kid was there bumming one off him. If Dally wanted to spend the hottest day of the year sunbathing outside Buck Merrill’s place, Ponyboy would be there in his own patch of shade doodling with Johnny.

Pony’s faded T-shirt clung to his back damply, the fabric stained with a patch of dust where he’d been lying down. There was a smudge of dirt on one of his knees and a stray blade of dry grass caught in his hair. He was just a kid messing around on a summer afternoon, but that he’d decided he wanted to mess around in Dallas’ vicinity made the older teen frown thoughtfully, smoke billowing from his nose like a discontented dragon. Ponyboy had always been the tagalong little brother of the gang, the book-smart kid with big eyes and Dally had always seen him as just that: a bit naive, needing looking after. Now though, watching the younger teen draw aimless patterns in the dirt, Dallas noticed things he hadn’t before. The kid was growing up; there was a lean definition to Pony’s arms as he moved, and a calm confidence in how he held himself. His fourteenth birthday had passed just a week before, marked by a rowdy trip to the diner with the whole gang, and suddenly his presence could be felt, even from a distance. 

A burst of static from the radio jolted Dal from his thoughts. Elvis’s smooth crooning voice dissolved into crackling noise before clearing up to a jarring shout of “ Stop! In the name of love- Before you break my heart! ” and Dallas groaned. Comfortable or not, the lousy song started to grate on his nerves almost immediately. He figured Buck must’ve left the thing tuned to one of those stations that played nothing but radio hits and love songs – the kind of sappy shit that set Dally’s teeth on edge. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, sweat pooling at his clavicle as he glanced around. The old milk crate with the radio on it was just out of reach, half out of the shadow of the house, and the New York native felt too baked to get up and go to it. Still, The Supremes were hollering at him to ‘ think it over’ and he didn’t believe he’d make it through the whole song with his sanity still intact.

“I've known of your
Your secluded nights
I've even seen her
Maybe once or twice”

Dallas’ mind and gaze wandered back to the fourteen year old across the yard once more and an interesting idea came into the greaser’s head. Pony was laughing at something Johnny had said, his flushed face split on a cheesy grin as his shoulders shook. Dal watched him for a time, fingers twitching and tapping along the arms of the lounger until he let out a short, crisp whistle that zipped over the grass and split the thick afternoon quiet.

Across the yard Johnny’s head perked up, his dark eyes darting over to Dallas, puzzled. Ponyboy froze, the stick in his hand stilling mid-line, but he didn’t look over. Dally noted the way the kid’s shoulders went a bit stiff and the soft curve of his jaw sharpened like he was grinding his teeth. He saw Johnny saying something to him, the older teen’s brow creased with concern, but couldn’t hear how Pony responded. After another beat, he finally turned to look over his shoulder toward the porch, gray-green eyes squinted at Dal. Chest suddenly feeling puffed and proud, the hood didn’t say a word – just met Ponyboy’s questioning gaze and crooked his finger in an indolent ‘come here’ gesture, a faint smirk on his lips. 

For a second Ponyboy resisted, whipping back around and trading a quick exchange with Johnny. In that pause the staticky radio continued to chitter and a distant truck engine growled along the roadway. A bead of sweat slipped down Dally’s temple as he waited. The heat pressed down on everything, amplifying the silence between the whistle and Pony’s response. At last, the kid pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his jeans. He didn’t rush over, there was actually a hint of youthful defiance in the unhurried way he moved that made Dallas smirk sharply. The fourteen year old wandered closer, wiping more sweat off his face and neck and kicking up little puffs of dust with his worn sneakers. When he crossed the no-mans-land of blazing sun and no shade, his skin glowed a dusty gold and his hair was varnished copper. Dal had to blink the shine out of his eyes as the baby greaser came right up on him.

“You hollerin’ for me, Dal?” he asked. His tone was casual enough, but there was a spark of curiosity in his gaze. His large eyes flicked across Dallas’ bare chest, over to the radio, and back again. 

Feeling hotter than he had been just a moment ago (which was saying something since he’d felt hot as hell), the New York native leaned his head toward the old radio. He complained, “This station’s drivin’ me nuts. Fix the dial, will ya?”

Ponyboy nodded gamely and dropped to a crouch beside the transistor, so close that Dally could see a faint sheen of sweat along the back of his neck. He bounced a bit trying to balance himself, his lean runner’s legs bent up under him, and Dal felt a strange little jolt travel up his back. A spark of awareness that made him focus a touch too intently on the side of Pony’s face. Up close like this, Ponyboy seemed different. The kid had a few new freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and one just below his left ear that Dallas had never noticed before. The seventeen year old found himself staring at that tiny freckle at a loss for why it fascinated him right now. He forced his attention back to the radio as the song finally switched, frowning at the strange tightness in his chest.

The younger teen fiddled with the dial, fingers nimble and head cocked as if he was listening closely. A burst of high-pitched static whined from the speaker and then the tuning needle slipped past a Beatles song – a bright chorus of “Help!I need somebody–!” which dissolved as quickly as it came. Dally grimaced and Pony snorted in agreement when he caught it. The next station came through more clearly, a deep bass line thumping in a slow, sultry rhythm; a man’s smoky voice crooning about a house in New Orleans. The new tune rolled out low and gritty, filling the air between them. Ponyboy glanced up at Dallas for approval.

“That’s more like it,” he said with a single satisfied nod. His voice had dropped a bit, losing the edge it held a minute ago. 

Smiling, Ponyboy eased back from the radio, coming to sit down with his back leaned against Dal’s lounge chair. He bent his knees up towards his chest, finally pulling all the way out of the sun, and sighed. For a time, neither of them spoke, just listened as the music floated around them mingling with the distant sound of Tulsa on a hot afternoon. The shade felt almost comfortable now and Dallas took another slow drag of his weed before he offered it to Pony, arm reaching over his shoulder. The kid took it without hesitation, sucking a fat cloud of smoke into his chest with visible satisfaction. The older teen left his hand stretched out, thumb practically brushing Pony’s chin, and let himself relax. 

“And the only thing a gambler needs
Is a suitcase and a trunk
And the only time he's satisfied
Is when he's a drunk”

In the relative quiet an unspoken current hung in the air. Dallas had closed his eyes but even behind his lids he felt like he could see Ponyboy there beside him, the way you could see light when you were sleeping. He could smell the kid’s sweat, feel the way he shifted to rest his far arm along the lounger, his elbow bumping Dally’s knee. His own hand still hovered just in front of Pony’s face and he could feel the younger boy's short puffs of breath against his palm. When the cigarette was pressed back into his fingers, the hood nearly dropped it, his mind racing somewhere far off and unfamiliar. Realistically, he knew he and the kid were just hanging out, staying cool together with Johnny, but it felt like more. When he peaked beneath his lashes for a moment he could spy a damp lock of Pony’s hair stuck to his neck and thought about flicking it away. He closed his eyes again.

Ponyboy at least seemed like his mind was elsewhere too. He wasn’t chattering the way he might with Two-Bit or Soda on a lazy afternoon. Instead he sat quiet and maybe contemplative, passing the weed back and forth with Dal until it was gone. He didn’t wander back over to Johnny or ask to go do something or complain about the heat and Dallas was relieved to be spared all that bullshit. He wasn’t in the mood for dicking around and frankly it was too hot for it anyhow. The day stretched out long and hazy ahead of them and it’d be better to save energy now to use after the sun was gone. 

Finally, after what felt like a long, loaded silence, Dal cleared his throat. He squinted his eyes open again and found a gray-green gaze already fixed on him curiously. Ponyboy had his head twisted around to look over his shoulder at Dallas, leaned back against the lounge chair so his damp hair brushed the thigh of the hood’s jeans. From this angle Dally could’ve flexed his fingers and grabbed the kid by the throat. He huffed, rolling his shoulders in unearned agitation and wishing he had another smoke. When he spoke his voice was gruff to cover the unusual hesitation in it.

“Listen, kid,” he began, not quite sure what he meant to say until it was already coming out. His tone came lower and calmer than when he’d called Pony over. “Next time I whistle, you come quicker.” 

Dallas tried to make it sound like a casual order, the kind of thing he’d toss off to anyone in their outfit with a smirk. But even to his own ears the words carried a hint of something heavier – an importance he hadn’t intended. He turned his head to meet Pony’s eyes as he finished speaking, searching for a reaction. The kid blinked in surprise at the directive, his expression openly wondering. His lips parted like he might argue for a second, but then snapped closed as if he’d thought better of it. Dallas tried to school his expression into anything that wasn’t a leer or a sneer and he really wasn’t sure how he looked, but however he did, Ponyboy responded to it.

“Okay, Dal,” he replied quietly. There was a flicker of confusion in the younger teen’s eyes, like he wasn’t sure why the request even mattered. Still, he agreed without any smart remark or pushback and Dallas felt a displaced sense of pride expand in his chest. He held Ponyboy’s gaze for a moment longer, the boy’s face flush with heat and maybe embarrassment, and he actually smiled. He was hot again, fucking scorching, and he dropped his head back onto the lounger with a sigh that collapsed his chest. He heard Pony chuckle. 

“Good,” he murmured, almost under his breath. The tension that had been secretly building between them ebbed away and Dallas could breathe easier.

Across the yard Johnny busied himself plucking blades of grass out with his dirty hands and Ponyboy watched him, slight frame thrumming with a new energy that Dal could feel vibrating back to him. It made him feel giddy, like when he was riding high on a solid buzz or the back of a bucking bronco. He snickered to himself, reaching out to pinch Pony’s cheek probably harder than he needed to. He shook the kid’s head around and snorted, “Get outta here, you little shit.”

“Ow ! Dally!” Pony bitched, swatting him away. The venom in his voice didn’t match his grin and Dallas mirrored it back at him, sharper and bigger.

“Go play with Johnny,” the older teen dismissed, adjusting to sprawl back out and catch some shut eye before the shade was totally gone. “We can go find the others when it’s not so fuckin’ hot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’,” the kid grouched, dragging himself to his feet to go putzing back to the fenceline with his friend. The sun on his back, Dal considered whistling again just to mess with him, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. Pony needed to take him seriously and come when called and he wouldn’t if Dally pissed him off too much.

Under the shade of Buck’s house, Dallas settled back into an easy silence. The Animals were off the radio and now The Stones were complaining about not being able to get no satisfaction. Reaching into his pocket, Dally lit a fresh cigarette, more out of habit than need, and listened to Pony and Johnny fall back into easy conversation, their laughter lighting up the bright afternoon even more. The atmosphere was calm again, but not quite the same as before. Dallas could feel the difference in his awareness of Ponyboy a few yards off now, his presence a beacon on the edge of the New Yorker’s fading awareness. He hadn’t realized it until just then that some part of him had been testing Pony with that whistle; seeing if the kid would trust and listen and come when called. The fact that he had, even with a touch of attitude, left Dal feeling smug, his mouth curved around his weed in an ugly smirk. He was more pleased than he had any right to be.

The hood ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled smoke slowly, watching it drift. Ponyboy was near, a fact that suddenly made his pulse thump, and the sun would be gone in a few hours opening up the night to endless possibilities. Dallas felt a similar pleasure to that day at the rodeo when he’d whistled at Pony the first time; something warm and lasting. The three of them remained together in the smothering summer stillness, each absorbed in their own daydreams. Dally closed his eyes against the smoke and heat, letting the music and the moment wash over him. The murmur of Pony’s voice close by lulled him, thrumming quietly in the air like the distant roll of thunder.

“When I'm drivin' in my car
And the man comes on the radio
He's tellin' me more and more
About some useless information
Supposed to drive my imagination”

Chapter Text

Dallas hadn’t planned on passing by the Curtis house really. He’d just been wandering, boots scuffing the pavement and coke going dry and stiff in his hair, fingers fumbling with a half-split match and the sticky edge of his St. Christopher medal. The night had been a bust from the moment the pretty Soc girl chucked her drink at him, ice and all. It hadn’t even been a good line he’d whispered in her ear, just filth and swagger and the kind of heat that burned up before it landed anywhere real. He didn’t care about girls like her; he cared about the way they looked at him, wide-eyed and disgusted like he was already half decayed. He cared about the way they pushed him away so he wouldn’t have to do it himself.

He hadn’t meant any of it, not sincerely, he’d just been trying to blow off some steam. The hood had felt coiled with harsh energy for weeks with nowhere to dispel it. What shocked him more than the drink down his shirt or the sting of soda in his eyes was the way Ponyboy had looked at him after. That gray-green stare narrowed and sharp -not angry exactly, but something damn close. Affronted maybe. Like he hadn’t expected Dal to be that kind of mean and it’d disappointed him.

Dallas didn’t know why that got under his skin the way it did. Maybe because he knew the words had been empty, tossed out like a smoke bomb to deflect and distract. Like if he flirted loud enough and lewd enough with someone else he wouldn't have to deal with how antsy he felt whenever Ponyboy wandered too close in his peripherals. The seventeen year old was too keyed-up to name the feeling, too raw to even know where to put it, but it buzzed under his skin constantly. Weeks of pent up heat and motion and something he didn’t want to examine too closely. It made him reckless -he’d only just gotten out of the Cooler two nights ago after starting a bar fight over nothing really.

The emotions made Dallas ugly sometimes too, but only so no one would get close enough to see the truth. Pony was always looking though and that was the fucking problem. Everywhere Dally went the kid was there, curious and conniving in a sweet adolescent way that lacked the teeth the other guys in the gang had. He wasn’t brutal and sharp-edged like Steve or slippery-slick like Two-Bit. Ponyboy Curtis had a softness to him that put Dallas on edge. He was just too observant and thoughtful and he said shit that turned the hood’s head like it was nothing. So when he’d sat firm alongside when Johnny told Dal to back off the girl, he’d listened with hardly any pushback. It wasn’t serious anyway. He didn’t want Cherry or whatever her name had been, he just wanted to prove he could still be that guy if he wanted to. 

Dallas had skulked out of the drive-in, shoulders up and attitude absolutely rotted just to wander the streets of Tulsa for hours like some bum, killing time on the way to God-knew-where. He couldn’t go back to the Nightly Double, he couldn’t hit the rodeo, and he couldn’t even go slashing tires; he’d busted his blade that morning in a bop with Tim Shepard. So the New York native just trekked the town in a criss-cross pattern through alleys and side streets, smoking down Kool after Kool. He faded in and out of shadow between the streetlights. He was cutting across a dilapidated front yard well past midnight when he spotted the house with the white door and the brick chimney. 

Dal had just barely registered that he’d subconsciously dragged himself to the front porch of his mounting headache when the door to the Curtis house smashed open with a crack like thunder, the screen ricocheting off the frame and echoing down the empty street. Out of the door flew Darry’s booming voice and a panicked looking Ponyboy. He tore across the front yard and into the street like hell was on his heels, tears shiny down his cheeks. The kid was a pale blur in the moonlight, not even noticing Dallas standing there as he turned to start running the opposite direction. 

The hood whistled without thinking, a quick, desperate noise that pierced the night and shot Pony right in the back. The fourteen year old stumbled, his body hesitating as his mind raced onward, and immediately crashed down face first to the asphalt, the sob that punched out of him audible even up the road. Dallas cursed, tossing his weed away and jogging toward the younger teen. When he reached Pony the boy was pushing himself up on scraped hands, the fall had smashed his nose, blood gushing out in spurts, and he was crying. Not stoic, tough tears, but hiccuping, snotting sobs that he couldn’t catch his breath around. His eyes were more red than anything and he blinked up at Dally like he didn’t believe he was really there.

“Dallas!?” The name was a garbled mess, half question, half accusation. Dirt smeared the kid’s front and his jeans were ripped at the knee from the tumble. Dal crouched down in front of him, leather jacket creaking from the dried soda all around his shoulders and neck.  

“Glory, kid, what the hell happened?” he asked. Pony had reopened the cut under his chin from the Socs the day before, and his nose would swell something awful, but even besides all that he had a fresh bruise blooming across his cheek. “You get jumped?”

“No!” The fourteen year old’s voice came rough and shaky, trying for bravado but landing on hurt. He stayed there on the ground, chest heaving and shoulders sloped low as he tried to get his crying under control. In the street light’s amber halo Dally could see the tears clinging to his lashes like icicles hanging from an awning. 

The seventeen year old didn’t press more right away, just kept a critical eye on the baby greaser. Bruised up and dirty, Ponyboy looked different to him -older in some ways, younger in others. His freckles were almost invisible with all the blood, tears, and shadow and it was like looking at a shitty drawing of the fourteen year old; all the light and color was left out. Pony looked hurt and confused and Dal could feel that awful energy sparking like a match up his back again. It had been bad enough when they’d caught those Soc bastards carving the kid up the morning before, but now something on their own turf (in the boy’s own house) had spooked him bad enough to hightail it into the night. It made the hood fucking furious and he had to take deep breaths through his nose to not unleash all that fury on the younger teen.

“Alright,” Dally finally said, voice low. He tried to sound calm, bored, like nothing about the scene rattled him. Like his pulse wasn’t pounding in his ears from seeing Ponyboy almost disappear. He had no doubt the wide eyed idiot would've kept running until he was gone for good and the thought made him almost dizzy with anger. “Up ya get.”

Ponyboy blinked at his outstretched hand as if unsure whether to grab it or take off again. His eyes flicked back toward his house, where the porch light suddenly clicked off, plunging the yard into darkness. The block was silent and still, as if holding its breath. Pony flinched at the snuffing of the light and looked back to Dallas. Whatever he saw on Dal’s face in that moment seemed to settle his mind because he smacked a filthy palm against Dally’s and let the older boy haul him to his feet. He was stiff and standoffish, his gaze fixed low to the ground or up the road rather than settling on the teen in front of him. 

Dallas tried and failed to catch his eye and eventually let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He felt like a bundle of exposed nerves and guessed the kid felt even worse. The night was cool and balmy and Pony shivered from the chill or adrenaline or anger or shock. Dal couldn’t be sure, but he fought the confusing urge to shrug off his own jacket and wrap it around the baby greaser. Instead, he reached out and gave Ponyboy’s chin a gentle nudge upward with a curved knuckle, forcing the younger boy to meet his eyes. Pony’s guarded, glassy stare cut right into him, but he didn’t lower his head when Dallas dropped the touch. He’d stopped his crying.

“Let’s get outta here,” Dal suggested with a roll of his shoulders, already digging around in his pocket for another weed. His pulse was jumping and his hands were shaking and he needed a fucking drink. He hoped a walk and a smoke would help calm him down.

Gravel crunched under Dally’s boots as he moved off; they couldn’t just stand there on the street all night waiting for one of the older Curtis brothers to stumble out. For a heartbeat he thought Ponyboy might stay rooted in place, the kid’s shaky breaths growing further and further away, but then he heard the soft pad of busted tennies trailing after him. Pony followed, silent and unprotesting as they walked through the neighborhood, past dark houses and parked cars that glowed dull under the flickering street lamps. For a long time neither said a word, the only sounds their footsteps—Dallas’ sure, measured stride and Ponyboy’s lighter steps hurrying after every few paces so he wouldn’t fall behind. 

In the silence, Dal’s senses sharpened. He noticed the way Pony’s breath was still uneven, how he sniffed hard every so often like he was fighting the urge to cry again. He thought about slinging an arm over the kid’s shoulder, jostling him around to show him shit wasn’t so grim, but he resisted. Dallas Winston wasn’t known for affectionate gestures and he figured the boy might spook if he overdid it. So he kept his hands shoved in his own pockets and stayed alert, eyes scanning the road and ears perked incase anyone came looking for trouble.

A block passed. Then another. They shared a cigarette back and forth between them until it was gone and then Dally lit another and felt his temper begin to taper off. The silence between them was heavy with something unspoken. Finally, Ponyboy’s voice came out small in the dark, “He hit me.” 

Dallas exhaled smoke through his nose on a sigh. He asked, “Darry?”

Pony’s jerky nod was all at once expected and shocking. Dallas mulled over this new piece of information, tongue sliding across the sharp cut of his canines. Darry Curtis was a good guy, a fucking beast in his own right, and they all knew he would do anything for his kid brothers. He’d given up a whole life that had been shaping up to actually be pretty decent when his folks died and had been acting as a parent to Pony and Sodapop ever since. He was a hardass, Dally knew that for certain, but he never seemed like the type that could stomach putting a hand on his brothers. His father would have never done that.

“That sucks, man,” Dallas offered, cutting eyes at the fourteen year old with a sympathetic scowl. He could see the wear and tear of the night all over Pony’s face; a mix of anger and confusion and a betrayal he probably didn’t know how to put into words. The kid’s pride was hurt just as much as his cheek and Dal watched as he dashed the back of his hand over his eyes again, not fast enough to hide the fresh tears welling up.

The anger from earlier began to build again, a pot set to boil over a stovetop. Dallas liked Darry, respected him, but he’d seen flashes of that temper before, the way the oldest Curtis brother could get when fear or frustration pushed him too far. Knowing he had turned all that attitude and strength on Ponyboy lit a dangerous spark under Dally’s ribs. He had half a mind to turn right back around and show Darry what happened when a guy let his anger get the best of him, but he had Pony to consider. He had to get the kid calmed down and off the street, he could deal with his big brother later.

“He was mad, I shoulda been home earlier,” Pony explained, sniffing again as he wiped blood off his mouth. There were bags forming under his eyes. “Where’re we goin’?”

“Buck’s,” Dal replied on instinct, having never considered their destination before that moment. The hood didn’t have a plan exactly, but he knew he wasn’t about to march the younger teen back home to more yelling and he sure as hell wasn’t leaving him alone. “I got room enough for you for a night.”

Gray-green eyes bore into the side of Dallas’ head and he pretended like he didn’t mind it. Next to him Pony looked so defeated and uncertain that Dally couldn’t stand to meet his gaze,  jaw clenched. A cool wind had started to pick up, rustling the leaves of a lone elm tree along the sidewalk. They continued on through the sleeping neighborhood, heading vaguely east. The houses thinned out the farther they went, giving way to empty lots and the occasional closed storefront. A neon sign above a 24-hour diner buzzed faintly two blocks over, casting a pale pink glow against low clouds. 

Ponyboy’s breathing had evened out as they walked, and he kept pace right beside Dallas. Every so often the hood would sneak a sideways glance at the younger teen, checking that he wasn’t silently crying again or about to keel over. Each time Pony was just staring straight ahead, eyes far away, lost in his own storm of thoughts. Still, he stayed glued to Dally’s side, close enough that the sleeve of his sweatshirt brushed Dal’s arm as they moved. That simple contact felt strangely reassuring to the seventeen year old, like proof that Ponyboy was still there, still holding together.

After about twenty minutes, a low squat shape appeared at the end of the road: Buck Merrill’s place, crouched behind a dirt parking lot littered with beer bottles and tire ruts. It was a ramshackle house on the edge of town where country music and trouble tended to spend the night. At that moment though it looked like the party was either long over or never really got going. The wide front yard was empty and quiet under the moonlight, an old pickup truck sagged on deflated tires near the busted fence, and a single streetlamp at the corner cast just enough light to show the path to the door. The house was mostly dark, save for a dim orange glow seeping through the blinds of one window and the distant sound of a radio playing. Someone laughed inside, the abrupt sound cutting through the still night, then fading.

Dally paused at the edge of the lot, glancing back at Ponyboy. He threw out, “You don’t snore, do ya?”

The kid blinked, caught off guard. A confused half-smile tugged at the corner of his bruised mouth. “Wha—? No, I don’t snore.” 

“Good,” Dallas said, nodding once. “Hate to have to kick you out for keepin’ me up.” With that, the New Yorker turned on his heel and headed for the side door. He didn’t have to look back to know Ponyboy was following right on his heels, he could feel the relief coming off the kid like a wave. In fact, for the first time all night, Dallas heard the slightest huff of a laugh from the baby greaser, barely there but real. It made his usual smirk turn into a genuine, pleased grin in the darkness.

They crept around to the side entrance of Buck’s house, where the hood knew the door was usually left unlocked. Sure enough, it opened with a creak and the smell of stale cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and old aftershave rolled out to meet them, along with a wash of warmer air. Dallas stepped in first, Pony right behind. Inside, the house was cloaked in shadow. A single lamp in the front room was on, its light shaded and dim. The remnants of a party cluttered the space; empty beer bottles on the coffee table, an ashtray overflowing with butts, a couple of leather jackets thrown over a chair. 

The radio in the kitchen was on low, crackling out a slow Hank Williams tune. From down the hallway came the muffled sound of two men arguing good-naturedly over a card game, Buck’s grating laugh rising above it for a moment. But there in the living room, no one was around. Ponyboy lingered near the entrance, eyes adjusting to the low light. Dally reached over and gently pushed the door shut behind them, turning the lock with a soft click. Pony stood there uncertainly, looking small and out of place amid the debris of Buck’s wild evening. He turned big eyes on Dal, searching.

“Come on,” Dallas whispered, nodding toward the hallway. He strode on ahead in the direction of the room where he usually bedded down, hoping some drunk hadn’t rolled in there. He cast a quick glance back to make sure Pony had moved and the kid was so close behind him the seventeen year old almost jumped. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he still looked like shit.

Behind a door that Dal had kicked in more times than he could count, an empty bedroom was even quieter than the abandoned living room out front. Dallas stepped in without preamble, already starting to shrug off his sticky jacket and undo his belt. Behind him Pony’s eyes were wide, taking in the unfamiliar chaos- the cracked mirror on the wall, the pair of muddy cowboy boots kicked off in the corner, the faint haze of smoke still hanging in the air. Dal wasn’t self conscious because the room was barely his and Pony wasn’t really the judgemental type, but he noticed for the first time how threadbare Buck’s old sheets were and how he didn’t even have a proper pillow on the bed, just a stained throw he’d stolen from the couch. Empty bottles littered the floor, catching the faint sliver of moonlight through the one window and his clothes were strewn everywhere. He realized it was kind of a mess.

“It’s nice,” Pony lied, filthy hands picking at the hem of his sweatshirt. Dallas snorted derisively and began picking around, tidying little messes here and there while his guest just watched him. After a time he mumbled, “You didn’t have to do this. I mean... you were probably headin’ here to crash, not to babysit.” 

There was a bitter note of self-reproach there and it made Dally quirk his brow. He shook his head, even though Pony probably couldn’t see it well in the dark. He replied, keeping his tone light but firm, “You ain’t a baby so I ain’t sittin’ and I don’t have to do nothin’.”

“Anything,” the kid corrected lowly, tired voice a tickle on the back of Dal’s neck even across the room. He sounded marginally more at peace than he had outside. Maybe it was the relative safety of four walls, or just sheer exhaustion finally catching up to him. Dallas kept his eyes focused on the bits of trash he was collecting, but he heard the way Pony swayed on his feet.

“We can share the bed.”

“You sure?”

“I said it didn’t I?”

Dally turned and wandered back out to the living room, turning so that he didn’t catch Ponyboy in his line of sight as he went. When he got there he looked around, realized he didn’t even know if Buck had a trash can, and just let the mess drop to the floor with an amused smirk. The skinny cowboy could clean it up himself in the morning -it probably wouldn’t even stand out amongst all the other shit. Before he went stomping back up the hall, he grabbed a semi-clean rag from the kitchen and wet it under the faucet. When he got back and leaned into the bedroom door he found Pony curled up on the bed, shoes kicked off and perched right at the edge, three whole feet between his back and the wall. The springs creaked as he shifted, finding a position. He ended up on his side, facing the room, with Dallas’ ratty old blanket pulled up to his chin. His eyes were open but empty, staring at the opposite wall glazed over and Dal knew he’d pass out more than fall asleep any moment. 

The hood shucked his shirt and kicked his boots off. He’d already tossed his belt away and undid his jeans but he left the stiff uncomfortable denim on for Pony’s sake. He didn’t want to embarrass the kid any more and Christ knew sometimes he woke up with a morning stiffy that could cut diamond. Better to keep it at least partially strapped down. Plus the younger teen was still in his day clothes and fair was fair. Loping over to the bedside, he dangled the wet rag in front of Ponyboy’s face and watched as he grabbed at it in a daze. 

“Clean your face, kid,” he ordered, flopping on to the other side of the bed to punctuate his point. The old thing felt close to collapse, but it held and Dal crooked his arms behind his head, ignoring the way Pony was a hot heat all along his side. He heard the snuffling huffs as the baby greaser wiped the blood, tears, dirt, and snot off his face and muttered he could just throw the rag anywhere when he was done. 

It was quiet after that, the rest of the night yawning out before them and Dallas turned his tired thoughts around and around in his head. He was close enough to scoot over and touch Pony if he needed, but was trying not to crowd him. Every shift and sigh the kid made was amplified in the dark and when his breathing started to quiver and quake into quiet tears again Dally sighed tiredly through his nose. He wasn’t the comforting type, too street hardened and stupid to manage the energy, but Ponyboy’s devastated little whines tore at his chest and he rolled onto his side. Ignoring all the sirens blaring in his head and the heat that had been building all night, he stretched an arm out to hook around Pony’s middle and dragged the fourteen year old back into his chest.

“Dally?” he hiccuped, clearly stunned even as he continued to shake with tears. The hood rearranged them so both their heads were propped on the too tiny throw pillow and shut his eyes.

“Go to sleep, Pone,” he huffed, tucking his knees behind the smaller teen’s. He felt the stiffness in the body beside him, knew the signs to look for when he really liked a girl and they weren’t feeling the moment the way he was, but he also felt when it eased. The tenseness Pony had carried in his shoulders all night finally snapped and he allowed himself to collapse back into Dallas’ chest, seeming relieved to be allowed to cry in someone's arms. 

“I get nightmares,” he sniffled a few minutes later, his whimpers receding into the shadows. Dallas didn’t open his eyes.

“I’ll be here.”

Chapter Text

A dusty projector flickered against the giant screen of the Nightly Double drive-in, casting dancing shadows across the rows of parked cars and the small group of teenagers spread across several seats out on the grass. They took up two rows, spanned too many chairs to be polite, and laughed like every cheesy line from the film was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Two-Bit Matthews, Johnny Cade, Steve Randle, and Ponyboy and Sodapop Curtis were all out enjoying the cool night air as they half-watched the movie, mostly busying themselves with teasing each other and heckling other guests. Dallas Winston lounged in the last chair of the second row, leaned back in his seat and smoke curling slow from the corner of his mouth. He was far enough away to hear himself think, but close enough to catch a kernel of popcorn in his mouth when Two-Bit tossed it with a cackle. His mind was elsewhere, drifting in the easy chatter of his friends. He wasn’t watching his friends or the film, he was watching Ponyboy.

The kid sat quiet amongst their outfit, slim arms crossed in front of him and hair catching the silver light off the screen. He was the only one genuinely interested in watching Beach Blanket Bingo, but even still Dallas could tell their youngest gang member was distracted. All night he’d seemed a bit skittish, his arms crossed too tight, his lips pressed too thin. His gray-green eyes kept flicking over his shoulder towards Dally and the hood made no effort to disguise his own staring as something other than what it was. He’d kept an especially close eye on Ponyboy ever since spending the night with him at Buck’s two weeks prior. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for; maybe more bruises or flickers of panic. Maybe a sign that the fourteen year old needed him again the way he’d needed him that night. Either way, Dal was keeping watch and everyone could sort of tell.

It had been interesting waking up with Ponyboy next to him the morning after they’d squeezed into Dallas’ shitty old bed. Different from the usual morning scramble at Buck’s or the groggy regret of waking up alone with a hangover and no Kools. He’d been real still at first, Pony tucked in close, back to Dally’s chest, snoring lightly even though he’d said he wouldn’t. Dal had listened to the kid’s breathing, counted the rise and fall of his ribs, and tried not to think too hard about how steady it made him feel. Pony had shivered in the night, even under the blanket, so the arm Dallas had originally thrown out to pull him close had remained to keep him warm and the hood stubbornly told himself that was the only reason. 

The seventeen year old hadn’t talked about it, not to anyone (not even to Pony), but sitting there under the flash of the film, a cool breeze tickling his ears and Ponyboy’s silhouette outlined by the screen, Dallas found himself thinking about it again. He wanted the kid closer and further away all at once. He wanted to crowd him up against some car and shake him around by the collar. He wanted to tell him he could stay the night anytime and tell him to never look directly at him again. It was confusing as fuck and the New York native had been nursing a lasting headache ever since he’d had to get out of his own bed by crawling over the smaller teen. 

The headache spread from behind his eyes to up around his temples as Ponyboy glanced over for the hundredth time and finally got slowly to his feet. He made his way back to where Dallas sat in a slow, awkward shamble as if he weren’t headed in that direction, and the hood’s eyes tracked his every step. The jittery energy shaking the kid's frame slowly transferred to Dal and by the time Ponyboy came to sit beside him, he was lit up like a firecracker. His honey sweet voice greeted, “Hey, Dally.”

“Heya, Pony.”

“How you likin’ the movie?”

“S’fine,” the older teen dismissed, casting his eyes all around the lot. Watching Ponyboy from afar was one thing, but meeting those gray-green eyes up close was another. The fourteen year old hummed agreeably and settled more comfortably into his seat right beside Dal’s. The rest of the gang were spread out, one or two seats between each of them to make up for how loudly they talked, how widely they sprawled, but Pony wanted to be right up next to Dallas and that damned headache was worse than ever. He squinted in the low light, huffing out another cloud of smoke and pretending he didn’t notice when the kid’s knee came to rest against his.

Because his eyes were casting all about, Dallas noticed the Socs before they even wandered close. There were three of them, strolling too slow behind the fence line, looking for trouble like it was on sale—tall and smug, all clean collars and varsity stripes and teeth too white to be from this side of town. He recognized Bob Sheldon and Randy Anderson, two pricks from Johnny’s class that had roughed up the gang pet not too long ago, the rings on Bob’s hands glinting in the screen light. The last guy he’d never seen before, but it didn’t really matter, a Soc was a Soc as far as Dal was concerned. He watched them approach, throwing one arm wide over the back of Ponyboy’s chair without thinking. The baby greaser perked up, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks as he turned and blinked at Dally. 

“What-?”

“Keep cool,” he cut across the younger boy, hackles raising the closer the three teens traipsed. Pony followed his eyeline and Dallas felt him stiffen at the sight of them.

Bob and his flunkies sat two rows behind and four seats over, snickering and laughing and throwing condescending remarks out ahead of them. Plenty of people had already left when the greasers got too loud, but now with another group of teens, the last few stragglers wandered away with mutters and curses. Two-Bit noticed their company first and smacked a hand out to alert Steve. Awareness zipped through their group like an electric current and soon they were all turned around in their seats looking at three shit-eating grins staring right back. 

Soda leaned over his chair and they all pushed towards him. He muttered, “They seriously sit that close?”

“Those are the guys from last time,” Pony said, face washed pale in the night as he leaned around Dallas’ shoulder. “The ones that rolled up on us walkin’ the girls home.”

Dal’s jaw ticked and he sat up straighter, cigarette smoldering forgotten between his fingers. Behind them, Bob whispered something to his friends and they laughed, low and mean. Dally didn’t catch the words, but he didn’t need to, he was already burning. He dropped his arm from Ponyboy’s chair to actually wrap around the kid’s back, pulling him tight to his side. He could see the change in the fourteen year old, could feel it in the way he’d gone stiff and tense, a coil ready to spring. Dally didn’t know exactly what had happened that night with these guys, but the stress in Pony’s shoulders didn’t sit right with him. Johnny looked sick.

“Ignore ’em,” Steve scoffed, earning Two-Bits concurring nod. “They ain’t dumb enough to go three on six.”

It felt easier said than done, but they all agreed, settling back in to watch the movie, not nearly as carefree and stupid as they had been earlier. Everyone was on alert, ears perked up and waiting for a reason. In the seat in front of him, Dallas could see Johnny’s hand buried in his pocket, no doubt gripping the blade he’d started carrying ever since he got jumped. Steve was subtly rolling his shoulders and neck, stretching his muscles to warm them up. Two-bit seemed unphased, but he was chugging the beer he’d snuck in faster, probably not wanting to waste any if he ended up needing to break the bottle open. Beside him Ponyboy’s ears were flushed red and he had a look in his eye like he’d like to throw the first punch and Dallas jostled him around a bit.

“Easy, killer,” he murmured around his weed, arm still wrapped around the kid’s back. He’d spread his legs wide, making himself look bigger and badder in his seat, and now the younger teen was pressed all along his side from shoulder to thigh. “Don’t get jumpy.”

“Those guys said-”

“Hey!” a voice snapped across the rows, cutting Ponyboy off mid-sentence. Dallas saw the way gray-green eyes jerked toward the sound, but he reached up quick and firm, smacking the back of the kid’s head—not hard, just enough to redirect him. “Hey! Curtis!”

Now Sodapop was turning around too, handsome face carved into a look of shocked confusion at being singled out. Steve let out a string of curses to stop him, but his best friend didn’t listen, more looks than common sense. Both he and Pony peered two rows behind and four seats over at Bob, Randy, and the third unlucky bastard with them, already half out of their seats and ready for the reason. Soda tossed back, “What, man? Can’t you see we’re watchin’ somethin’?”

“I’m not talking to you ,” Bob said, voice slick and slow like something spilled under a car. He leaned forward, gripping the empty seat in front of him with both hands. “I’m talkin’ to Baby Curtis.”

Pony stood fully then, fast like a fight bell had rung. He brushed Dallas’ arm off and glared at the Soc as he stepped into the aisle, shoulders square and proud. The cut of his jaw and the flash in his eyes made the kid look tough and Dal had to hide a smirk behind his cigarette. He had no business liking the way the fourteen year old stood, no business noticing the way he moved, or the way the screen light caught the slope of his cheekbone. But he noticed anyway. The New York native didn’t get up or try to drag Ponyboy back as he approached the other teens, his big brother hot on his heels, none of them did. It would’ve been insulting; a hit to the greaser’s reputation. Instead he just watched, sharp and alert as the Curtis boys walked right up on the other guys, fists clenched and heads cocked. The Socs didn’t look concerned, but Dallas stayed stiff like rebar and watched closely.

“What?” Pony’s voice was cold, biting. A tone he never used with his friends or even strangers on the street. A tone that said, Don’t mess with me, buddy.

“So hostile, kid,” Bob mocked, finally standing. The guy was built heavy, thicker and buffer than any of them, but not as tall as Soda or Dallas. He had a few inches on the rest of them though, primarily Ponyboy who he was grinning down at with an annoying smirk. Dally hated how close they stood straight down to his bones. “We never got to finish our chat the other night.”

“Yeah, you ran off when your girl started cryin’,” the kid quipped without missing a beat causing a shock of laughter to fly through the group. Two-Bit howled of course and Steve snickered, but even Randy snorted a little, looking quickly at Bob when the guy scowled at him. “So what?”

Still throwing a vicious sneer sideways at his friend, Bob explained, “Promised you, Matthews, and the wimp a jumping and figured there’s no time like the present. Three on three, fair’s fair.”

“Hey now-” Sodapop moved as if to put his baby brother behind him, ready to step in on his behalf, but the fourteen year old shoved him off. Hard. Dallas sat up straighter and heard the others shift in their seats. Pony’s neck was red, ears glowing, and there was something furious and humiliated pulsing in his posture. “Pone-”

“Cut it out, Soda!” he hissed, eyes still locked on Bob and beginning to shift his weight around testily. Someone flicked open a blade, the sound of the switch flipping out punctuating Pony’s next sentence. “You want a bop, you got it.”

The air immediately got ten times thicker and everyone who’d still been sitting stood, spreading out to allow room for wide sweeping blows. Two-Bit and Johnny were making their way from the row, picking over towards Ponyboy as Sodapop kept trying to talk them all out of a brawl. Dallas hung back, tossing his Kool away and feeling Steve come to stand beside him, arms crossed. If there was going to be a fight it was going to be fair and even though the hood felt like he’d rather have his skin flayed off than not help Pony, he had to play it cool. When they were squared off, three on three, everyone froze, waiting for who would throw the first punch. Johnny was the one who had flicked his blade out, the silver glinting in his hand.

“You can’t call in your boyfriend halfway through, Curtis,” Bob said suddenly into the silence, whole body stiff with agitation and a noticeable tremble knocking his knees. Pony paused, confusion obvious in the line of his stance. His gaze flicked to Soda but Bob shook his head. “Winston can’t step in if you're gettin’ worked over.”

The words lit like a match thrown in a gas tank and Dallas had heard enough before the explosion of Pony’s anger even ignited. He didn’t think, just moved, stepping over the rows of seats rather than going around them; all heat, all motion. By the time he got two rows behind and four seats over Ponyboy was firing off, his whole form tight with agitation as he shouted up into the Socs faces. His cheeks were flushed and his voice was shaking as he spat, “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about you white trash -!”

Dallas whistled, long and piercing, a sound so loud and grating it froze the younger teen mid-sentence just like the hood had known it would. Gray-green irises snapped to him, startled and accusatory. Ponyboy’s eyes were bright, feverish in their fury, and Dal held their gaze with unflinching ire in return. He knew the kid well enough to know he’d been about to say something that would get them all messed up (maybe not that night, but sometime soon), and he wasn’t going to just stand by and let him. 

“I was talkin’!” Pony blurted, voice cracking in the middle.

Dallas didn’t back off, didn’t let the kid go any further, just stepped closer, right up into his face, jaw clenched. He wasn’t pissed at the younger teen but the rage was beginning to bubble and burst, not sure where to go just yet. It burned in his chest like kindling; at the Socs, at the way the gang looked on like this was some sort of show, at the way Pony glared at him, hurt and confused and too close to getting in real trouble. Dally sneered into that expression, feeling charred around the edges.

“Oh yeah?” he snapped out, voice cool, cutting. “Yeah? Well now I’m talkin’.”

He turned on the Soc like a blade, subtly shouldering Ponyboy back so that Bob got an eyeful of his wide frame. The Soc was thicker, but Dallas was taller and he used all that height to loom over the guy threateningly, arms crossed over his chest and tongue flicking out to wet his lips; tasting the promise of violence on the night air. Bob lost a bit of his grin and Dally knew the rest of their outfit had fanned out just behind him. It was the three on six Steve had said the other teens would be too smart to gun for and now it was staring them in the face. He smiled.

"You got somethin’ to say to me?" he asked, voice deadly quiet, electricity dancing just below his skin. 

The pricks tried to play it cool, Randy scoffing as he looked Dal up and down, but the hood didn’t miss how their weight now rested on their back feet, ready to turn and run. Bob pressed, “What’s your problem, Winston? Can't the kid speak for himself?” 

He went to cut a look back toward Ponyboy, but Dallas shifted into his eyeline. “It ain’t about the kid. I heard you say I couldn’t step into a rumble if I felt damn ready to. What’s that about?”

“Said you couldn’t save his ass,” Bob corrected, shrugging, “But I guess if you really are his boyfriend-”

Before the Soc could even finish his remark, Dal lunged. He grabbed Bob by the front of his crisp shirt and yanked him forward over the seat with enough force to knock the breath out of him. Chaos broke out instantly—Randy and the other Soc scrambling to pull Dallas off, only to freeze when Johnny flashed his knife and Two-Bit shattered a bottle on the back of a folding chair. Behind them, Sodapop cursed loud and fast, his voice rising in panic, but Dally didn’t flinch. He dragged Bob even closer, their noses nearly crushed together, holding him in a choke that was more threat than restraint.

“You listen to me, you piece of garbage,” he growled through clenched teeth. Bob clawed at his wrists, his grip useless without leverage, half-draped over the seat in front of him and wheezing like a kicked dog. “You ever get to thinkin’ you can touch that kid, I want you to remember me in your face right now tellin’ you different.”

Bob’s bravado flickered as Dallas gave him a rough shake. He snarled, “Get your hands off me, Winston!” 

He tried to sound tough but his voice shook and Dallas’ smile widened. “You want your ass kicked?” he asked cooly, “Cause you’re kinda beggin’ for it, man.”

“Jesus, Dallas, that’s enough!” Soda insisted, voice just this side of booming.

Dal kept hold, looking hard into Bob’s eye until the sack of shit finally glanced away, breaking first. Then the hood let him drop like dead weight, chair clattering over and the other two rushing to pick their friend up. The greasers stepped back in a wide arch, shoulder to shoulder, quiet now, letting the moment settle like dust. No cheers, no pats on the back, not even a joke from Two-Bit yet, just the heavy buzz of movie dialogue still droning from the screen. They watched the Socs curse and argue and pick themselves up in a huff. Bob glared at each of them in turn, an ugly bruise already painting the side of his throat, face flushed with humiliation and anger. 

Deciding not to push his luck, the Soc spat at the ground near Dally’s feet and hissed, “Crazy hood!”

He and his friends slunk away into the darkness beyond the concession stand. A heavy silence hung in the air as the greasers watched them retreat. Only after they were gone did the tension break, each of them breathing easier and standing looser. Dal thought the movie credits would be rolling soon.

“That was boring,” Two-Bit complained, the pouting lilt of his voice a relief. He pitched his bottle into the grass and gave Johnny’s shoulder a playful punch once the younger teen’s blade was safely tucked away. “Those guys were chicken-shit outta their minds.”

“That sucked,” the gang pet huffed, shoving his hands deep into his denim jacket pockets. He was white as a ghost. “Let's just get outta here.”

They all agreed and began loping off into the night, stiff and spread out like they were headed to a rumble. They’d snuck in and they snuck out, hopping the fence in pairs until they were out on the street again, vanishing into the dark like smoke. Their laughter came back in starts and bursts as the adrenaline wore off, but Dallas stayed wound tight, his fists aching with a need to punch something or someone. Ponyboy was just ahead of him, clearly still just as agitated and stomping the pavement a bit. The kid hadn’t said a thing since Dally had interrupted his argument and the hood thought the baby greaser might actually be sore with him. 

It worked his fucking nerve to think about; the fourteen year old should be glad Dal hadn’t let his mouth get him into something his ass couldn’t handle. Still, he knew how it seemed, stepping in on a guy’s fight like he couldn’t defend himself. It’d been the whole reason he hadn’t walked up to the Socs to begin with -the perceived insult to Pony’s reputation- but then he’d gone and done something even worse. Ponyboy had every right to be pissed, but the thought he’d be pissed at Dallas, the guy he’d been following around and pushing up on for weeks, set the hood’s teeth on edge. He stalked behind the younger teen, dogging his steps and ignoring the rest of the gang dicking around until he couldn’t take the silence anymore. 

“Hey,” he said, swatting the kid upside the head as he came to walk right beside him. The rest of their outfit was a ways up the road, shadows under street lamps. Ponyboy flinched and tossed a scowl at him. He mirrored it, bigger and uglier.  “What were you thinkin’ back there?” 

“What were you thinking?” Ponyboy shot back, incredulous. “That was my fight.”

Dal scoffed, dragging his knuckles across his mouth like he could scrub the heat off it. “Didn’t look like much of a fight. You were about to get in deep, kid.”

“I had it!” the younger teen insisted, voice an insulted retort even as it quavered. “I had it, Dally-!”

“You had shit.” Dallas stopped walking, brows crashing together as he frowned. He glared until Pony stopped too and just stood there for a second, hands on hips, face lit faintly by a streetlamp. “You were shakin’, Pone. You were mad, not ready- you were gonna say somethin’ stupid. I know you!”

The kid sneered at him, a stubborn set to his mouth. “So what? You whistle at me like some mutt and expect me to just roll over?”

Dallas blinked at that. Something about the tone of the accusation and the lasting edginess of the night finally got to him and he laughed—short, hard, humorless. “You did roll over.”

Ponyboy flushed red up to his hair and jerked his head back in shock. He snipped, “Yeah, well, that’s what you’re trainin’ me to do, ain’t it?”

That shut Dallas up. They stared at each other for a beat too long, the younger teen’s expression open and apprehensive, but dogged. Meanwhile, Dal felt his pulse skip weird in his chest. He hadn’t realized Ponboy had caught on to what he was doing because he hadn’t even caught on to what he was doing. The truth of the statement crackled like static electricity between and the hood huffed trying to put on an air of exasperation and knowing from the bored roll of Pony’s eyes that he’d failed.

“You’re gettin’ a little mouthy lately,” he muttered, but it lacked bite. Gray-green eyes squinted at him. The others were far away now, too far away to hear what the kid said next.

“You like it.”  

“Fuck sake, Pone,” Dallas breathed, scrubbing a hand down his face. His pulse was absolutely racing, his wrists ached with it and he felt hot and dizzy. He paced a quick circle, fisting his hair as the kid just watched him scrutinizingly like he’d been doing for weeks. Months maybe. “You’re such a pain in my ass.”

“You like that too,” he shot back, turning to continue walking up the road, the swagger in his step obvious until Dallas let out a quick whistle and he pulled up short. The older teen caught up, smiling smugly as he fished a weed from his pocket. Pony scoffed while Dal lit up against his St. Christopher medal. “Asshole.”

“You like it,” Dally mimicked, blowing smoke into the kid’s face as they went trekking through the dark. They kept walking, falling back into step. The gang was long ahead now, distant laughter echoing like windchimes down the block. Pony’s arm brushed Dally’s for half a second as they turned a corner. Not a grab, not a hold, just contact.

“So what now?” the younger teen asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“You gonna keep whistlin’ at me and breakin’ up my fights?”

“If I feel like it,” was the immediate snarky response, but that only earned the hood an unimpressed look. He took a deep drag off his smoke and blew it out slow. “‘Spose I owe you a drink for steppin’ all over your little bop.”

Pony snorted, “You askin’ me on a date, Dal?”

Dallas didn’t look at him, just flicked ash off the tip of his cigarette and muttered, “Don’t be a little shit about it.”

The kid beamed into the night, smile bright enough to rival moonbeams.

Chapter Text

Buck Merrill’s place pulsed with life that night, packed wall-to-wall with bodies and haze, the heat of too many people pressed in, carrying the stink of sweat, cigarette smoke, and spilled booze gone warm on the carpet. A radio on the counter fought to be heard, blaring a scratchy rock-and-roll tune that cut through the din like a knife. It was the kind of Friday night chaos where you couldn’t hear yourself think, maybe because nobody wanted to. Dallas Winston leaned his arm high against a hole punched wall in the hallway not too far from his usual room looking like he hadn’t a care in the world, but his eyes were fixed on Ponyboy Curtis. In the whole rowdy crowd, Pony was the only thing Dally really saw.

The smaller teen stood tucked beside him in a pocket of half-light, one side of his face lit by the neon sign glowing in the kitchen and the other lost to the smoky dark. He cradled a mostly full beer bottle in both hands as if it might slip and break if he wasn’t careful. Dal had handed it to him when they walked in rather than his usual pop, figuring one watered-down brew wouldn’t do the younger teen any harm; if anything, it might help him feel a little bolder, a little older. The fourteen year old sipped at it slowly, testing the taste with hesitant swallows, and Dallas watched his throat work. The baby greaser’s cheeks were already tinged pink—maybe from the humid heat inside the house party, maybe from the timid buzz of the alcohol, or maybe from the sheer nerve it took to be there at all.

After the night at the drive-in, the biting back and forth between them, Dallas had resolved to bring Pony with him to the next bash Buck threw and make the kid put his money where his smart little mouth was. The rest of the gang were littered around somewhere; Steve and Soda tucked away with Evie and Sandy, Johnny babysitting his own bottle by the door. Two-Bit had actually managed to convince some Soc girl to show up on his arm. Dally vaguely recognized her from the Nightly Double a few weeks prior but her name had never been on his radar. She seemed tuff enough though, matching Two drink for drink and being just as loud and rowdy as the rest of them. Everyone was having a good time mixed in with the usual crowd of greasers and cowboys and no one seemed to notice or mind Dal leaning over Pony there in the hallway.

The hood stood so close that if he breathed deeply, his chest brushed Ponyboy’s arm. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel the warmth of Pony’s body through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. A brush here, a bump there, almost like it was accidental even if they both knew it wasn’t. They didn’t talk much, the shorter teen keeping quiet at Dal’s side, eyes scanning the party with mild interest. Dallas felt puffed up with pride because he knew the kid could wander off, could go find a friend or someone to show him around, get him rip-roaring drunk, but he didn’t. He stuck right by Dally like that was exactly where he wanted to be.

The seventeen year old bent his head down to murmur in Pony’s ear, the only way to be heard without shouting. He asked, “You doin’ okay, kid?” 

Ponyboy met his eyes and gave a quick smirk. He didn’t lean in, didn’t whisper sweetly to Dallas, instead choosing to holler like the annoying little prick he was. “Yeah, this is tuff! Loud though!”

Dally chuckled, the sound low and almost lost under the racket. “Buck’s ain’t never quiet on a Friday,” he drawled, offering a crooked grin.

For a moment they fell silent again, content just to be there together amid the frenzy. The radio had started blaring a song that kicked off with someone counting in Spanish and Dallas’ brow perked up with interest. Buck usually only played shitty country. The hood took a long swig off his own drink; the other boy was nursings his slow, being careful, but he wasn’t fidgeting or looking for an out. Actually, he kept leaning closer into Dally, craning his head back until it almost rested on the older boy’s shoulder and they were both looking out into the living room area, watching the party.

“Matty told Hatty-
About a thing she saw!
Had two big horns-
And a wooly jaw!
Wooly bully!
Wooly bully!”

Taking advantage of the position and the noise, Dal tipped his head down, angling his chin over Ponyboy’s shoulder to speak into his ear again. “How come you never come to these on your own?”

Pony turned his face up, a breath away from Dallas’, surprised by the question. He answered, “You know how Darry is. He’d mess his pants if he knew I was here.”

Dally nodded, taking that in. Ponyboy was just a kid after all, Darry had every right to keep him from the boozing and the smoking and the gambling that went on at parties like the ones Buck threw. Something always ended up going sideways; someone got too drunk and started a brawl, the cops busted it up, or it just went on way too long, the sun kicking them all out while the weeds were still lit and the drinks were still cold. The hood figured the whole scene had to be both exciting and scary as hell for someone like Pony who still went to school and kept good grades and generally just wasn’t that much trouble. He admired the way the younger greaser was handling himself. 

“You mind it?” Dallas asked, keeping his tone as casual as he could.

Ponyboy rolled his gray-green eyes up through his lashes. For a second he didn’t answer, as if really turning the question over, before he shook his head. A smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nah, I don’t mind.”

Dal felt a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying unfurl in his chest, letting him ease his stance a bit, slumping further against the wall and further onto Pony. The shorter teen barked a laugh, pushing playfully at his wide chest and then leaving his hand there almost testingly. Dallas hummed a contented sound too low to hear but that he knew Ponyboy could feel vibrating through him. For as much bullshitting as they’d been doing recently, he was glad to hear the kid was having a good time and not regretting showing up. The hood let a lopsided grin slip out and then reached down and gently hooked two fingers under Pony’s chin. The fourteen year old went very still, eyes widening with anticipation. Dally tilted the boy’s face up, just enough so gray-green eyes had to meet his stare. In the shifting neon glow, Ponyboy’s gaze was a little hazy and a lot trusting—maybe the beer was doing more than they both thought. Dallas could feel a slight tremor in the jaw on his fingers, a thrumming current of excitement shaking both their frames.

He leaned in again (because he was going to ride the opportunity to do so until the wheels fell off), and whispered against a flushed red ear, “You stay put, hear me?” 

It was half order, half testing tease. Ponyboy’s breath hitched, inaudible, but his chest rose and fell in quick succession, bumping Dally’s. He nodded, the motion small but certain. Dal was already right there so the kid turned and whispered back, “Okay.”

Dallas lingered a beat longer, fingers still beneath Pony’s chin, memorizing the feel of the boy standing so close and trusting. He thought about kissing the younger teen, of splaying his hand fully across his neck and jaw and claiming his mouth. The moment didn’t feel right though, whatever the fuck that meant, and Dally didn’t want to scare him off. So instead, he reluctantly pulled away and fired off a quick smirk before sauntering up the hall towards the party. In the living room the noise felt amplified, voices and music and general raucous echoing in every direction. Buck would be lucky if someone on the block didn’t call in a noise complaint, the radio now bleating out “You Really Got Me”, The Kinks rattling the floorboards like they were trying to knock out the plumbing. As he edged off through the crowd, Dal could feel Pony’s eyes following him, and hell if that didn’t put a bit of swagger in his step.

“Yeah, you really got me now-
You got me so I don't know what I'm doin', now!
Oh yeah, you really got me now-
You got me so I can't sleep at night!”

The kitchen was a mess of bodies and bottles, but Dallas just pushed through, side stepping laughing drunks on their way to the bathroom they were about to realize was already occupied by some couple or other fucking behind a locked door. The neon sign on the wall Buck had stolen from some old dive bar flickered and buzzed and made the whole room look like a bad trip. Johnny Cade was sat on the counter, a beer squeezed between his knees, and his dark eyes pinned to Dally as soon as he wandered into the vicinity. The hood waved, slouching over to lean next to the younger teen, clinking his empty bottle with the kid’s full one.

“Heya, Johnnycakes!” he enthused, shouting over the noise now, smile feeling too wide and toothy even to him. “You havin’ a good time?”

The sixteen year old shrugged, looking as jumpy as ever if not more so in the rowdy environment. He hung tough though, didn’t bitch to go home or anything. Instead he just fixed his friend with a questioning look. He called over the music, “You havin’ fun with Pony?”

Dallas blinked, pulled up short and wondering exactly what the greaser meant by ‘having fun’ . Because if he was asking literally, sure, Dally was having an absolute blast with Ponyboy. If Johnny was asking whether or not Dal was just messing with Pony, treating him like a passing chick or something, the hood was going to have to break a gang rule and rough the guy up a bit. He tossed his empty bottle into the sink and reached into his pockets, pulling out a Kool slow and deliberate, not breaking eye contact with his younger friend until he had to strike a match on the back of his St. Christopher. Smoke billowed out of his mouth and joined the already choking cloud of it swirling around the ceiling of the whole joint. Dallas shook the match out, tossing it away before meeting Johnny’s eyes again. He puffed a ring around his scared little face.

“Whatcha mean by that?”

“I just mean I think Pone really likes you is all-”

“And who said I don’t like him?” Dal interrupted, the insult he felt dripping off his words like the sweat off a cold drink. Johnny for once didn’t back down, didn’t flinch. Just stared at him.

“Do you?”

Before the hood could answer or even think about his answer, something out the window over Johnny’s shoulder caught his eye. Out on the street, beyond the yard where a bunch of idiots had already knocked out shit faced, a line of black and white sedans with bubble lights shut off on top were creeping up the road, the glow of nightsticks already visible through their dusty windshields. Dallas could have written a whole book on what was about to happen and he felt the light buzz he’d been enjoying fizzle up like a puddle in the summer. Cursing, he yanked Johnny off the counter and knocked the beer from the sixteen year old’s startled hands.

“Hey! Dally-!”

“Cops,” he explained quickly, patting the younger teen down for any other contraband. He snatched the switchblade out of his pocket and shoved it in his own. “Go make sure Pony doesn’t have anythin’ on him and then you two get the hell outta here.”

“What about you?” Johnny asked, dark eyes big as he tried to resist being shoved out the kitchen. 

“I gotta clear this place out-” At that moment, Tulsa’s finest decided to make themselves known and a chorus of sirens sounded from the street. Flashing red-and-blue lights burst through the windows and the whole house was immediately thrown into a panic which was exactly what Dallas had been trying to avoid by just getting Johnny and Pony out. “Shit!”

A voice came from outside, loud and screeching through a megaphone, “This is the police! You are disturbing the peace! Come out quietly!”

In an instant, the kitchen was alive with movement. Chairs toppled, someone slipped on spilled booze and hit the floor hard, and glass shattered against the linoleum as bottles were dropped mid-sprint. People were clawing over furniture, shoving through the busted side screen door, the windows, boots slamming against hardwood and curses flying like bottle rockets. Someone screamed, not hurt, just drunk and dramatic, and a lamp crashed to the carpet near the coffee table. The radio cut off, knocked to the floor, and was quickly trampled to pieces. All the noise pissed Dallas off immediately and, jamming two fingers in his mouth, the hood let out an ear splitting whistle that had party goers around them flinching away, parting like the Red Sea as Dallas shoved Johnny faster towards the hall where he’d left Pony. 

“Get Pony outta here!” he ordered, hoping the kid had heard his whistle from the hall and already made for the shotgun door out the back of the house.

“But, Dallas-!”

“I said go!” the seventeen year old barked right as the front door buckled under a heavy kick. Dallas barely caught a flash of blue uniform before it disappeared behind a panicked crowd. “Go, go, go!”

Johnny merged into the throng, thin body ducking and dodging around obstacles. The living room was a tangle of limbs and jackets and greasy hair, someone shouting about flushing a stash, another guy trying to push through a door that wouldn’t open because it was a pull door and it was a pantry. Steve and Soda rushed by, their girls’ hands tight in theirs and Dal didn’t try to stop them. He could hear Two-Bit cracking wise over all the noise and figured the idiot already had a set of cuffs slapped on him. Buck was nowhere in sight because of course he fucking wasn’t, and Dallas ducked around pigs and people and eventually made it to the hall himself a split second before someone yelled, “They’re comin’ around the back!” 

A flashlight caught the hood right in the face from the rear door and he flinched away while another wave of screaming started and more feet thudded across the floorboards. Stumbling sideways into his room, Dally barely noticed the screams of the naked girls huddled in there, makeup smeared across their faces as they tried and failed to pry open the window. He ignored them, instead reaching to sweep the underside of his bed, money, bootleg moonshine, and his heater sliding out with the trash and dirty laundry. He shoved as much of it as he could into his many pockets (he shoved the wad of cash in his boot) and then went and shouldered out the window himself, the chicks screaming bloody murder as the glass popped outward in one solid piece just as several light beams bounced into the room.

“FREEZE!”

Dallas wouldn’t if they’d paid him, throwing himself through the window shoulder-first and landing in a rough roll on the dirt patch outside before tripping into a sprint. His boots hit the pavement hard and the night screamed around him—bodies crashing through hedges, yelling, shouting, cackling. The air was alive with sirens blaring, feet stomping, and the screech of tires. Greaser after greaser launched off the back porch like they’d been fired from a cannon. A couple guys were hoisting themselves over the neighbor’s fence, crashing into trash cans and potted plants along the way. One of Buck’s regulars wiped out on the gravel driveway and rolled, yelping in pain, but kept crawling.

Dallas cut hard around the side of the house, wind slicing his eyes. He reached into his jacket, yanked out the moonshine, and chucked it into the bushes. It shattered on impact, glass and a smell like rubbing alcohol spraying the hedgerow. Next he flung Johnny’s blade into a gutter. Then his pistol, cold and heavy, went skidding under a parked car with a metal clang that made his teeth grit. That shit would all be pricey to replace, but he couldn’t get picked up with it. He made it to an alley before the flashlight beams caught him, just a flicker, but enough. He pushed harder, arms pumping, heart crashing in his chest—but the alley was fenced and by the time he noticed it was too late. A body slammed into him from behind, his shoulder clipped a lamp post, and they hit the ground tangled up, knees and elbows and fists. Dally twisted, kicked, almost got free, but then there were two of them on him, knee in his back, rough hands yanking his arms behind him, the cold snap of cuffs biting into his wrists.

“Got one!” one yelled. 

Dallas spat into the dirt, chest heaving, “Fuckin’ pig!”

The flashlight beam swung down again, too bright, white-hot in his face. He turned his head away, lips curling, eyes wild. They dragged him to his feet and pushed him back the way they had come. Marching him back towards bucks, there were a few officers bringing rumbled partygoers back to their cruisers. More lights. More sirens. Tim Shepard was being cuffed against a hood, three girls were sobbing in another backseat, and the smell of stale sweat and cigarette ash hung thick in the air. It looked like about five units had come out, each with two cops inside, and Dallas wondered where the stupid bastards found the time to worry about busting up parties. He was sure there were bigger crimes they could be stopping because he was committing half of them and as they shoved him towards a caged-in backseat, he was determined to do more illegal shit since they were only worried about underage drinking apparently. 

The two cops that had grabbed him forced Dally into the back of their squad car, near bashing his head on the way in. The seventeen year old half-fell onto the cracked vinyl seat, suddenly aware of every ache and pain of the short chase and the splitting headache he could feel coming on. His shoulder felt stiff and swollen and his ribs screamed with each labored breath from the rough tackle. Something on his face was bleeding somewhere because salty wetness dripped into his eye and his lip was split from biting it when he’d hit the ground. Dallas ran his tongue gingerly over the busted skin and spat a red gob onto the floor of the cruiser. It tasted like pennies.

Another body was shoved in beside him, some boy no older than Pony who was smiling charmingly like he could talk his way out of this no problem. The pigs slammed the door on whatever he was saying and the guy tossed his head back with a sigh. Dally eyed him warily, not recognizing him too well, and gold eyes flashed over to him in the dark. He grinned and it honestly looked friendly enough which was weird in and of itself. He introduced, “Hey, buddy. I’m Mark.”

“And I’m busy,” the New Yorker dismissed, gaze focused out the window, squinting through the dark. Red-and-blue lights painted Buck’s place in revolving color and made everyone standing around look like comic book characters. Still, their faces were visible and after squinting at every person in a cruiser, cuffed on the sidewalk, and passed out on the lawn, Dallas heaved a sigh of relief. None of them were Ponyboy.

“Rough night,” Mark noted casually, also looking around like he needed to find someone. “Hope my brother made it out alright.”

“Whatever, man,” Dallas sighed, leaning his aching head against the cool glass as he waited for them to get going. When he closed his eyes he saw Pony, smirking up at him in the neon and eyes wide with anticipation. Dal had the crazy idea that he should have kissed the other teen when he had the chance and thumped his forehead on the window as he groaned, “Fuck.”

Kiss or not, he was glad it looked like Ponyboy and Johnny had gotten away without trouble. The rest of the gang too, none of them were slammed down against a hood, but Pony especially. With the adrenaline and panic draining out of him in drops, Dallas could finally recognize how worried he’d been about the baby greaser as soon as he’d realized the party was about to get raided. It wasn’t usual for Dallas Winston to worry (you had to actually give a shit about someone for that) yet there he was. Even handcuffed and roughed up and definitely looking at spending the rest of the weekend in the Cooler, Dal was relieved because at least Ponyboy had gotten away. Glory, hallelujah, that was a strange feeling.

After a while, more cop cars pulling up to pick up the rest of the delinquents that had been detained, Mark and Dallas finally perked up when their officers came back, slamming the doors as they settled into the cruiser. The sirens were all off now, but the lights still flashed and they were starting to hurt Dally’s eyes the longer they went. He listened to the inane chatter of the pigs’ radio as they all talked back and forth and back and forth before finally agreeing to roll out, pulling away from the curb and off the yard in a line. Their squad car jolted into motion, pulling away from Buck’s and leaving bedlam behind. The hood blinked tiredly out the window, vision blurred at the edges. As they turned onto the main road, something caught his eye, a lone figure approaching fast from the end of the block. Slim build, auburn hair, keeping an impressive pace behind the car like the person ran track in school or something. 

Ponyboy was running along the sidewalk, catching up to Dallas’ window easily as he ran, head whipping around from checking straight ahead of him for obstacles and turning to look at Dally through the window. His expression was unreadable, his eyes wide, but he ran without stopping, his breaths looking easy and even as he dipped in and out of the streetlights. The hood's pulse rocketed so hard he saw stars and he slammed his face against the window before he could remember it was rolled up and locked to boot. He cursed, wrenching his cuffed hands so hard behind him he swore he popped his shoulder out. 

“Pony!”

“Hey! Settle down!” one of the cops up front ordered, twisting around to glare through the gate at him. 

“Fuck you, man!” Dallas flipped him the bird, all twisted up and angry, the exhaustion he’d felt creeping in a moment ago fleeing the scene as quickly as Ponyboy was sprinting after them. “Ponyboy!”

He couldn’t tell if the kid could hear him through the glass, but he swore he saw a smile flash over his face when he turned to the window next, arms and legs pumping like it was nothing as the cops finally spotted him keeping pace. They grabbed the megaphone again and called out to him, threatening arrest and a bunch of other shit police shouldn’t be doing to teenagers and Dallas felt his blood boil. Mark was spewing his own vitriol by that point, adding to the mayhem, but Dally only cared about the way Pony suddenly cut out, turning down a sidestreet while they continued straight, sprinting off into the night. The sight of the fourteen year old beating the pavement in the opposite direction did things to the hood’s temper, but he told himself it was better. Pony couldn’t afford to get picked up and Dallas would be out to see him soon enough. Settling back against his seat, chest heaving and shoulder hurting even worse now, the seventeen year old promised himself Ponyboy would be the first person he saw when he got out and that he’d get the kiss he should have gotten at the party.

Chapter Text

An hour or two later, booked and processed and the adrenaline long since bled out of him, Dallas Winston lounged sullenly in a holding cell in the sub-basement of the Tulsa police station. The Cooler was the same as always, cramped and stale and stinking of disinfectant and old vomit. A single barred window high up on the wall let in a weak stripe of moonlight, but that was fading fast, the darkest point of night before dawn approaching. All of the New York native’s muscles ached and his head was throbbing, the dull buzz of the overhead lights grating his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. 

Dally’s side was bruised and his lip was swollen and his shoulder still didn’t feel like it was sitting right, but he’d rather risk going into shock rather than call over one of the officers still on duty to get him some medical attention. Besides there were plenty of greasers and hoods spread out in the holding area looking even worse off; the three sharing his cell alone looked like shit. Tim Shepard had a busted nose, blood splattered all down his front, and one of his eyes was swollen shut as he snored loudly on the concrete floor. The guy from Dal’s squad car, Mark Jennings, had a twisted ankle they’d made him limp in on and his brother, Bryon, had a wrist that was likely broken cradled against his chest. The two of them huddled together near the cell door, dozing in turn and giving Dally a wide berth since they were both down a limb if it came to a bop. Dallas would survive a few bruises.

The hood leaned back on his cot, back against the wall, and fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his jeans as he replayed the night over and over in his mind. He thought about how the music and the lights and the heat and the crowd had all culminated in a dreamlike experience where he had Ponyboy Curtis pressed up against the wall the way he’d wanted to for way too long. The seventeen year old licked over his aching lip, hissing as he thought about the way Pony had swayed into him, shouting over the noise even while Dallas himself tried to play it smooth and breathe all his questions right into the kid’s ear. He flexed his hands open and shut as he remembered having the younger teen’s pulse pressed just under his fingertips, his face tilted up to look at Dal.

The New Yorker thought about Ponyboy's breath, hot against his ear, the way it had come in shallow little bursts when they’d been close in the hallway. About the weight of the other boy's hand spanned across his chest, thumb grazing just under the edge of his collar like it belonged there. The heat of the party hadn’t held a candle to how hot Pony had felt, squirming but not pulling away, mouth parted like he was already halfway to saying yes to Dallas. He could’ve kissed him right then—could’ve leaned in, gotten it over with. Could’ve seen what Ponyboy tasted like, what he sounded like when he wasn’t running his mouth, just breathing into Dally's.

“Shoulda kissed him,” the New Yorker sighed, thumping his head back against the wall, wincing when all it did was make his headache burst open with renewed energy. 

He was breathing deep through his nose, trying to fight off the mounting pain, when he heard it; a faint, low whistle. Not a song, it had no recognizable tune, but a hesitant trickle of sound that floated down from the street above, barely audible through the window. Dallas blinked, worried for a second he’d finally cracked up and was imagining things, but then the sound came again, stronger this time; a trembling two-note whistle, the second bar cracking slightly. The hood rushed to his feet on top of the bunk, the old springs screaming in protest as Dally stretched up to reach the bars of his window and pull himself the last few inches up to look outside.

At first he didn’t see anything, just the empty alley behind the Cooler, just the dark street beyond, but then one of the shadows began to shift and stretch and a familiar freckled face came into view, illuminated by a flickering light off the side of the station. Ponyboy’s brow was furrowed and he was glancing up and down the side of the building, his eyes pausing at each window, but aimed too high to see Dallas down at street level. The hood swore lowly, stretching his arm through the bars too rough and fast in his haste, hissing as his tender shoulder twisted so he could wave. Pony, who had seemed like he was preparing to whistle again, jumped when he saw what probably looked like a hand reaching out of the sewers, but then his face split into a grin and he hurried over, lowering himself to his belly right outside Dally’s window. He pushed his face to the bars so the seventeen year old could ease back, standing flat on the cot as gray-green eyes looked down at him with relief and mirth in droves.

“Found you,” the fourteen year old enthused in a whisper, a dazzling smile pressing his cheeks against the iron. Dallas blinked at the little maniac at a loss, mouth hanging open in a way that he knew didn’t look tough at all. Equal parts relief and disbelief were flooding through him and making him feel dizzy to the point of nausea. 

“Glory, hallelujah,” he breathed, voice pitched low so none of the other delinquents locked up with him would hear. Tim snorted in his sleep. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

“Seein’ the sights,” Ponyboy snarked, rolling his eyes and shifting where he lay on the ground. His clothes were going to be filthy. “Lookin’ for you obviously.”

Dal felt something twist hard in his chest but pushed it aside to attempt a stern scowl. Pony chasing after the police cruiser out on the street was one thing, but walking himself right up to the station way past midnight was another. Dally didn’t know whether to laugh or yank him through the damn window. His fingers itched to hold something—a smoke, a bottle, the kid’s neck, it didn’t matter. Just something to ground him. “That was real stupid, Pone. You could get yourself in a world of trouble, showin’ up here.” 

“You gonna lecture me or say thanks for comin’?” 

“Neither, you little shit!” Dally hissed, reaching to pull himself up again, putting his face right in the younger teen’s. Pony didn’t draw back, his expression unbothered as he openly checked the seventeen year old up and down. Dallas for once was glad for the shitty lighting in lock-up because his cheeks felt suddenly hot under the attention.

The boy asked, “They rough you up?”

The older greaser scoffed, sneering as if the question hadn’t made his stomach drop out. He tossed his head and rolled his eyes and jutted his chin out, posturing. “You ever see me let someone rough me up?”

Ponyboy raised a brow, tilted his head. “Your lip’s busted and you got blood in your hair.”

Dal brushed said hair back absently, feeling the pull and tug of dried blood clumping the pieces together. He shrugged. “Cosmetic damage.”

The boy outside snickered at that, smooth face wrinkling with laugh lines. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down into Dally’s cell with a cloying smile. He mocked, “Ah, sure, you’re real pageant ready.”

Dallas narrowed his eyes, fighting a losing battle against the smirk tugging at his mouth. He couldn’t help it, the kid just looked so damned happy, even spread out in a dirty alley and talking to the guy that was supposed to be taking him out through jailhouse bars. The hood hummed low in his throat, letting his eyes go half lidded and coy as he propped his chin on the edge of the window. 

He noted, “Guess I’m a pretty lousy date, huh?”

Ponyboy’s chuckles hiccuped and tapered off. He coughed, eyes thrown to the side as he shrugged. He inched closer, resting his forearms on the cold concrete ledge, chin tilted down, eyes sharp and glittering in the low light.  “Oh yeah, you’re a real rotten fella. Get me in bed then ditch out on our date before I even get a kiss.”

The words hit Dallas like a southpaw punch, completely off guard so that he was left stunned and staring. The fourteen year old watched him shrewdly, unblinking as the hood tried to gather whatever dregs of finesse he had left, aching head whirring loudly. He looked down, dragged a hand through his hair again, and huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. 

“That why you came?” he tested, “To bitch about your first kiss?”

Pony’s lips curved as he quipped, “Who says it’d be my first?”

Dally looked at him then—really looked. Ponyboy’s mouth still had traces of a grin, but his eyes had gone soft; too honest and open the way they had been at Buck’s. His breath came in anxious little pants, the beer that had been on it earlier long gone. His pupils were blown wide in the darkness, gray-green irises gobbled up by inky black and he looked excited and scared and hopeful and young. However he wanted to joke around, Dallas knew it would have been his first kiss -at least his first real one- and the thought he’d maybe fucked that up dug at his nerves something awful. He slouched away from the window, watching the kid at an angle as if that would show him something new, and chewed on a smirk. 

“You want it?” he tested, flashing a sharp grin, not caring who the hell in his cell or in the whole holding area heard him. The smaller teen's breathing caught and even through the tiny window Dallas could see the way his whole frame went still. 

Voice hushed, rushed, he asked, “You offerin’?”

Ponyboy would let himself be kissed right then, right there, through the filthy bars of a cramped old jailhouse and that knowledge was enough to make Dally not want to do it. It wouldn’t be his first, nothing with the kid would be, but that didn’t mean it had to be like all the others. He’d kissed a bunch of chicks with blood on his mouth, gotten pulled off Sylvia tons of times at Buck’s parties, pants still around his ankles. This didn’t have to be that to be real; maybe it shouldn’t be.  He could take it—Christ, he wanted to take it—but Pony wasn’t just another warm mouth in the dark. Dallas leaned back towards the edge of the window, keeping his eyes and voice low.

“Nah,” he mused, fingers itching for a Kool as they tapped along the bars inches from Pony’s face. The boy didn’t flinch. “Better save it for some hotter accommodations.”

“Didn’t know you knew that word,” the fourteen year old teased, tone high and tight as he huffed a laugh. It sounded forced and it gnawed on Dally’s hindbrain; the kid was disappointed. They stared at each other for a moment and then the baby greaser shrugged. “I should get goin’. Darry’s probably angry enough as is-”

“Hold up,” Dallas cut him off, eyes fluttering rapidly as his brain caught up with his mouth. He hadn’t meant to make the younger teen wait, but now that he had an idea that was gnawing at his psyche. Without thinking about it too much, he reached up and tugged his chain up and over his head. The St. Christopher medallion glinted in the low light, swinging back and forth as Dal thrust it threw the bars towards Pony’s startled face. It was warm from his skin and blackened on the backside from years of striking matches. “Hold onto this for me, would ya?”

Ponyboy looked at the thing like the clouds had opened up and blessed it into his eyeline. His jaw was slack, lips parted and a low thrum of noise escaping through them. “Dally-”

“Since you didn’t get your fuckin’ kiss yet,” the hood interrupted, pressing flush against the iron bars so that he could stare at the dangling chain in tandem with the younger boy. The ‘yet’ landed about as subtle as he’d meant it and large eyes zoomed towards him incredulously. They stayed like that, suspended in the quiet night, for a long, fragile moment—Dallas on one side of the bars, Ponyboy on the other.

“You sure?”

“I said it didn’t I?”

Ponyboy hesitated for a heartbeat longer, as if afraid Dal would seize the offer back if he moved too fast; deny that he’d made it at all. Part of the hood thought with anyone else he would have as his eyes tracked the other greaser, fixated. Finally, Pony reached out slow, his fingers brushing Dallas’ knuckles as he closed them around the medal. The skin to skin contact was brief, the touch featherlight, but it was enough to make the older boy’s hand twitch. When Ponyboy had the chain secure in his grip, Dally snatched his arm back through the bars lighting quick like he would trying to avoid a dog he knew would bite. 

The smaller teen studied the Saint Christopher medallion closely, running his thumb along the ridged edges, over the saint’s worn face. It was too dull at that point to glint in the low light, but it shone all the same as the fourteen year old carefully slipped it over his head. The chain was too long for him, pooling around his collar bones while he cradled the charm in hand to keep it off the filthy ground. The thick line of metal made his neck look slender, delicate, and it drew Dallas’ eyes to the hollow of his throat. He observed the baby greaser closely, chest tight, like he'd done something stupid or maybe brilliant—couldn’t tell which yet.

“Looks good on you,” he muttered, voice rough but sincere. 

Pony looked down through the bars, fingers still ghosting over the pendant like if he rubbed it enough he’d get a wish or something. He wasn’t grinning anymore, but he looked pleased and a bit shy, his ears glowing pink under the buzzing lamps. He tested, “Am I keepin’ this til you get out?”

Dallas blinked slow at him, feigning malcontent but the baby greaser just mirrored the expression back, smaller and softer. Eventually the hood corrected, “Til you don’t want it no more.”

Ponyboy nodded once, expression serious as he tucked the medallion into his shirt, smoothing his hand over the spot once it was out of sight. He promised, "I’ll keep it safe." 

Dallas rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly restless and itching with the weight of his medal gone and Pony too far away to grab at. The fourteen year old had something of his now, and Dal knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. About the way the medallion would hang against his skin, get hot there. About what it’d feel like to press his mouth to that chain, to feel it cool between their bodies. Dally rolled his neck, jaw tight, thinking about how fast he’d make his way back to Pony once he got out. He wouldn’t even stop for a fucking smoke.

 “Damn straight.”

The silence between them stretched again, but it wasn’t awkward—it was filled , like they both knew there was much more to say, but not with bars between them and dawn creeping close. Dally’s shoulder throbbed and his lip stung, but those were dull distant aches compared to the hot heat growing under his ribs the longer he looked at Ponyboy. The younger boy had chased down a police car, had come to see Dallas, and was wearing his chain flush against his chest now. The hood kind of felt crazy with all that knowledge and sighed his exhaustion out in a great gust.

"You better get going," he said after a beat, eyes focused on a crack in the wall rather than the kid on the other side of it. “Don’t need you gettin’ caught.”

Ponyboy nodded, reluctantly pushing himself up from the cold ground, dust sticking to his elbows and shirt. He sat back on his knees, eyes still trained on Dally and shining with some unfamiliar emotion. Dallas thought it may have been longing; he wasn’t super familiar with it. Low, but firm, he said,  “I’ll see you soon, Dal.” 

Dallas couldn’t help the smirk that bent his sore mouth. “Yeah, Pone, you will.”

Ponyboy lingered a second longer, his gaze memorizing Dally’s face in the gloom. And then he was gone, slipping back into the shadows the way he’d come, the chain at the back of his neck catching the light one last time before vanishing. A moment later, Dallas heard the soft scuff of his sneakers as the teen took off running. The hood stayed standing on his cot for a moment longer, staring at the place where Pony had been, hands empty but chest uncomfortably full. Eventually he dropped down with a grunt, back hitting the wall, head tilted up toward the slant of the window. His fingers drummed again, still restless, but slower now. 

“Shoulda kissed him,” Tim yawned from the floor, making Dal jump bad as his head whipped around to look at the other hood. The guy still had his eyes closed, one arm bent behind his head while the other crossed over his stomach. He snorted a bit, settling down again while Mark and Bryon muttered sleepy little agreements from their spot in the corner. Dallas was sure his ears were as red as Pony’s could sometimes get, but he tried to act like it didn’t matter. He scoffed and snorted and hurled the one brick hard pillow he had at Tim’s head. 

The cell fell into a bit of a tussle after that which got everyone else in the other cells started and before too long the house lights were on full and a few sleepy cops were banging their way down the stairs, cursing about the late hour. Dallas threw all his aggression and confusion and want into the punches he launched at Shepard and the others, but he was grinning like a fool, sharp teeth flashing. The rush of it, the sheer life of it, coursed through his veins like wildfire. He felt like he could swallow the sun. 

He couldn’t wait to see Pony again.