Dallas chooses when he comes and goes, and Ponyboy idly still wishes that the damn hood would at least come and visit him on a day like this. Weeks, and there was still nothing anywhere on how to handle a dead friend visiting you. He'd gotten hit by college applications, schoolwork, and almost got caught sneaking out with Two-Bit one night. Everything except actually making it to the town library. Dreams came and went of Dally dying, of that time in the church intermingled with those other black and white dreams of the woman or a ratty apartment.

And to make things worse, he'd been dodging Angela Shepard for days now. She'd gotten it in her head that she wanted to date him instead, and to say that Ponyboy was disinterested felt like an understatement.

Soda had always said he'd grow out of it, he'd get into girls. It still hadn't really happened for him, even at sixteen. He was more occupied with trying to get through school than wonder about a girl to mess with, even without Dallas Winston haunting his steps whenever it pleased him. He was almost like a cat, coming and going without a set reason to. Ponyboy sometimes called and expected him to be there and sometimes Dallas showed up. Usually it seemed whenever the other guys were around it was easiest. The commentary he gave with it varied from the expected to an occasional off color comment that would make Ponyboy's ears burn.

More than once, Ponyboy had the sneaking suspicion Dallas did that on purpose, more and more, just to see him react. He couldn't say that he minded it - he always threaded in some of his own comments when he could, or echoed what Dallas had said a time or two.

Sometimes though, just once, Ponyboy wanted to show Dallas the sunset the way he'd wanted to back then, the way he and Johnny had talked about. He wanted to make him sit, watch it with him. Let him see, maybe, what Pony and Johnny saw.

Then again, maybe it was better. There were still so many unanswered things between them, from Dallas' presence to Johnny's absence. The more time that stretched out, the more Ponyboy thought he underestimated those kids. The more he wondered why Dallas, who had ran headlong to death, had come back and not Johnny.

You didn't have to be a genius to know that Dallas wouldn't answer that. Ponyboy used his head.

Enjoying a private moment (glory, that this was now a private moment) of the sunset suited him fine. He didn't even have a cigarette as he watched, back against the porch, glad that Soda was inside reading another letter and Darry wasn't home just yet. The moment was for himself, the quiet was for himself.

He shut his eyes, tempted to sleep right there for a few moments when the sound of a car horn shattered the quiet.

"You still ain't got your own jacket?"

Curly's smirking face greets Ponyboy when he opens his eyes. He's leaning out of his car, and Ponyboy knows that look. It's a look that usually ended up with him trying to make sure Darry wouldn't skin him alive.

He shouldn't respond to it. He should go inside, get to catching up on some homework.

It was also a Friday night. Ponyboy hadn't gotten out of the house for simple fun ever since… well. Bucks, with Two-Bit.

"Lay off, Curly," he stood up from his porch, loping down the steps. "What do you want, you greasy hood?"

Curly laughs, cocks his head to the inside of the car. Something in his laugh reminds Ponyboy of Dallas, which seems to only make him move faster to chase that feeling, that reminder.

(Two years ago, he wouldn't have.)

He's not sure of how exactly, he and Curly get to a party. The night is a blur of talking to other greasers, leaning out the car window, exchanging cigarettes, listening to others, and the occasional glimpse of Dallas in the corner of his eye. He just knows that by the time he starts to really get comfortable, he's getting good and buzzed. There aren't any hippies here, but there are drugs. As much as Pony doesn't mind beers now, the drugs make him sober up a little, trying to make sure that whatever mischief Curly wanted to pull him into wouldn't involve that.

It goes double when he spots Angela from across the way. That creeping, cold feeling that indicated Dallas was showing up didn't even bother him as Ponyboy pretended not to see her, going to get another cold beer from the stash they'd been keeping. Avoiding her was priority, and he wished that Two-Bit was here — Two-Bit was louder, funnier, and he'd be able to navigate this better.

"Didn't take you for a coward," Dally snipes, watching as Pony made his way through the floor, trying to keep ahead of her, to make sure she didn't catch his eye. "Running from Angela Shepard."

Ponyboy rolls his eyes, feeling it was loud enough to say, "She ain't that different from Sylvia." Once again, it's a jab he would have never taken in the years before, and the surprise on Dallas' face is actually really funny. Ponyboy blames his laugh on the drink, bumping into a boy he's not completely familiar with as he goes.

He turns around, means to apologize. The apology is halfway out of his mouth when it's not a cold feeling that seeps down his spine — it's a stab of ice in his head, urgent, and angry.

It's the only thing that warns him as the bottle comes crashing down on his head.

Everything turns to static for a moment. He can hear Curly yelling, can feel bodies pushing and shoving, and there's blood seeping down– seeping down–

He thinks, Dally?

His memory stops there.

Ponyboy doesn't come back to himself until the next morning, squinting beneath a pack of ice, hands clutching his blankets. Soda has an arm thrown around him, and the ceiling seems to swirl.

It takes a few minutes for him to orient himself, and when he does, he has to push Soda's arm away, trying to grasp for the memory of last night.

"Fucking hell, kid," Dallas says. Ponyboy sits up fully, and the expression of relief on Dallas' face is the furthest thing from comforting.

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