set in the future of "the descent", my possession au.

It's weird, to see a teacher not in school. Even if it's the closest thing Rusty-James has to a favorite teacher.

The Motorcycle Boy has been gone since summer started so it feels like an eerie thing to watch Mr. Curtis at Benny's, with a cigarette in hand, grinning at the waiter. He's not dressed like he is in school: he's got on jean shorts, old sneakers that are tied up, socks almost up to his knees, in a shirt that looks like a size too small.

He doesn't see Rusty, obviously, from where he is. He just orders what he wants, and Rusty is pretty sure the smile he's giving to the waiter isn't exactly one out of niceness. No one talks about certain things, and Rusty is just smart enough not to point that outloud from where he is, long abandoned by Steve.

There's also simply the fact that Mr. Curtis isn't just some teacher, neither. No regular teacher wears a skull ring that they all know was from a dead greaser over a decade ago; no regular teacher swore in class sometimes; no regular teacher had a switchblade that was rumored to have been won off of a Shepard in his pocket, neither.

He looks at the clock, thinks about Smokey or anyone else who might be around. And then Rusty-James gets up, comes over to the table in where Mr. Curtis is, leaning on the pool cue, "Mr. Curtis, I ain't know you ate here."

Mr. Curtis doesn't seem upset to see him, just corners of his mouth tipping upwards. "Rusty-James! I didn't know you played pool here either. I take it you're enjoying yourself before summer ends?" He taps out his cigarette, leaning on his elbows a little more.

"It's alright," Rusty shrugs, "Didn't think about coming to school, though. What're you doing here, and not at home?"

"I have to eat like anyone else," Mr. Curtis' mouth tips up again, "Bit too late to go home and cook." He squints, scrunches up his nose. "I don't think I should ask you why you're in a joint for adults, though, huh?"

Rusty-James laughs, slips into the booth opposite, letting the pool cue lean against the booth. Mr. Curtis doesn't seem to mind it, but he's also weirdly young for a teacher, too. He's not even thirty, even if twenty-two was fucking old anyway. He thrums his fingers against the table, excited and intrigued. "Can I ask you somethin', Mr. Curtis? Since we ain't in class?"

"You may," Mr. Curtis pulls back as Benny comes around with a glass of water, a cheeseburger and fries. "Since we aren't in class either, you can say Ponyboy. But only now."

Rusty doesn't waste a moment. "It true you got that ring from Dallas Winston? From 1965?" It's something that's always been rumored, never confirmed. Not even the Motorcycle Boy had tried to ask, and Rusty can't help but feel proud of himself that he'd done something his brother had been to afraid to do.

Mr. Curtis — Ponyboy, doesn't seem to pause when he bites into his cheeseburger. He chews avidly, some of the juice from the burger dripping down his mouth. In the light, Rusty thinks his eyes look a little lighter. "It is. Dally was my buddy." He taps the side of the skull ring with his thumb, "This, too. S'all we could have after he died."

It's electric, almost, how excited Rusty is to hear him, to confirm everything he's heard: about the hood who was tough, so touch only a whole squad of cops could take him down. That Dallas Winston had fired back, that he'd gone down the only way a hood should go down. "You seen it?" He blurts out without thinking, and then he pulls back. "Shit, man — I mean—"

"All of us did, yeah," Ponyboy doesn't seem angry with him, but his voice lowers, softens. Rusty-James knows he's gone too far. "I was around your age. Wasn't exactly what it was cracked up to be."

"Yeah, but you guys didn't just leave him there, did you?" Rusty-James can feel his tone take on that flinty quality that it does sometimes. "You guys looked after each other, you buried him like a real gang would. Not like guys today, just leaving him in the streets to rot." He thinks of more than a few guys like that, who've ended up like that. "You had real loyalty to him, ain't you? S'why you got his things!"

For a moment, he's not sure what Ponyboy is feeling. He gets a look similar to the Motorcycle Boy does, that odd look where he's thought of something that Rusty can't grasp, can't understand. It makes him feel a little less though; he hated it when the Motorcycle Boy talked in riddles like his old man, making him feel stupid. If Ponyboy has done one thing no teacher has, it's not make him feel stupid.

But he's surprised when Ponyboy smiles at him, nodding. "Yeah, I did. He was gallant — brave, had honor. More than any hood I've ever met. What people said about him being a no-good hood wasn't ever true." There's a draft of cold that shoots through Benny's at that, that makes Rusty shiver for a moment. "Most guys were like that; people called them hoods who didn't know shit. They all had a code of honor, they all were people in the end, who mattered. Just they had hair oil they didn't like or grew up poor, so they just looked down at them."

"You don't," Rusty says, sincerely. "You used to be one, and you never do that to me. Or anyone, even stuck up assholes."

Ponyboy laughs a little; it's not like his dad or the Motorcycle Boy, not mocking. "No, I try not to."

Benny comes over with a refill of water and Rusty looks at the clock, then back at Ponyboy as he continues to eat. "If I ain't got a class with you this year, I'll make sure I get in. Promise. I'll even try to come to every class."

"Try?" Ponyboy teases.

Rusty-James shrugs. "I ain't a liar. I can't say I won't be doing other shit." Ponyboy chuckles, and Rusty gets up. He grabs his cue and waves. "See you in school!"

Ponyboy waves, and Rusty thinks he can spot that blue dot in his eye that people have mentioned that seems to come and go.