this is the follow up to "i don't want to rest in peace", and part of the series "the descent."

November rolls in chilly, and Ponyboy sends off the last of his college letters with the last bit of money he has before Darry can breathe down his neck. He doesn't grease his hair, and as Thanksgiving approaches, he and Dallas begin to circle the rest of their conversation together.

He'd woken up the next morning after more jumbled up dreams and memories, of his mother, of New York streets, of places he couldn't quite name. Dallas stuck around long enough to get through a quick breakfast, then had materialized in full on the track during morning practice. The weather was cold, his presence making it even colder even if, for once, he didn't mean for it to be.

Ponyboy doesn't say anything as he finishes up on the track, steadying his breaths as he does so. Dallas watches with what he thinks of as careful amusement; most of the kids here are either just above middle class to full on Socs. He's the only greaser, a fact that he's never forgotten, yet feels heightened with Dallas' gaze sweeping over them all, clearly not pleased at the presence of the Socs.

A year ago, he would have been more annoyed. That had been the worst of it, enough that Ponyboy considered it almost worth being thrown off the team to throw a punch. In the end it was moot, as the Soc fucked up his knee on his own. His friends weren't interested anymore and Ponyboy lowered his guards just enough to get by.

Now though, things are calm. When the practice is over, Dallas flickers out again, clearly giving Ponyboy enough privacy to get showered and into the first period study hall. It's still an awkward thought that he doesn't like to focus on too much, that at any moment, Dallas could materialize at his own will — and that in the interim, he had no idea what Dallas did.

His ears burned at the thought.

Rushing through the showers, avoiding his teammates was simple enough, and in study hall, it felt as if the thoughts on where Dallas was had quelled enough to make Ponyboy comfortable enough to pick out his place in the very back, keeping his head down as he opened a book, pretending to work on homework he'd already finished. His hand came up to push his ungreased hair from his face, running along the chain of the pendant he still wore.

In no less than two minutes, Dallas materializes beside him, that flush of cold on Ponyboy's neck warning him before Dallas talks, voice not as disembodied as usual, "I don't know how the hell you ain't bored of this." There's no real heat there, just mild amusement. "You stay here for lunch, too?"

"Not today," Ponyboy replies, pretending to look at the equations on his sheet as he kept his voice low, "Going out to see Soda for lunch." Risking a glance up, he can see Dallas has that normal mild disinterest on his face. Truth be told… Pony didn't want to talk about all of the things they needed to. Not now. He can sense Dallas doesn't want to either. "So, how was it? Last night?"

Feels awkward on his tongue to say it like that.

Dallas doesn't seem to care, his face lighting up as much as it could for a dead guy. In fact, for the first time in weeks, Dallas looks much, much more solid. Before, Ponyboy could usually see clear through him to the wall. Now, it's fuzzy, harder to see right through him. "Curly Shepard ain't change, tell you that. That asshole knows how to tell a story." There's a half sneer of amusement on his face, "Ducked out before the dishes, too. Just like a Shepard. Tim wouldn't know how to clean a kitchen if you gave him a book on it."

"Tim can read?" Ponyboy smothers a laugh as well as he can, not bothering to defend either as Dally's mouth splits into a savage grin. "Darry made Curly do it once. Marched him right back inside to clean up," the visual of it, of Darry politely and firmly making the younger hood come back inside had Pony trying to stifle the laugh even more. "I think that's the first time in a long time someone who wasn't the fuzz made him do something he didn't want to."

Dallas lets out a bark of a laugh, which only sets Pony off, smothering the laugh in his palm. Desperate not to be caught, Ponyboy turns it into a half cough, finishing with, "Curly doesn't change much, no." He has to keep from another laugh, trying to pretend to be working again, yet drags his eyes back up to Dally. "He always shows up for those when he can, though. Just for the food he can get."

"Pie wasn't half bad for store bought," Dallas looks almost wistful talking about it. "Didn't even know I missed it until I had that bite, glory." The Dallas Ponyboy knew two years ago wouldn't talk like this, wouldn't really shoot the shit with him. Then again, was it shooting the shit if this was what was left? If he wasn't alive, if that was his first bite of food in two years, was it nothing?

No.

Ponyboy keeps his voice low as they talk about the dinner, about the small changes, about the big things. They're still walking carefully around what really needs to be talked about, about how to do things, how to go forward.

That's okay, he thinks. They'd get there, one way or another.

The longer and longer this lasts, the more and more comfortable Ponyboy finds himself. The more he realizes that in all this time, Dallas' presence is something he wants, something creeping into a need. There was no one with him at school anymore, no one who might share sunsets or anything like that — not even with Dallas now could he get that.

Dallas was something and someone else. And the comfort kept growing.

To think that all it took was death to get closer to the hood.

The rest of the day runs normally. Dallas lurking at the edge, like a sentry. Ponyboy pushing his hair from his face, making himself just present enough in his honors classes to do what he needed to, but invisible enough where he didn't have to get in the way of any Socs. It's under their gaze, in their classes that his guard feels up, more than usual.

For the first time in weeks though, Ponyboy realizes something: he hasn't seen the boy that Dallas touched in weeks. The boy's name was James, last name eluding him. Ponyboy checked surreptitiously for him as classes changed near the end of the day, looking for him. His pack of friends still remained in a shifting pack of expensive shirts and slacks, expensive colognes and suspicious glances.

James did not.

Normally, a hunk of ice would have lodged itself in him. He would have felt guilty, or concerned.

Instead, a sense of grim satisfaction hits him as he makes his way to his very last class. His thumb runs up the side of Dally's ring as he considers it, and doesn't give it anymore thought that day.