"You think you'll be able to come pick me up for lunch this week?" Ponyboy can't help but ask, lingering in the doorway. He still doesn't quite feel like he'll be able to get home in one piece like this for as long as he and Dallas have been in that bed, kissing each other, touching each other. It isn't like his imagination from the shower, but it's better, real. Dal is too sore to make anything else happen anyway, and Pony is willing to wait, willing to gather more intel for his fantasies until the time is right.

And it's more than worth it: He knows now that Dal kisses rough, likes his fingers in his hair, to pull it. He's learned that he likes a little pain from Dallas, hadn't liked those little moments where Dallas had tried to be gentle, as if Pony were breakable. More, he likes how Dallas clearly loved how his neck looks with the St. Christopher. His eyes had been dark, focus intense as he kissed along scent glands, marking him up in a way that made their scents so confusing no longer sure where Pony's scent ended and Dallas' began.

It's possessive and better, his imagination couldn't have told him all of that.

"Probably not til Thursday," Dallas says around a cigarette, looking tired but pleased with himself, eyes flicking to Ponyboy's neck again. "Don't worry about me, kid." He leans on the doorframe, and it doesn't miss Ponyboy that his eyes focus on Ponyboy's neck. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, you better," Ponyboy grins, feeling silly and elated all at once. "See you, Dally." He leans forward for one more kiss, one more playful tug at his hair. And then he's going down the steps, slipping out of Buck's and into the cool night.

The entire way back to his house, he doesn't pay much attention. He's more caught up in the new feeling of the chain around his neck, on the feeling of the medallion banging against his chest, drunk on the entire afternoon spent kissing Dallas, touching him, laying next to him. It feels good, buoyant, and when he finally gets home, it's nice to see that Soda and Darry are home.

Darry looks tired as he flips a porkchop in the skillet. The smell makes Ponyboy's mouth water, Soda on the couch watching television. They both look to him when the door opens — Darry glances up and then freezes; Soda's nose wrinkles and when he looks at Ponyboy, his eyes get very, very wide in his face.

Ponyboy belatedly realizes what it means to his brothers that he's coming in later, scenting of Dallas, with the medallion on his neck. What every greaser knows. Reluctantly, he stands in the doorway, clearing his throat, teetering in indecision and hesitance. Darry's gripping the fork he's using for the porkchop hard, and Soda just seems to not know what to do or say.

A desperate, red flush works it's way up Ponyboy's neck and ears. The sound of grease pops and Ponyboy can't help himself, "Darry, it's gonna burn."

That jolts everyone back to themselves: Darry swears, moves back from the pan and turns the fire down. Soda continues to stare as Ponyboy darts to his room. He slams the door, unsure of how to even look at either of them, unsure of what they're going to think or say — only that he doesn't want either of them to reprimand him over it. That this is his first boyfriend and he should get to enjoy himself.

Homework has never seemed so appealing, and Ponyboy gets to his desk, pulls it out and works. Works until Darry hollers them out for dinner.

His stomach turns nervously as he gets up, well aware that whatever Darry cooked was good. He's still reluctant to get to the table — some of the pork chops are a little burned but the mashed potatoes look good and the corn on the cob is nice and Darry cannot stop staring at him as he sits.

They all pass the food around in silence, each of them very aware of each other. Soda keeps glancing over at Ponyboy, Darry keeps cutting and stabbing his food too hard, the television feels too loud and Ponyboy is having the hardest time chewing the porkchop, as good as it is.

A fork clatters down and Darry finally bites out, "You wanna tell me how you got that necklace?"

"Same way Sylvia got it," comes flying out of Ponyboy's mouth before he can stop himself. Soda gags on his corn and Darry looks downright angry and Ponyboy hastily adds, "Darry — c'mon! It ain't a big deal."

"Ain't a big deal?" Darry echoes, clearly upset. "Dallas shouldn't be involved with you, you're too young—"

"No I ain't—"

"Darry, he ain't," Soda overtakes Ponyboy's words, eyebrows raising. "He got initiated, ain't nothing wrong with Ponyboy and Dallas being together."

Of all moments, this has to be one for the books. Ponyboy's eyes go wide at Soda and Darry looks red faced at Soda. Of all reactions, Ponyboy hadn't betted on this, Soda raising his eyebrows. "I remember you told me when you got initiated, you went for—"

"I wasn't fourteen," Darry pushes back.

"But you knew the rules," Soda pushes gently. "If he gets initiated—"

"We can do what we want," Ponyboy pushes back as well, sure Darry can't go against this. He looks frustrated, angry. "I was already wearing Dallas' jacket, we already were close, Darry. There ain't nothing wrong with it."

For a moment, Darry looks like he'll protest more, that he'll push more. But something in the way Soda is looking at him, there's something there that is holding Darry back. Something that Ponyboy would love to know as soon as possible.

Darry breathes out of his nose. "Long as you keep up with school, fine. But those grades slip—"

"Yeah, yeah," Ponyboy says, throwing a pleading look at Soda when Darry turns his head. Soda pretends like he doesn't see as he digs back into his food. "I won't slack off."

That night, when he goes to bed, Soda still won't tell him what he almost said. Ponyboy goes to sleep with the question ringing around his head, unsatisfied.

At least when he dreams, there's no nightmares, only blackness.


School is different, though. The moment he enters, he can tell that people are looking at him differently, and it isn't just greasers that do it. The greasers of course are celebratory of his initiation; they clap his shoulders, gather round him. Some of them still offer things to him — and then back off at the sight of the St. Christopher around his neck.

Everyone knows what that means.

What's more striking is the way socs regard him. They whisper around, gossip with each other but Ponyboy is never sure of what exactly they're saying or how they're saying it. People just look at him in ways that are varied from some clear disgust on some seems to be a bit of admiration mixed with apprehension. One of Cherry's friends passes him and she gives him a disgusted look as she does so. He gives her a glare of his own this time, not wanting to have her have the last look.

It seems to work, her steps quickening as she moves down the hallway.

If the teachers know anything, they don't say anything about it. Ponyboy goes through his classes much the same until lunch time. The bell rings, and Ponyboy gathers his things, on the other side of the school. He moves as quickly as he can, going down the isolated hallway to the parking lot when he sees Cherry, having missed her scent in the throng of others.

She's alone on her side of the wall, wearing a pretty blue sweater that resembles the one from the night at the movies. For a moment, he thinks there's a lonely quality about her as she stands there, her hands clutching one of her books, head cast down, lost in thought. She looks up, though, as his sneakers squeak on the floor.

It's then that it occurs to them both at the same time: they're both alone in this corridor, where people are passing them on each side for the most part. Only one middle class kid runs past them, and Cherry's eyes are focused on him for a moment, unable to look away. Ponyboy keeps his gaze on her too, no longer willing to look away, searching her face for whatever words she wants to say. He's sure she must want to say something: he can see it in the set of her mouth, the way her eyes linger on him. Maybe about the way he looked, maybe about the initiation.

He looks at her defiantly, only slowing down a little bit, and whatever words she wants to say die on her half parted lips when her eyes drop to his neck. Her hand goes up, almost to her own neck and Ponyboy thinks all sorts of things at that moment: You could've said something earlier. Did you think that you really had a chance with Dallas? You going to even keep your promise with the lawyer?

Then Cherry whirls around, her red hair glinting in the light, and she's the one who leaves this time, eyes lowered.

The last thing he sees is her hair, her form turning into the hallway. That's all there is to it.

Ponyboy makes his way to the parking lot. Steve is there, honking the horn in irritation. Two-Bit and Johnny are waving him over and he runs over to them. He doesn't mention her to them, just climbs in and grins at Johnny as Steve floors it out of there.

He doesn't think about Cherry for the rest of the school day. All he does is get all his schoolwork done, and when Steve picks them up at the end of the day, he asks to get to Buck's. Steve doesn't even put up a protest about Darry. They all know the score at this point.

Buck's isn't very busy, he finds. He goes up the steps easily, and the door is already open, Dallas sticking his head out, grinning. "Knew I scented you. C'mon, kid."

"I ain't a kid," Ponyboy huffs with no real heat behind it. Dallas doesn't look that much better than he did on Sunday, groaning when he sits in the bed. For a moment, Ponyboy wavers in concern — then Dallas' hand tugs him into the bed.

He follows him into it, and Dallas' lips are on his before he can think to say or do anything else. He falls into the bed with him, easy, like he's been doing this for more than a few days.

It feels so damn good to kiss him. All those times he used to get annoyed at Soda or Darry or anyone else for being so into this that they were distracted? He gets now why they liked to do this so much. He loves to feel Dallas kiss him, loves the feeling of his hand in his hair, that starting to be familiar warmth creeping up his neck, the way that the arousal he feels starts to quicken in him.

He hates it, though, when Dallas hisses or has to pull back. Ponyboy wants more, so much goddamn more, yet he has to be careful. Dallas senses it, looking a bit apologetic beside him, hair messed up from Ponyboy's hands. "Sorry, kid. I don't think I'm up for much for awhile."

"It's okay," glumly comes out of him, even if that's not entirely true. Dallas does look good though, like this, eye still healing, body still a bit bruised up. "We got to kissing and I ain't even ask how you were."

"Not as bad as I was yesterday," Dallas sighs out, bringing a palm to rub at his good eye. "Got a visit from your brother, though. Didn't sound too happy about me and you."

A scowl crosses Ponyboy's face. "Darry shouldn't—"

"He's your brother, I get it," Dallas shrugs, "Ain't gonna stop me, either. I told him that." The rakish grin he gives Ponyboy makes him relax a bit, grateful that Dallas' reputation as the toughest hood still proved true even now. If anyone wasn't going to fold in front of Darry, it was Dallas.

He flops down on the bed, coming closer. "Good. I ain't... I'm not soft or nothing. I don't wanna have to break up with you or..." He struggles for words, images popping up of omegas over protected, guarded. An image that doesn't work for him, curling up more on the bed. "He tell you anything else?"

"No," Dallas tugs him closer by his hip. "Nothing I ain't heard of before. I'm not trying to get you in trouble, not like that." He nips at Ponyboy's ear, and that warmth pushes it's way forward again.

Ponyboy follows it into a sloppy, happy kiss that Dallas returns. He loves the feeling, hand grasping at Dallas' side — only to ease up when Dallas gives a hiss of pain. His hand jerks back, only for Dallas to grasp it, putting it somewhere else on his side, without pain. It's comforting, and then they part again, Ponyboy still wanting to talk a bit, fingers tracing Dallas' cheek. The bruising on his skin doesn't really mar him at all; it adds to him.

"Pony?" Dallas asks, eyes dark, clearly wanting to lean closer again, keep on kissing but expectant. Waiting for him to say something else. Ponyboy has a few things he probably could ask, should ask.

And then, well. He leans closer, pressing his nose against Dallas'. Letting Dallas lift his hand up to touch his neck, to scent him and then all he cares about after that is kissing Dallas. Touching his side, curling against him.

Talking can come later. Much later.


"You going to keep coming in late, huh," Darry remarks when Ponyboy comes inside. He looks up from where he's cooking, gaze critical. He's surely not missed the hasty way Ponyboy fixed up his hair or the fact that his clothes are wrinkled — or the hickeys that are on Ponyboy's neck. They're all on the left side, lazily placed there by Dallas over an hour ago, on the opposite side of where mating ones would go.

"It ain't that late," Ponyboy remarks, knowing how pointed those words are now, might forever be. "I already ate, you don't have to make anything for me."

For a moment, Darry looks so much like their father as he cleans his hands on the dishtowel, like he used to do on Sundays, making dinner. It makes Ponyboy's chest constrict a little, and then Darry's harsher expression of concern settles on his face. "You need to get to bed, early. We gotta go see the lawyer tomorrow morning."

The door slams, right as Ponyboy's veins run ice cold with worry. Soda bumps into him, and they're both staring uncomfortably at Darry. "What for?" Soda almost chokes out behind Ponyboy.

"He said he's got a definite court date," Darry draws out, clearing his throat. "So we all need to get there, soon as it's seven-fifteen."

Ponyboy dully thinks that it's a good thing he already ate. He wouldn't be able to now, after that.