Scents are important to everyone, particularly once they present. It's how their dynamics are determined, it's how some people know danger from home, a lover from an enemy, a stranger from a friend.

Ponyboy's read books — fiction and non — about scents, about how they affect people. About what it meant to be with someone you cared about, how a brother's scent differed from your parents, to your lovers, to your mates. He's thought about the way it has affected Johnny, who's scent glands were burned in the fire so badly he could hardly scent anything. It made him pull out more books about it, more non fiction than fictional, piling up beside his bed when he remembers, earmarked here and there.

Reading about it is one thing — confined to words that were only as good as what the author could express on the page. Experiencing it is another, and as Dallas moves away from kissing his mouth to burying his nose in his everwarm neck, Ponyboy doesn't think it does it justice. Books don't get how good it is to scent Dallas in the theater, to get Dallas all over him, to want more, to want to be covered in him. They can't accurately tell him what it's like to feel Dallas' hands all over him, to want to get his own hands up Dallas' shirt, to dig his fingernails into his skin, to get more than just his scent in him, to have his body on him, of how it makes him almost entirely someone else like this.

That arousal in him just stokes up higher and higher as Dallas' nose presses into his neck, near his scent glands. He's so slick at this point that every time he feels Dallas' nose flare, every time he feels his hands get lower on him, he rocks forward, wanting more, slicking up more in response. He feels almost dizzy with it, feeling Dallas growl against his throat, while he tries to move, wanting to bury his nose in Dallas' own neck.

A whine leaves him as he shifts their bodies, Dallas too tall to make it work without shifting more.

Dimly, he knows that there are people coming in and out of the theater. That they might get caught like this, and instead of it making Ponyboy nervous or self conscious, he feels a possessive thrill run up his spine, not able to contain himself with the thought that they'd all know: he was with Dallas.

They'd all know that he was with Dallas, here in this dark theater, scenting like him. They'd all understand the moment they came inside that they belonged to each other in the here and now. His fingers dig in deeper, and he moves until he can nuzzle Dallas' cheek, run his hand through hair, trying to scent him back, trying to get Dallas on him.

Headiness settles into him as Dallas' tongue laves against his neck, the scent glands there. A thrill of arousal starts pooling in him differently now, and Ponyboy rocks his hips again. There's zero mistake there: he's starting to get hard, and so is Dallas.

There's no real thought, Ponyboy just falling into a rhythm, like his body has known what to do without his say so. Dallas' tongue leaving wet strips on his neck that cool in the theater, Ponyboy's hands trying to work themselves up his shirt, trying to dig into Dallas' skin; their hips shifting, meeting each other more and more, the pressure starting to build, every single thought starting to just turn to one thought: that he needs this, that he needs to relieve it with Dallas, that he wants his scent, he wants to just—

A light shines suddenly on Dallas' skin, Ponyboy jerking back. "There you two are!"

Both of them look towards an all too gleeful Two-Bit and an irritated theater usher holding a flashlight. Ponyboy scowls, Dallas baring his teeth at Two-Bit as he walks over with popcorn and drinks. He clearly knew what he was doing, Ponyboy slipping out of Dallas' lap as the usher glares at them. Dallas loops a finger into his belt loop, jerking Ponyboy closer.

"Don't make me come back here," the usher warns as Two-Bit takes a seat, propping his feet up. "That goes for you too — feet down, Keith."

"You ain't my momma, this ain't her furniture," Two-Bit quips, grinning at the usher, picking up the popcorn like he means to throw it. "Get on, don't you got some kiddies to watch after?"

"Asshole," Dallas doesn't even wait for the usher to leave, kicking Two-Bit in his ankle. Ponyboy sits between them, wishing he could have those hands on him again, jeans too tight, and the last bit of wet Dallas left on his neck drying. The slick he feels makes him want to whine, Dallas hissing out, "I ain't ever do that to you!"

"Yeah, you did," Two-Bit replies cheerfully, "Almost had — hey!" It's Ponyboy who kicks him this time, not in any mood for Two-Bit to even hint at the existence of anyone else in his boyfriend's lap in this theater, not wanting to even entertain the argument that could come out. He seems to get the hint enough, passing over the soda and popcorn to them.

Ponyboy takes it, Dallas taking his own water from Two-Bit. The cartoons are starting to wrap up, Jerry running on screen in a flurry. He wants to concentrate on it, he wants to get ready for the movie to start properly and instead, Ponyboy just wants Dallas' hands on him, wants his nose buried in his neck, wants to do something about the slick still pooling in and on him.

It's hard to not think about it at all as the movie starts to unfold. About how close Dallas is, at the same time being too far away. He wants to reach over, wants to touch Dallas, wants to get back in his lap the way he was before, go further.

He tries to concentrate on the movie. In the first few minutes, as it shows the funeral, the pallbearers, the toss of coins. A few more people trickle in as the movie plays, Ponyboy reaching for popcorn Two-Bit has, for drinks. The music is entrancing, and more than that, it makes Ponyboy cut his eyes at Dallas, to see how he looks. His eyes are mostly on the screen, knee bouncing with the movie's music.

There's no helping himself, grinning at Dallas as he looks at the screen, at the enjoyment Dallas is having of it. Two-Bit glances at Ponyboy from his spot opposite Dallas, and he raises his eyebrows at Ponyboy almost daringly.

Instead of backing down, Ponyboy reaches over, for more popcorn, popping it in his mouth and leaning back, trying to at least behave, make sure he can look at the movie instead of giving into more. That doesn't quite work; not when as the music crests, he feels a hand nudge his shirt up. It takes everything in him to chew on his popcorn as if nothing was happening, feeling the cool end of the skull ring Dallas wears running up his back, his fingers following. That spark from before spreads as Dallas runs his fingers up and down Ponyboy's back, getting teasingly close to Ponyboy's waistband, the scent of slick starting to really permeate.

Whatever's happening on screen is simply irrelevant to the feeling of those fingers, the feel of nail, how it teases him. Ponyboy's emotions, his world shrinks down to this, only this, and that flush he woke up with, the one from the bus isn't truly going to go away. Not with the way he shifts back, Dallas moving his finger up, away from his waistband.

A whine leaves Ponyboy, he shifts backward again, trying not to look at Dallas' face.

The people in front of them — two rows ahead — seem to hear, the girl shifting in her seat.

Embarrassment runs through him, Ponyboy trying to reach around now.

Dallas, however, takes it as a challenge. He presses the flat of his hand on Ponyboy's back, moving to press his lips against Ponyboy's ear, breath warm, "Don't get all quiet now, Pone."

"We could—" get kicked out, yelled at, caught all almost past through his lips, and all are promptly extinguished when Dallas kisses him again. None of that matters in that moment that Dallas' lips meet his, when he kisses Dallas back.

The movie keeps playing on the silver screen, yet all Ponyboy cares about is kissing Dallas, about finding a way into his lap. He's not sure how he manages it, feeling heady and wanting, except he is, right back where he belongs. His own hands grasp Dallas' shirt, then thread themselves beneath the fabric to touch his sides, his skin warm beneath Ponyboy's fingers, his scent overwhelmingly good.

There's no aggression like it was in the rumble, no tinge of possession and need like it had been at the bonfire. Just need, want, as they kiss, as he gets bolder, feeling Dallas' tongue against his, his hand pushing Ponyboy's shirt up, nails now running against his skin in a way that's deeper, harder.

This time, when Ponyboy whines it's because Dallas drags his nails down his back in a way that just feels electric, makes him cant his hips against Dallas with want. It's louder when it leaves his throat, not tinged with embarrassment but need.

One of the other people in the theater says something that Ponyboy can't quite make out as he draws back for air, looking at the grin on Dallas' face, at the way that even in the darkness of the moviehouse, Ponyboy can catch a glimpse of his sharp teeth. It's only then that Ponyboy is aware that he's got enough slick pooling that his jeans are getting a little uncomfortable, that he wants to move, that maybe they should. "You done already?" Dallas teases him.

"No," Ponyboy runs his hands over Dallas' sides, feeling his jeans tightening for another reason, well aware that Dallas isn't even fighting his own erection. "Wanna go for more."

This time when Dallas kisses him, he can't fight down the moan in his throat. It's useless — the spark of shame he feels at being heard like this, maybe caught, is fleeting. All Ponyboy wants, hands pushing up Dallas' shirt, his hips starting to work with Dallas, is more. He wants more of Dallas' tongue in his mouth, wants more of his hands on his warm skin, wants more of their hips starting to grind up against each other. He wants, needs —

"Can you two quit it?" Dallas' fingers still on his hips, Ponyboy pulling back, turning around to look behind him. There's an adult there in the theater he hadn't seen come in, the glare from him seen briefly from the screen. "I'm trying to watch."

"So am I," Two-Bit says with laughter of his own, Dallas tugging Ponyboy back, his tongue licking a wet stripe on his neck, right where his scent is.

Any form of decency just leaves Ponyboy. How can he be decent when Dallas' tongue feels like it's always been meant to be on his neck? How can he think of being polite when Dallas rocks his hips against Ponyboy's in a way that makes him dig his fingers into his shoulders, more of that arousal sparking, more slick coming out of him.

This isn't like the shower or the previous make outs. It's something else, something more and Ponyboy feels ravenous for it, hand coming to grasp Dallas' hair, to keep him against his neck. He wants to think more clearly — he knows that he can't get into trouble, that he has to behave enough to not end up in a cop car — except his body is no longer listening to the rational side of his brain. It can't; he's running on instinct a need... a need for something more that he can't grasp onto in the same way he can bury his finger in Dallas' hair and moan for.

Of course, though, that's what gets the usher's attention. One moment, he's thinking that maybe he could move his hand to kiss Dallas better, that maybe he could get his jeans down and the next, a flashlight is in his face, the light half blinding him.

"Out, out!" The usher barks at them. Everything turns into a blur: Two-Bit throwing his popcorn, Ponyboy hastily making his way off of Dallas' lap, Dallas himself calling the usher asshole!

Then they're being pushed outside the theater, to the front door. The lights are bright, too bright, and there are people of all ages around. The half haze he's in doesn't entirely abate when Dallas grasps his hand, but he does register that they're running.

He grins, keeping up his way with Dallas and Two-Bit as they ignore the front door. The usher yells at them — Two-Bit goes back to the theater and laughing, Ponyboy goes with him. The court is forgotten, the need to lie low isn't there. He's just following behind Dallas and Two-Bit, zig zagging between the seats, whopping and hollering until they're at the back door.

"Eat shit!" Ponyboy yells out, right as Two-Bit opens the door. They all rush through the back, laughing, jostling each other as they go through the back corridor and then hit the outside, awash in sunlight. For a moment, Ponyboy feels like the afternoon before the movie theater, before Bob was stabbed. The thought crosses his mind about the kids in the field, about the way the tall grass looked, and he just runs faster, feeling like a kid again.

A kid without the worry of a court case. A kid without the worry of a murder above his head. He's just a fourteen year old kid with his boyfriend and his friend, running from a movie theater into a bright afternoon.

There's no mutual decision on where to go, he just turns his head back, looking at Two-Bit with his windswept dark red hair laughing raucously, Dallas beside him with that sharp fanged mouth of his, both of them about to catch up to Ponyboy. Ponyboy catches Dallas' gaze, at the way it sharpens, and instead of slowing down, he simply speeds up. They're a pack: fluid, resonate, all of them able to figure out what they want, where to go with a turn of the head, with a ribbon of trust and love between them.

All that training for track lets him keep more than an arm's length away from them (and in his mind's eye, he can see it, Dallas' fingers outstretched, trying to draw him in, being frustrated and wanting, the closer he gets yet the farther way Ponyboy gets) as he cuts behind the theater, hitting the gravel, then the grass behind the shops. Most of the kids in Tulsa used this to go to the shops, not wanting to use the road if they didn't have to. There's a hill there that he takes to, stumbling over a stick, forced to slow down, not wanting to tip over the edge. For a moment, Ponyboy glances downward, trying to see if there's anyone there, seeing a flash of something blue halfway—

That's enough for Dallas to catch up to him, slamming into him behind. Where Dallas seems to steady himself enough to not tip over, Ponyboy goes right over the edge in a flail of limbs, no match for Dallas' much bigger form. The patch of blue turns out to be a person — which he finds out when he trips over them, both of them hitting the bottom of the hill in a painful heap hard enough to knock the breath out of him for a moment.

Quickly, he tries to get up, apologize, hands trying to steady them, their scent familiar. "Sorry! I'm..."

His voice dies in his throat. The patch of blue had looked familiar. Now he knows why: it's Cherry Valance, her face blotchy, her bright red hair full of twigs and leaves. She's wearing the sweater that she had worn on the night at the movie house, and he's not sure if she's looking at him with disgust or anger as she gets to her feet.

Or... something else. She seems on the edge of tears as Ponyboy pulls his hand away, her lip trembling, her mouth half open. There's dirt caked on her cheek, and to his dismay, he realizes it's all over her. "Ponyboy?"

Ponyboy's mind freezes up the moment his name leaves her mouth. He thinks of the court case, of Bob's body in the moonlight with blood spilling out, of Cherry refusing to see Johnny with a sharp snap of her voice, of how she had said she could see the sunset real good on her side, of what she had promised to say, of everything that happened in that week. And, too, he thinks of her in the hallway refusing to speak to him, of loving Bob, of her initials scrawled with his on the notebook he'd given back to her, the careful way she had refused to touch his fingers.

He lets go of her of abruptly, hearing footsteps behind him. An arm wraps around his waist, Dallas' sharp teeth nipping into the shell of his ear. The way Dallas growls out his words reverberates against Ponyboy's back, "Don't you have somewhere to be, Soc?"

Not Cherry. Soc.

Ponyboy thinks of Cherry saying she could fall in love with Dallas, right in front of Bob who couldn't hear her. Thinks of the St. Christopher on his chest as he leans back on Dallas, looking at Cherry's ruddy, dirt streaked face, at the sweater she wears. "You remember the rules of the rumble, don't you?" Dallas continues, sharper than before, a warning there for her to leave. For once, Ponyboy doesn't mind it, thinks he's got every right to say it as his arm tightens around him.

"Yeah," Cherry's tongue darts out, licks at her lips. Whatever emotion she's feeling, they disappear as if they never existed off of her face like any other Soc. "I remember."

Two-Bit follows down the hill and Cherry turns her back, gathering her skirt and she walks up the hill, away from them. Her legs wobble as she makes her way up, and once she's on even ground, she walks faster and faster.

Ponyboy wonders what she thinks. What she sees. If she's even thought about him, or Dallas or Johnny. If she cares what Bob did to them, if she cares what might happen to him if the court rules against them, if she thinks about what she's going to say on the stand or not if—

And then Dallas tugs him closer, warm breath on his ear and neck, chasing away any thought of her, "You hungry, kid?"

Cherry disappears in the distance. Ponyboy turns his head to look at the half grin on Dallas' face, the fact that he doesn't look once up. "Yeah. Then the bonfire."

He allows Dallas to steer him away, Two-Bit flanking them both.

There's no reason for Cherry to cross his mind again.

next up: an unexpected interlude with cherry. and then ponyboy's heat. the next couple of chapters will be longer because of pony's heat and the upcoming trial. thanks so much for reading! 💖💖