takes place in my soc au "the otherside".

He's never told Ponyboy his birthday.

It's never been all that necessary, in Dallas' eyes. His family never celebrated it, and he only ever remembered because of his aunt and uncle. He didn't want what other kids seemed to have: cake, ice cream, dozens of people over that evolved into drinking, loud music, showing off.

None of that has mattered to Dallas, in the end. Cherry used to try and get him involved, get him to tell his birthday. Sylvia used to pry, and Two-Bit would nudge him over it as their own birthdays rolled around — Cherry's celebrated with a small amount of money spent on make up she could never otherwise afford; Marcia who would go to Soc spots at times with her boyfriends; Sylvia who would drag him to parties by the river; Two-Bit who'd get a party thrown even though it was more about his wrestling accomplishments than anything else.

Dallas had never told any of them, just mentioned his real age every now and then. If the day was anything of note, it was never something he talked about or lingered on.

That fact remains the same now in 1976 as any other year as he walks into the house, the truck parked where it needed to be outside, his boots beside the door he shuts carefully. He needs a shower, to wash off the scent of outside, of being in a truck driving miles and miles, to get the dirt off of him. Nothing he did was particularly violent; you just drove to where you needed to be, exchanged the drugs and money, and you left, no sweat.

Ponyboy had always worried about it, his hand wringing, his hazel eyes wide in his face as he'd asked Dallas about it the first time, as he worried. It had led to an argument with Dorothy-Rae before she had passed, and she'd put his head on straight about it.

In the end, he'd done it. And as Dallas grabs the coffee tin, pulls the top off out shoves in money, he feels a sense of peace and pride settle in his chest. That was enough money to keep everything running and to keep just in case the feds came to them, breathing down their back. In case they had to escape.

Not that he thinks it will happen soon. Or ever.

He just had to make sure, just in case, as he puts the tin back. To be prepared was good, a sign that he was doing good as a mate.

No one had ever given him a manual on how to be a good mate or a good husband. He'd seen it sometimes: his parents holding hands as his father leaned over to kiss his mother the table; reading things about the Curtises, hearing Ponyboy talk softly at night about his parents dancing in the house together; watching episodes of Newlyweds and seeing which couples seemed to work and those didn't.

None of them were really a roadmap on it all. Dallas hadn't even wanted a mate until that night in 1965, until that morning on Jay Mountain.

Ever since then, he'd been trying to do his best, to fumble his way through it all. It's only on his 29th birthday that he really thinks he's succeeded in that as he looks around the kitchen. It's Ponyboy's space, really, not his — yet the space is something Dallas has pride in, having a hand in almost all of it in some way.

He's the one who's bought Ponyboy biscuit cutters that are so well made that they still look new years on; the one who found a pitcher shaped like a rooster, glued the handle together and left it for Ponyboy to find to cheer him up; they both had taken pains to repaint the place together when Dorothy-Rae had passed, having fun as they did it. To say nothing of the table that Dallas had gotten repaired — yet had asked that their carved in initials etched in the corner remain.

That sense of pride extends to the rest of the house as he walks to their room: the photos of him and Ponyboy at the carnival that are hung up; the basket that Ponyboy had gotten with his own money that Dallas was fond of, as he puts his shirt in there; the blue blanket that's illuminated by the moonlight, thrown over Ponyboy is one that he picked himself, loving the way it paired with Ponyboy's skin, with how he looked so beautiful against it.

This was home. It was a true home, with a mate he loved, cared for.

He would give it up for nothing, he thinks, as he pulls the covers away to see Ponyboy, his long eyelashes against his cheeks, his hair curling almost at the tips of his shoulders, the mating mark on his skin more faded than what Dallas liked.

What he does like, as he looks at the old gown Ponyboy's wearing — of course he'd work his way through all of the laundry while Dallas wasn't home — is that it's clear that Ponyboy is safe here. That Dallas has created a safe home for them to live in, to be with each other.

He takes off his jeans, slots himself beside Ponyboy, to push that pretty gown up his thighs, tipping his head to nuzzle at Ponyboy's neck. The scent is deep, immediately stirs his cock in response to his mate, and his mouth waters, wanting to sink his fangs into Ponyboy's neck. He nuzzles against his skin as he grips the gown, working his hardening cock against Ponyboy's own. Ponyboy's skin is warm against him, with no new scars or scabs there from farm work.

There's no surprise, only satisfaction when Ponyboy squirms in his sleep against him, the way he's done countless nights before. The nights alone are always made up like this, with Dallas making sure that he fucks into Ponyboy, allows him to wake up knotted on his cock.

Only this time, Ponyboy opens his eyes before Dallas can get there, the moonlight catching his eye to light it up in that pretty hazel that Dallas loves so much. "Heard you come in. You alright?"

Dallas grins back at him, allows Ponyboy to reach over, to check his face, his hair, the tips of his fingers cold against his warm skin. He runs his own hand down Ponyboy's thigh, nodding. "I'm good, kid."

Ponyboy hums, wrapping his arms around Dallas, moving closer. The scent of slick is thin, not as strong as it could be. It's there, though, and Dallas is the one who groans when Ponyboy's teeth sink into his own mating mark, to claim, to welcome him home.

Yeah. This is a good birthday, he thinks. There's no need for cake or candles or expensive presents. No need for acknowledgement or singing or beers.

And all he needed was Ponyboy, was this home they had together.