The bathroom is awash in red, still, and Ponyboy sits on the toilet lid, trying to pretend like he can't hear Dallas pacing right outside the door. It's been like this for what feels like hours, even with the heat still there in Pony's midsection, tugging at his instincts. He can hear the hum from the lightbulbs that frame the heart shaped mirror, can feel the quiet static of the television that Dallas turned on once just to try and fill the silence.

Both of them had sat on the bed for a few minutes, having half starts and stutters. Dallas' eyes had gotten as gleamingly wet as they had during the car ride, and Ponyboy had instinctively kissed him, pulled him close. Dallas had kissed back; but when it was over, there was still the facts at hand: that the moment his heat was over, the moment they stepped out of the door of the heat hotel, the trial was happening. There was no way around it, and Ponyboy wasn't ready for it. He'd missed pivotal days, had missed what he'd needed to hear and now his options had narrowed down starkly into either staying with his brothers; being forced into a boy's home; or at the very worst, serving a prison sentence alongside Johnny who would surely get the electric chair.

As soon as the realization of it hit, Ponyboy had gone to the bathroom, thinking he'd be sick, that something might come up out of fear and disgust. Dallas had paced the door, and all Ponyboy could do was sit, thinking, letting his thoughts run around.

He hadn't been thinking of his future, hadn't dreaded things enough and now it was inevitable. He would more than likely be sent somewhere he didn't want to go, whether it was a boys home or jail. They'd never heard back from the social worker and Darry couldn't say everything on the phone.

Eugene was smart, too. He'd probably figured out that the whole thing was Ponyboy's fault — from the moment he left home, to the moment he spat at those Socs — yet without him there, he probably couldn't defend Ponyboy as well. Even if Eugene had encouraged him not to give them what they wanted... hadn't he just done that?

Regret, anger wells up in him. His heat had come at the wrong time. If it had held up longer, if he hadn't had this, things wouldn't be so bleak. It wouldn't feel as if everything suddenly wasn't crashing around him like this.

Worse, still, as Dallas' feet kick up at the carpet, is the fact that Dallas blames himself. Ponyboy knows he does without the way that he's tried to start sentences and has ended them, with the way he's been swearing and wearing out the carpet.

He doesn't know how to fix himself, he doesn't know how to force his body not to have a heat anymore. It feels almost like he's in the church again, trying not to cry while Johnny yells at him. Except it's worse; Johnny was a friend he trusted, who he ran off with. Dallas wasn't. He was more than that, more than a friend.

The thought just makes his chest warm up more and his eyes get hot with tears he should stop having.

"Pony?" Dallas has finally stopped pacing, finally turning towards the bathroom. "You okay in there, kid?"

"I'm okay," his voice is shaky, scared, as the door opens fully. Dallas still hasn't put anything more on him than a pair of jeans — something Ponyboy dislikes — hair still a dark mess, his gaze intent. Dallas almost moves like he's hurt as he comes to Ponyboy, sitting on the floor between his knees, looking at him with that upset expression on his face that Ponyboy hates more than anything, how hurt it is, how it's searching for reassurance, for...

He reaches out. Dallas doesn't pull away, allows Ponyboy's fingers to thread themselves through his hair, down to his neck. Has Dallas ever been this vulnerable before with anyone else besides him? Has he allowed someone to touch him like this before?

Even as distraught as he is, Ponyboy doubts it. Not with the way Dallas shuts his eyes after a moment, shoulders slowly dropping the more Ponyboy touches his hair, his neck, his shoulders. The only thing that permeates the silence of the bathroom is the sound of their breathing, of the pipes rattling every now and then, of the way Ponyboy touches him.

"It's not your fault," the words come out quietly, Ponyboy not letting up, "What happened with the court. It ain't; it's my heat that was the problem. Not you, Dally." Dallas tenses up again beneath him; Ponyboy allows his nails to scratch down into the ridge of skin beneath him. "It wasn't. Couldn't let me have a heat in front of everyone? Go to the lawyer with slick all over me."

"Shoulda called. Shoulda made you call," Dallas rests his cheek on Ponyboy's bare thigh, arms crossing at his own waist, as if he's trying to comfort himself with his own words. "We could've done something."

"We can't now," he tries to steel his voice, as best he can. "We just — we gotta go. When it's over." Ponyboy doesn't like that he has to say this, that Dallas grips himself tighter and his teeth sink into the soft flesh of his thigh a little more; it makes him slick up as a response, makes that feeling of heat in his body get stronger than before, almost overriding.

Dallas pulls his cheek away from his thigh, Pony moving to look at his too dark eyes, at the way his expression is almost pleading. His nostrils flare from the slick, voice thick as he speaks, "If you go in, if Johnny gets the chair — if it's cause of me..." His mouth hangs, twists. Something passes behind his eyes that Ponyboy can't name. "I ain't leaving here. I promise. Not leaving you, him, alone."

There's something in those words that makes Ponyboy feel as if it's more. As if there's something beneath it he can't grasp the total meaning of, yet he accepts. That no matter what happened, Dallas would be there. That no matter if he was going to jail or not, Dallas would be there. How, Ponyboy didn't know.

He only knows Dallas means it. That he's meant it same as anything else, if not more, and he loves him for it. Loves Dallas, on his knees, hands around his waist, eyes wet with tears he can't shed, saying he won't leave. Loves him just the same as when he was angry and snapping, the same as when he was throwing a joke, the same as when he'd woken up beside Ponyboy days ago, confused yet willing to listen to Ponyboy.

Dallas surges up. Ponyboy tips his head downward to kiss Dallas back, to shut his eyes and let his body take over for a moment. To kiss Dallas deeply, to feel Dallas pull him closer until Ponyboy nips at Dallas' lower mouth. It makes Dallas pull away, and Ponyboy says, "Let's go back to bed. Please?"

When Dallas stands up, he offers his hand to Ponyboy. Ponyboy takes it, and follows him out, turning to turn the light off. It's there that he pauses at his reflection in the mirror: at the various bruises, scratchmarks, bitemarks on his body. At the way he looks besides Dallas, at his taller broader form, and the fact that both of their necks are still red and yellow from hickies, from bites, from teasing. Even if the right side of their necks aren't as dark as the leftside.

All at once, looking at where the crook of his neck connected to his shoulder on the right, Ponyboy knows how this heat is going to end. Has to end.

It's a choice Darry would never want him to make, it's a choice even Soda might not be able to justify as Ponyboy flicks off the lights, mind racing. It isn't their choice to make, though. It never has been. It's one that would get some greasers uncomfortable, would make Socs talk about him even more.

It's his to ask though, of Dallas. A way to cement the promise Dallas made to him, to cement what they had, and the best expression Ponyboy has for Dallas as he makes his way to the bed, Dallas shedding his jeans. He's about to get into the bed when Ponyboy says, "Wait. Dally — look at me."

Dallas turns his head with some confusion, Ponyboy's skin feeling suddenly cool, his hands clammy. He has to ball up his fists, keeping his eyes on Dallas. A thousand words, ways to ask go through his head, but the simplest falls out of his mouth, "Mate me. I want — I want to be your mate." He watches Dallas intently, at the way he seems to need a moment to process what's just been said to him. As if it can't be real.

It is, though. In this moment, it is the realest thing on Earth as Dallas looks down at him, as his facial expression tries to work out what he's feeling, eyebrows working together, mouth opening to protest out, "It ain't gonna look good in front of a judge. Darry would snap my neck—"

"He's not here," Ponyboy moves closer until he's between Dallas' legs, until he's gripping his waist, nails digging into Dallas as he speaks. "You are. I am. I want to be your mate, Dally. I love you." The word has never been spoken before to Dallas, and the way he looks surprised, as if it isn't real doesn't deter Ponyboy. It only makes him more determined. "I don't wanna mate someone I don't love, someone I don't trust. I want you, Dally, just you. If — If everything bad happens when we leave, I could get through it, long as you were my mate. Long as we love each other."

There's a shiver that runs up Dallas' spine, goes through his body when Ponyboy says that. Dallas doesn't say the words back — instead, he cups the back of Ponyboy's head, fingers digging into his hair. He knows that Dallas must be thinking of a thousand things at once, must be feeling all of them as he leans forward, forehead against Ponyboy's, a hair's away from a kiss. Ponyboy wants him to say the words back, say, I love you so badly in that moment, waiting on a precipice.

To know that Dallas means it back.

Dallas' other hand reaches down, trails down the necklace, to the medallion. For a moment, Ponyboy thinks he's going to pull it off of him, say no and leave. Instead, Dallas intertwines his fingers with the chain, and the tugs he gives it is gentle, not rough at all, not meant to take it away from Ponyboy. "You're mine. You been mine since you got this." It isn't the words he wants to hear; they're still heavy in their weight, in what they mean.

It's a yes, in so many words.

Ponyboy is the one who kisses Dallas this time, who takes over. It's him who drags Dallas closer, and when Dallas groans, he knows that this is the right thing to do. The only thing to do, with someone he trusts with his life, someone he does love. Someone who feels the same as him, someone who wants to be with him too.

The heat finally sparks back up fully in him: he can feel it as Dallas licks into his mouth, as the scent of slick permeates the air again. Except it's not Dallas in control here and now; where alphas have always dominated in this, in mating, it's Ponyboy's choice, it's him at the helm as he pushes Dallas to the bed, needing to do this now, before anything else could change, before anything else could try and tear them apart from each other.

For once in the entire heat, Ponyboy can think more clearly than before. He's still new to this, new to what it's like to shove Dallas into the bed, to look at his half parted mouth, glinting with sharp fangs that he has fantasized over for months now, new to the need to have a tie that is much more than physical — he is new to it all, yes, but the path is clear as the hickies on Dallas' neck that he put there days, maybe hours ago. It had just been teasing, had been playing at being mates.

As he leans down to kiss Dallas, hand reaching for his cock, it's no longer playing. There are no more games anymore now, and there wouldn't be anymore.

Dallas has always been real to him, so real that it used to scare him. It doesn't scare him in this moment as Dallas groans hotly in his mouth, as his cock slides into him so deliciously that Ponyboy's already swearing, the reality of it all is what he needs. Dallas grounds him here, in this room, in the future. The way that he grips Ponyboy's hips so hard it hurts just makes it better, spurs Ponyboy on to look at Dallas' flushed face, at his dark eyes, at the way he so clearly is entranced by Ponyboy above him, as he is.

Ponyboy isn't sure what he sees, entirely. He knows what he sees: the desperation on Dallas' face, the glint of his fangs, the scars on Dallas from various run ins, the hair on his chest his fingers clutch as he moves his hips, his shoulders and chest displaying the bites, the scratches Ponyboy has given him in the days here, the hickies along both columns of his neck. Marks that Dallas was his, that he'd always be his. He'd already claimed him — this was just one more piece, wasn't it?

More slick gushes out of him; Dallas' hips snap up, pull Ponyboy out of his head. "C'mon, kid." There's a daring grin on his face, a challenge. "Don't stay in your head. Not now." He grips Ponyboy's hips, shifts, and when he angles his thrust up this time, Ponyboy sees stars with where he hits him. What little control he has spirals out of him, Dallas hitting home again so hard that Ponyboy loses his grip for a second, half bent over Dallas as he takes over.

He wants to take control, to push where he wants; it doesn't happen though, Ponyboy moaning as Dallas drives into him, as he makes his breath come up shorter with every stroke that hits him exactly where he needs it, where he wants it, where his body craves it. It's when he's right at the edge that Dallas slows down, when Ponyboy can finally get a better grip on himself, whining in his throat, looking down at Dallas with a glare. "Don't tease me."

"Why not?" Dallas smirks at him, his dark eyes glinting beneath the hair matted to his forehead. "You look real pretty—"

"Can't tease your mate," the way that Dallas' expression transforms at the word mate is something Ponyboy won't forget: the confidence slipping away, the vulnerable spark to his face, the surprise there that Ponyboy would use it. He doesn't waste another moment, feeling Dallas pause in his thrust. "It ain't fair, Dally. We-We gonna be mates, you gotta treat me right."

It's a joke. It isn't. Ponyboy feels the grip Dallas has on his waist go a little slack; he takes the moment to wrap his own fingers around Dallas' wrists, pulling his hands away to pin them to the bed on his own. Dallas doesn't move, doesn't even pretend to fight him, not beyond a slight staccato of his hips when Ponyboy says, "Ain't that right? I'm gonna be your mate. You gotta be nice to me."

"You ain't ever been that nice," Dallas' eyes drop to Ponyboy's neck, his neck pulsing, Ponyboy clenching around his cock enough to try and remind him of what he wants. Instead, Dallas looks back up at him, something vulnerable, needing in that moment. Then he gets a challenging look on his face, lip curling, eyebrows drawn down. "You gonna make good on that? You gonna mate me or not?"

For a moment, Ponyboy's grip loosens on Dallas' wrists, for a split second he considers if it's a bad idea. That he should stop.

But Dallas is turning in the bed, offering his neck. He's got his teeth bared in his face as he says, "I'm yours, ain't I? I been yours since the fire." He doesn't say which one — the church or the initiation bonfire — only offering the column of his neck, his hips moving up weekly, still trying to satisfy Ponyboy in the moment. "C'mon, Pone."

Only for a split second does Ponyboy consider that maybe his teeth aren't sharp enough to do this; that Dallas has sharper teeth, more suited to mating for a more developed alpha. That in movies, in books, omegas do not mark first, they are always waiting to be claimed rather than claiming.

Then again, so many omegas are more like Socs, princesses in towers, princes who've been captured, waiting for it all.

Ponyboy is not. When he leans over to inhale Dallas' neck, to take in his scent, to let it wash over him before he does the deed, he is none of them. He has never been, he never will be. He hadn't wanted to be an omega at first and now in the midst of his first heat, he's never felt more at home in his body with an alpha beneath him who wants this. Who he knows would never be vulnerable, be willing for anyone else. Who was already panting, writhing, teeth snapping in need, hips starting to move hard enough that if Pony doesn't put pressure on his wrists, he might throw him off.

His scent washes over him, the need to do this down to his bones. That Dallas Winston — for all his toughness, for all of his anger — wanted Ponyboy as a mate. His mate. Here and now.

It makes Ponyboy open his mouth wide — teeth maybe too underdeveloped, too blunt, too newly omega — and sinks his teeth into the mating spot on Dallas' neck. The sound Dallas makes beneath him is primal, more snarl than anything, even if there's a note of pleasure in it. Ponyboy doesn't care much for the way that Dallas feels when his hips buck up — there is blood spilling in his mouth, the coppery scent of blood renting the air, his senses starting to shift focus, something in him seemingly making room for Dallas, for this mating bond.

Then it's over. He can feel it, can feel the bond latch into him. The feeling is euphoric, Ponyboy panting, moaning as his grip on Dallas loosens entirely. There's no ability for him to keep up on his knees, his heart racing, his senses all going off at once: the scent of their bodies, the cum and slick, the sheets, the way Dallas' scent seems to shift, wilder than before. Ponyboy can feel his eyes getting wet, Dallas pulling out of him, his body being moved from being on top of Dallas to being pushed into his bed on his back.

His vision swims, sharpens on Dallas above him: his brown hair in a long mess, his eyes dark and focused on him, his neck newly bloody and dark with a blooming mating mark, the ring of teeth a bright red on his neck. The emptiness in Ponyboy is different now — sharper, and he whimpers. "Dal — Need you, need you." It isn't like books or movies: the way that Dallas' teeth flash as he leans down to kiss him is pearl bright, and Ponyboy slicks with need. All he wants is his fangs in him; when Dallas pulls back to nuzzle his neck, he can't help how electric how his body feels to that spot, every nerve, every want concentrated at that spot in his neck.

I love you, or I'm yours, too might've left him. Ponyboy does know this for sure: he only knows what it looked to see Dallas' brown hair at the corner of his eye, looking at the ceiling for just a moment and then a moment of sharp, excruciating pain that seems to hit every single nerve in his body at once, followed by a sensation that feels like an even stronger version of what he'd felt when he had bitten Dallas. Only this feels something close to resonance, an answer to it that overwhelms him entirely for a moment that seems suspended between the two sensations, the scent of blood overwhelming his senses, vision whiting out.

Then it feels as if something secures itself in him, deeper than he can describe, deeper than what his body could take. It's the bond, securing itself from both ends. When the pain dulls, when he can taste salty tears on his face, when the room comes back around him, Ponyboy realizes that Dallas is holding him, that they're on their sides now, Dallas' knot inside of him. Ponyboy's body spasms, coming back to consciousness, a wet, gasping sound leaving his mouth.

The floodgates open then: he cries, with relief, with happiness, with security.

He and Dallas are mates now. They're bound where they're supposed to be, to the person they need, and even if nothing is okay after this, there is each other. The bond is there, on their skin, in their bodies, in a place that can only be described as more and Ponyboy is held to Dallas' warm body, sobbing as Dallas nuzzles at his mark, at his cheek, tongue lapping at his cheeks, getting tears as they go.

It's right. It's what he needs.

This time, as the sobs taper out, he knows he says, "I love you."

Dallas swipes his tongue across Ponyboy's mating mark, and Ponyboy moans.

When he wakes up, he knows that the heat is over; that feverish feeling has gone entirely from his body. Everything doesn't feel as urgent, even if when he moves, he wishes Dallas wasn't soft anymore. Given everything they'd done last night, the utter frenzy after the mating, though, Ponyboy didn't blame him.

Soreness shoots up through his body, from all of that activity, from the days of it paired with just enough food to sustain the high energy. Ponyboy whimpers, twists in the bed and Dallas grunts, turning his head into the bed with a grumble, arm loosening just enough.

"Dally?" Ponyboy turns with a grimace, so he's facing Dallas. His eyes are closed, breathing slowly again, hair in disarray, some stubble on his face that Ponyboy reaches out to touch with his thumb. It's night now, and he can see a sliver of moonlight bisecting Dallas' neck and the sheets. It illuminates the edges of the mating mark, of the ring of teeth that still look a deep, dark red on his skin. There was no way that it could be missed, that anyone could every mistake it. In the incoming days, it would turn a deep mottled purple, and then the skin would scab over, and the it would imprint in a dark, heavy red ring on Dallas' neck. It would only fade if the bond broke.

It was going to be there until the day Dallas died, otherwise.

Ponyboy reaches over to trace it with his fingers, trying not to wake Dallas. Pride, happiness swirl in Ponyboy's chest at the sight, at the fact that he had done this. That he had been able to claim Dallas for himself, that he had been able to love him and trust him — and Dallas returned the love, the trust. He'd been the one offering first, had been the one wanting to be claimed.

No one would believe Ponyboy if he said it, that he had done it, that he had bitten first. That an omega his age, his stature, this little greaser, had bitten Dallas first, hardest, had claimed him first.

A smile dances on his lips despite the seriousness, despite the fact that he'd made the decision quick, in a desperate hour. Even making it like that, he was secure now as he nuzzles against Dallas' neck, as he pulls the blankets over them both, his body slotting against Dallas, right where he belongs.

Dallas was his mate. And because he was his mate, it was simply now fact that no matter what happened in the weeks to come, he was Dallas' and Dallas was his.

In the car, Ponyboy leans against Dallas as they drive through the dark morning, back to the neighborhood. He doesn't want the car to stop at the house; he wants to car to go over the horizon, disappear into the morning sun that's soon to rise. Except that cannot happen, won't happen. They have to face up to what's happening now.

The blankets that Dallas had stolen are in need of a wash, all of them in the back of the car. Ponyboy can hear them move as Dallas turns the radio up a little more, an Elvis song playing as they make their way down the street. Dallas keeps a hand on the wheel as Elvis croons over the radio, filling the car with his voice. The lyrics make Ponyboy's mouth quirk a little with how sweet they are: All that I want is to be near to you / To spend my life making it clear to you / You are my heart, my soul, my dream come true.

It's better than a corn pokey Hank Williams blaring at Buck's. His voice settles over Ponyboy as Dallas turns the car to the main street, Dallas' leg bouncing as they pass by the bonfire encampment. It's still early enough that some people are still sleeping there, not able to make it to school yet. Other people are getting ready, some lights already on, the streetlights still on. Ponyboy can feel nervousness circling his stomach, his hand reaching out, fingers slipping around the hand Dallas has on the gear stick.

Dallas looks at him, his expression more confident than what Ponyboy feels. "We're almost there, kid." He doesn't say it'll be okay — it'd be a lie, and Dallas doesn't lie to him. Dallas has always been real, painfully so. At this moment, all he can offer, as the car turns is the way he threads his fingers with Ponyboy's own.

They crest the hill, go forward. They pass the Cades, the Mathews — Mrs. Mathews is pulling in, and she looks back at them with an expression that makes Ponyboy's heart race with how concerned it is, yet she says nothing as she parks her car — and then they're slowing to a stop at the Curtises.

Never has the house been so intimidating as Dallas parks the car. Never has Ponyboy simultaneously wanted to throw up, run inside or run far, far away at once.

Still, when the engine is cut off, he gets out. The wind is cold enough that he's more than grateful for Dallas' jacket on his shoulders, for his comforting scent that makes Ponyboy almost dizzy with how his body is now, newly mated.

Dallas waits for him to come around, pausing to zip up the jacket with a grumble. When he's got the zipper up, Ponyboy fully barred from the cold, his hand moves to cup Ponyboy's neck, to rub his hand over Ponyboy's scent glands, over the still raw mating mark. It makes all those nerves from the night before flare up, makes Ponyboy's teeth ache something sharp, his gasp swallowed up when Dallas kisses him.

He kisses back, his own hand gripping Dallas by his shirt. They kiss long enough that when Ponyboy pulls back, Dallas' face is flushed, his nose a little red in the cold. Ponyboy sighs when Dallas rests his forehead on his, his heart racing, his hand shaking a little bit. Then Dallas says, "C'mon, kid."

He takes Ponyboy's hand, and they both go to the fence, opening it. Then they go up the steps, to the front door that Ponyboy knows is never, ever locked.

Dallas squeezes his hand.

Ponyboy opens the door and takes them over the threshold.