The line had been so long — people were getting into fights, the candy hadn't been out of the box. Cherry had felt flustered, annoyed, and when she had finally, finally gotten out of the line with Marcia, she had expected that Dallas would be pissing Curly off for fun or already watching the movie.

She had not anticipated that Dallas would be sitting right next to the Soc omega, actually talking to him, nor did she anticipate that Marcia would recognize him as Ponyboy Curtis.

Of all the people in town, she didn't know much about him except the fact that —

"Isn't he Johnny Cade's best friend?" She whispers to Marcia as they walk closer to them, able to see Dallas shooting a grin at Ponyboy that Cherry really hopes she's misreading. It can't be real interest in his face. "The one who's parents died this January?"

"Yeah, sure is now that I can see his face," Marcia doesn't seem to be worried at all as they come closer. "Real weird guy, hardly leaves the house, even for school. Just pretty harmless, though. I've never heard him running around with Johnny Cade or nothing."

That relaxes Cherry enough that when she gets within spitting distance, she raises her voice, smiling, "Where'd Curly go? You chase him off already?" Her plan is going to go as she knew it would, Cherry swishing her hips just enough that she hopes she catches Dallas' attention just a little bit. "We got plenty of snacks."

"I told that runt where he could stick it," Dallas doesn't move from Ponyboy Curtis' side, who turns to look at them with an expression of slight surprise. Now that she's getting closer, Cherry can slot him into a place: he's younger than her, but they've shared some of the same classes. She even saw him at a track meet or two, before he dropped out.

Truth be told, he wasn't much bigger than the last time she saw him. Certainly is an omega from his scent. When he presented, she couldn't be sure.

A voice in the back of her head prods her; every greaser knows that despite Dallas only being involved with alpha girls, he'd turned his head a time or two for an omega. If Sylvia hadn't come along, she was sure Dallas would've tried for Sandy.

As it was, though, Ponyboy wasn't his type beyond that. Dallas had never looked too hard or too long at a Soc before. If anything, he was meaner to them than anyone else, and confidently, Cherry sits on Dallas' right side, Marcia beside her.

"I'm okay, I'm not real hungry during a movie anyway," Ponyboy is quiet at least as he settles in, eyes going to the screen. That doesn't keep Cherry from noticing how Dallas looks at him every so often, the way his brown eyes are eyeing Ponyboy's neck.

She clears her throat, leaning back against her chair, eyes focusing on the screen. Trying to focus on the woman who was saying she was getting odd calls, and the way her eyes look wide, confused and scared.

Even as she does, it still sticks in her craw: he was Johnny Cade's best friend. He had to have known how that kid was, how he was a full on terror ro them all. And here he was, looking up at the screen beside them, as if he was innocent, and nice. As if he probably wasn't in the back seat with Johnny Cade, chasing them or making fun of them.

A scowl starts to stretch on Cherry's face, her stomach churning.

This wasn't how this night was supposed to go. She wants it to improve as she watches the dancing on screen, as she sees other greasers walk by, as people quiet down to watch the movie.

Only.

Every time she turns her head a little she sees more: Dallas tilting his head to listen to the Soc say something to him; the Soc acting coy and a little quiet, not realizing that Dallas is shifting closer to him deliberately; the way that Dallas stretches his arm out to touch his shoulders and when Ponyboy doesn't push away, that grin he shoots Marcia; the way that Dallas eventually is leaning down, whispering something in the Soc's ear that his ear's burning red, and a lopsided grin on his mouth.

Cherry can't stand it. She can't stand the fact that this rich kid just waltzed in here, took a seat and was snatching Dallas away from her, bit by bit. The soda in her hand makes her fingers cold from how tight she's gripping it, and when Dallas moves his head down again, she can see the way the Soc's eyes pull from the screen, and his scent hits her nostrils when he shifts in his seat.

It's omega: not sickly sweet, not entirely easy to ignore.

She knew he was, and it feels entirely different now to look at him, at how he's the opposite of her in every way: his wealth, his nice clothes, the hair that was too short for a greaser, his slim form, the big eyes —

Her finger loosens the top of her drink. She turns saying, "Hey, Dal, do you want some popcorn?"

Only, her hand tips. The cold Coke splashes right onto the yellow, expensive shirt. That shirt that was probably a month's rent on that Soc's shoulder, that spreads in a dark brown stain all over him.

As the Soc jumps, expression shocked, Cherry thinks that Curly was right, in a way. That Soc was getting dirtied by a Greaser tonight, alright.

She feigns kindness, though, apology on her face, saying, "Shit, shit I'm sorry! I don't have any napkins —"

"It's– I'll go to the bathroom," the Soc stands up, flustered. He's probably never had anything spill on him ever since he had a silver spoon in his mouth, and Cherry delights in how rudderless, out of place he looks in his expensive, stained clothes. "Where is it?"

What triumph Cherry feels, though, dies in her throat when Dallas stands up, jerking his head. "I'll show you. I'll get you another Coke while we're gone."

Fuck.

All Cherry can do is smile at him, hating that her plan had worked in precisely the wrong way, forcing out the words, "Thanks."

The bathroom for the drive in isn't necessarily the worst bathroom Ponyboy has been in — still, it isn't winning any awards any time soon when he steps inside, his shirt soaking and stained. It sticks to him a bit as he looks around at the bathroom — the walls are an ugly yellow tile, and it needs a better cleaning.

All that he'd been feeling before — the rush of blood to his ears, the way Dallas' mouth had been so close to his skin, the sudden new feelings of want inside of him — all come to a grinding halt in this bathroom.

Well, not entirely. Dallas strides in, nose wrinkling a bit as he goes to the sink. Somehow, the expression is still handsome on him, the way his voice is still a shade rougher than normal when he says, "Shouldn't be too hard to get out. C'mere."

"I can get it," he walks over, looking at the dinghy mirror with a spider web crack that extends from the center to the top right corner of the mirror. The contrast between him and Dallas is sharp: Ponyboy's hardly styled hair, his pale complexion, his softer, omega body juxtaposed with Dallas' taller, leaner form that so many greasers seem to either fully embody or imitate, his unstyled brown hair as he opens the faucet up with a jerk, his skull ring grinning up in the light.

He unbuttons his shirt, the air hitting his bare chest, grimacing at the cold. "I just need to run it under the water is all I think. I know it was an accident."

"It wasn't," the sharp, matter of fact way Dallas speaks is a surprise for Ponyboy as he reaches over, pumping the soap. "I've known that girl since I was eleven. She's never liked a Soc for as far as she could throw 'em."

"Even if they haven't done anything to her?" He lets Dallas grasp the fabric, rub the soap over it, trying to get the stain out as the cold makes his teeth chatter.

For his part, Dallas looks unimpressed. "Your friend sure does like piling onto greasers, even if you don't. Johnny Cade sure made a fun little game out of messing with her and everyone else."

The sharpness of his voice is just the same as it had been minutes ago when they were watching the movie — or, when Ponyboy had been trying to watch the movie — with Dallas whispering in his ear that Ponyboy looked cute in his shirt, better than the broad up on screen, his finger tracing on the back of Ponyboy's bare neck, every movement breathlessly tracked in Ponyboy's mind. The sharpness there is just as sincere, as real as it was minutes ago, rendering it all the worse with its sincerity.

Dallas Winston isn't known for a lot of good things, Ponyboy knows the rumors. That he lies, he steals, he rolls drunks, that he's proud of having a rap sheet a mile long. He isn't lying here as he smears more of the soap on Ponyboy's shirt, that probably costs as much as a week's wages to him, and lord he knows he's in the wrong when he's automatically defensive over Johnny.

He wants to open his mouth; Socs didn't always stick up for each other, didn't always have each other's back, yet he gives into the impulse of, "Johnny ain't an angel. Greasers ain't either."

"Did I say we were?" The grunt from Dallas is easily dismissive, sneering as he shoves Ponyboy's shirt under the water. "Just said she had a right to have a grudge."

"He's not — he ain't evil, either. Even if I ain't exactly happy with him all the time," Saying that is surprising in and of itself, and Ponyboy almost glances behind him, as if someone could come in at any moment and overhear him do the thing that other Socs didn't always readily admit about their own.

The letter floats back to the front of his mind, Dallas' dark eyes focused on him. They're almost predator-like in his face, not in the way that newspapers talk about greasers, not the way Johnny has talked about it. They're more like those animal books Ponyboy reads, where the predator has eyes that make you focus onto them, drawn in. Making your world narrow down to just their eyes, not expecting to be killed for looking too long, unaware of the trap they're falling into.

There's no reason for him to be all that honest with Dallas Winston of all people — he was getting close to asking to neck with Ponyboy in the middle of the movies, and as flustered, as interested as Ponyboy was in him, as new as that feeling was — he was supposed to only be interested in that, if at all.

Make no mistake: the instant Dallas had leaned over, the moment he had sat next to Ponyboy with that self assured stance and had dared drape his arm over Ponyboy's shoulder, Ponyboy understood that it was crossing a line most kids wouldn't dare to. Greasers and Socs stayed to their kind, and if there had ever been a dalliance, Ponyboy had never heard it spoken of in terms of want so much as he'd heard it as an intrusion at best and a violation at the worst.

Only, Dallas hadn't intruded. It certainly didn't feel like it when he had grinned at Ponyboy, when Ponyboy hadn't pushed him away, had allowed Dallas to do those tricks Ponyboy had seen in movies, had heard his brothers do to get guys and girls. His gut had fluttered, his heart had hammered, and all he'd thought when Dallas had leaned over, when Ponyboy was half in his lap was that he wanted more. That there was an excitement with this tall, rebellious greaser who wasn't even the same as other greasers, that he hadn't ever felt this for someone before.

Maybe if he were like everyone else, he wouldn't be contemplating telling the truth here, would dismiss Dallas as a movie dalliance.

Maybe if he hadn't been sealed up in his house for so long, unable to talk to his brothers, he wouldn't be saying, "I mean – Johnny isn't like most Socs either. At least — even my parents liked to be around us, saw us every day. They cooked meals for us, sat at the table with us, went to the movies with me." The memory of it hurts a little less as he talks about it, hearing the light above them both buzz, hearing some people pass by, laughing, their voices floating, echoing in the bathroom. His eyes can't tear themselves away from Dallas' intense look. "Johnny's parents haven't done that since he was five, maybe. His Daddy hasn't been in the same state as him for more than a day since about then, and his Mother probably only twice that. He does — the stuff he does isn't always good. He's also not all bad. He's done good things for me, he's a good friend when you need him to be."

Ponyboy doesn't want to divulge the trips to the beach that Johnny has taken him to to try to cheer him up. How they had felt like friends years before, when he was able to talk to Johnny, in his house. How they used to explore things together. How they actually used to be friends, how Johnny didn't have that suddenly cold look in his eyes.

"I haven't seen my parents in years and you don't see me doing the shit he does," the rebuttal isn't gentle, Dallas rinsing the shirt beneath the faucet anyway, expression only showing annoyance.

"Says the guy who's really proud of his long rap sheet," Ponyboy raises his eyebrows at Dallas. "Didn't you just get picked up by the cops for breaking all the windows at the school? And before that, I heard you beat the tar out of Curly Shepard and he's my age!"

"It's different!" The way Dallas scowls is something that makes him more good looking than ugly. "I'm not hunting kids in a car. I don't do that kind of shit."

"But your friends will jump kids for their money, right? Or pick out someone to shove into a locker or steal their wheels," he challenges Dallas again, and once again to his credit, Dallas doesn't pretend that it doesn't happen, doesn't deflect. "I even heard you brag about rolling a drunk college guy who didn't do anything to you for that ring." Ponyboy points to it, the class ring on Dallas' right hand, opposite the grinning skull ring on his left. The top is glimmering with blue, and the gold C in the center. "How's that different?"

The moment he says it, Dallas pauses mid retort, mouth half open, then twisting into a suspicious look. "Funny that you know that, kid." His tone turns more dangerous. "I only told Sylvia that."

He turns the faucet off with a wrench of his hand. Ponyboy feels heat creep across his face, spread to his ears, sure that Dallas remembers that day with her. It was that past spring, one of the few times he'd been out of the house, had felt good enough, determined enough to leave. The theater hadn't been all that crowded, given it was a dumb movie called Beach Blanket Bingo.

Dallas and Sylvia had been two rows up, Ponyboy focused on the glinting of Dallas' new ring as he'd shown it off to Sylvia. His laugh had been sharp, Ponyboy hadn't presented just yet – he'd done so two days later, feverish and upset – with no real remarkable scent about him. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

Just...

Of all greasers, Dallas Winston was one of the most infamous. Sylvia was too, always on his arm as far as he knew. They had been talking, Sylvia interested and Dallas bragging and Ponyboy had listened as he'd bragged about finding that drunk, stumbling college kid. How he'd laughed about tricking him into a fight, how he had enjoyed getting him on the ground, punching him, stealing his wallet, wrenching away his ring. How proud he'd been that he'd gotten someone so easy, how he had reveled in his rebellion, in taking his anger out on him.

At the time, Ponyboy had been drawn in, mesmerized by what he'd said. How Sylvia seemed to take pride in goading him on, in congratulating him. He'd been repulsed too, not knowing why she'd like a guy like that, with such thick dark eyebrows, with such glinting wolf like teeth, who clearly didn't care about anyone except his damn self.

That Dallas seems just as real as the one who slaps the hand dryer, shoving Ponyboy's wet shirt beneath it. Just as dangerous, yet perhaps not so selfish as Dallas hisses out, "So just how much have you heard, huh? You like creeping around, listening to greasers brag to their girls? That why you let me close tonight, try and get a taste so you could go brag about it?"

His eyes look accusatory, angry now. The grip on Ponyboy's shirt is tight.

"No," even to him, his voice is louder than it needs to be. The voices outside seem to layer over it, to amplify the desperation in it. "I didn't — I let you talk to me 'cause I wanted to. You stood up for me. Socs, other Socs don't do that. Not even Johnny would've done what you did."

It feels like a betrayal admitting that so soon, to Dallas, of a friend who'd been close to him, who Ponyboy had trusted weeks ago. What makes it terrible is that it's the truth, Ponyboy meeting Dallas' accusatory glance. "I'm not trying to – I'm not him or any other Soc, Dallas. I mean it. I don't even —"

Before he can say more, there's the sound of feet approaching. All at once, he and Dallas realize what they look like with Ponyboy with his shirt off, Dallas holding it, the cold.

Dallas tosses the shirt to Ponyboy. He catches it, tugs it on, buttons it up hastily, on the second to last button when Bob Sheldon enters the bathroom. The very sight of him makes Ponyboy's hackles raise, makes him angry to see him. Of every Soc he hates, Bob Sheldon is one of the worst, amplified by the way he smells like he's already gotten into his father's liquor cabinet. His scent reeks, his face flushed as he stops to look at them.

Worst of all, Ponyboy thinks of Bob's own letter, tucked in Darry's desk as Bob looks at them both in bewilderment. That clammy, awful feeling seizes his chest in remembrance.

"Hell are you doing here, greaser?" Bob sneers out, and on him, it's truly an ugly, twisted thing that makes Ponyboy feel repulsed. The repulsion grows when Bob looks at him. "That walking oil change bothering you, Ponyboy?" The fact that his voice gets sweeter, nicer, only makes Ponyboy feel worse.

"Did he say I was bothering him?"

"We're on a date," The words fly out of Ponyboy instantly, just as sharp as Dallas' own, knowing he shouldn't speak, yet unable to help himself, refusing to leave Dallas out there on his own. "He isn't bothering me."

Bob looks between them, and Ponyboy is sure he's not seeing what Ponyboy wants him to see. Not with the mean snicker that comes out of Bob's mouth. "You're joking, right? You and him?" The laugh he gives is uglier than the last, crueler with every tone. It only makes the anger in Ponyboy's chest build in a red spiral as Bob goes on. Beside him, Dallas' scent shifts into something more aggravated in response. "Bullshit, you don't even date, and he's knotted every single broad on the Northside!"

That cold awful feeling in Ponyboy's chest worsens.

In an instant, Dallas is moving already, coming to shove Bob harder than anyone else would dare. "You wanna fucking repeat that?"

Bob shoves him back, snapping out, "You think I haven't heard of you and what your greasy pals get up to? You ran this morning, you aren't all that tough. What is this, trying to dirty him up to get back at Johnny? Pathetic –"

"This doesn't have anything to do with Johnny!" Ponyboy snaps out, but he's too late. Dallas is faster than him, meaner than him and the crack of his fist on Bob's face is deafening. Even if he was sober, it'd be a hard hit and Bob hits the dirty floor of the bathroom hard.

Dallas is sneering, angry — he has every right to be, every right to do so and still, Ponyboy moves in front of him, pushes him back. "No, Dallas, don't! He's not worth it —"

Bob groans, exclaims in pain. Dallas looks like he might shove Ponyboy too, snarling out, "You want me to just sit here and take that shit?"

"No, no, he's an asshole," Ponyboy shakes his head, hearing Bob whimper behind him, pleading. "I don't – I don't want you to get in trouble. Please, Dallas. I just want to go back to the movie with you."

That's all he wants right now is to just go out on a date with a guy. Not a greaser or a soc. Just a guy who was nice to him, who had stood up for him cause he wanted to, who had no problems flirting with him. Who may not even want to do more than kiss and make out with him —

— and a guy who was at least honest about it. Hadn't written letters he hadn't known about, wasn't a shark in the water waiting for him, weaseling on the floor in pain.

That's all Ponyboy wants to be. Just two guys who weren't greasers or Socs, just seeing a movie together in a normal theater on a normal date. There was no future commitment tied up there, no thoughts of if their families could go into business together, no expectation that Dallas might report back what he felt to Darry.

They were just two teenagers who could have fun. Who were having fun before this.

That's what he wants more than anything as Dallas looks between him and Bob, is to go back to that. To not have to do this, to not have to be this, to not have to consider it. To have one normal night.

He knows that if he doesn't do something now, that won't happen. That this will become another news article, will become another thing to gossip over. So he does what he can, taking Dallas' hand, ignoring Bob's curled up, angry form and pulling Dallas towards the opening. "We need to get those drinks."

For a moment, he thinks Dallas will turn his head, go back to Bob. That Ponyboy won't see the guy who wanted to flirt with him so easily, who stood up for him.

Instead, Dallas looks down at him, and follows Ponyboy out of the bathroom, and back to the drive in, leaving Bob there. He squeezes Ponyboy's hand as they make their way from the bathrooms, to the concession stand, and relief blooms in Ponyboy's chest.

The grin that Dallas gives him is more relaxed, his scent more at ease as they get in line. Ponyboy hopes that they won't see Bob again that night, as he shuffles to Dallas' side in the line.

(He has no idea how wrong he is.)

thanks so much for reading! i had a delay due to an emergency dental situation that's righted itself and has made my bank account emptier unfortunately. anyway, this was a joy to write, and i have a lot of nods to book and movie canon here. i love comments and kudos and i hope everyone's safe and well!