"You sure you wanna get that Coke for Cherry and not yourself, seeing as she decided to spill it on you?" Dallas' breath is a translucent cloud in the cold air as they shuffle in the concession stand line. Other people's scents are mingling, mixing in the air, and Ponyboy relaxes more despite the way his shirt still clings, never quite getting totally dry despite Dallas' efforts. "Though seeing as we're on a date now, maybe I should be the one charging her."

All the adrenaline, the desperation from before suddenly falls away because oh, shit. Ponyboy had said that, hadn't he?

His ears grow red, and he knows that some people heard Dallas talking, some of them looking. Backing down, however, isn't an option.

Furthermore, there's no shame in it, given he was the one who said it, even if he knows he's as red as a tomato. "I-I don't wanna make her. She said she had to get the money. And I got enough for us both."

"Oh, so you're treating me?" At least Dallas' sense of humor has seemingly recovered too, though not his jabs. He runs a critical eye over Ponyboy, as if assessing him. "And what if I'm too high class for a Coke and want something else like a beer?"

"There's no way I look old enough to buy a b-b-beer," his teeth chatter on the last, the cold enough that he's really feeling it with his wet shirt. Ponyboy wraps his arms around himself as they move through the line, wishing he'd worn something heavier.

As if reading his mind, Dallas scowls. "Why didn't you bring a coat? Here." He shrugs off his own brown coat, handing it over to Ponyboy. Not that he's doing better, given his own shirt is black, sleeveless, arms nicely muscled in a way that makes Ponyboy want to look at them for the rest of the night. "I run hotter than you and I ain't about to catch a cold with a wet shirt."

"Thanks," carefully, Ponyboy takes it, putting it around his shoulders, finding it almost bigger than one of his father's jackets. Dallas is much skinnier than what his father had been — and an alpha, not an omega. An alpha with a strong scent that is almost overwhelming when Ponyboy fumbles with the zipper, his fingers too cold to grasp the cold metal.

He's almost got it, the tips of his fingers blue. Or, he thinks he does — and with a grumble, Dallas takes over, batting his own hand away.

For all their poking at each other, the argument before, it's as if it doesn't exist when Dallas' pink tipped, clearly still warm fingers take over the task of the zipper. If his scent wasn't enough, it is making Ponyboy almost light headed to have Dallas help with the zipper, pushing it up until it's to Ponyboy's chin, his large hands smoothing over the shoulders, utterly concentrated on his task.

Unlike most of his peers, he hasn't had a lot of experience with others, hasn't even felt the inclination beyond thinking of Paul Newman sometimes, those pretty blue eyes of his. Soda has teased that he's a late bloomer for someone who presented so early.

Right now, though, as Dallas' fingers run over his shoulders, as his scent permeates everything, as his jacket settles on Ponyboy, he doesn't think that he's ever wanted someone the way he wants Dallas right now. Even if he isn't even sure how it all happened, how it all would even be real, Ponyboy wants more of this, wants more of his hand on his shoulders, wants his lips against his, wants to sink into Dallas Winston in a way he's never wanted with anyone else before.

His breathing seems to slow, looking up at Dallas as he grins down at him. "Warm enough, kid?"

Ponyboy thinks for a minute they could be in a movie now, that he could lean over, press his lips against Dallas' again, kiss him as much as he wants, that everything could be surreal and glossy.

That is shattered when a yell erupts through, the world speeding back up again, coming back in all it's ugliness as their heads turn towards the front of the line. A greaser is snarling at a Soc in a green and white letterman jacket – he doesn't know what school it's from, only he is a Soc. He has to be with that haircut, with the other friends who are athletes, crowding around as he snarls back, "You wanna take it outside pal?"

"I was here first!" The greaser shoves the Soc back.

The Soc seems to hit his wall of friends, who don't stop the fight. They shove him forward, back into the greaser's space. "You gonna take that, Dennis?"

Dennis – that has to be his name – shoves the greaser back, knocking into the bars of the concession stand line hard. For once, an adult actually says something, the soda jerk snapping out, "That that shit elsewhere! Now!"

The greaser snarls. The Soc seems to want to leave, except his friends murmur something in his ear that makes him reconsider it.. "We're fine. We'll cool it, ain't that right, greaser?"

It's clearly not ever, not dealt with. Ponyboy hates the spectacle of it, as the greaser kid stalks away, as the Socs seem to mutter to each other, ready to make a move, ready to jump him. It makes him sick to see it, he and Dallas moving a bit forward in the line as others murmur to themselves or shoot distrustful, angry glares at each other.

It taints what had been there a moment ago, and Dallas knows it too as he inches forward with Ponyboy, hands now nowhere near his shoulders. He wishes it hadn't – the tension around them is thick now. Ponyboy notices every slight thing between greasers and Socs: the way that they're all on guard with each other, the way that they're all separated no matter where they are, the way that they all seem to be on the edge of some level of aggression, everyone watching each other, refusing to back down.

"Wish it weren't like this," he mutters, watching as a soc kid who couldn't be more than twelve shift closer to his older sibling, away from an older greaser. "Fighting all the time."

"It ain't unique," the way Dallas speaks is matter of fact, if mean tinged. "You think people don't fight like this everywhere else?"

"I know, I know," he shrugs his shoulders, looking up at Dallas, at the way his mouth is an unimpressed line, at the way he clearly seems to think Ponyboy is, what? Naive? Maybe he is in this moment, as he continues, "I just wish – I know we aren't all angels. I know Johnny does things I hate. And I know you do things that aren't nice, either." Ponyboy nudges Dallas at that, trying to lighten the mood. "I just wish we weren't like this, you know? Socs and greasers, fighting each other all the time. Wish I could just... get away from it all."

"Get away from a home with three meals, a bed? Get away from money that isn't ever gonna dry up?" The sardonic, scoffing tone in Dallas' voice is meant to provoke. "What's so hard about all of that?"

A few kids pass them. The wind picks up, makes Dallas' hair lift a little as he scowls down at Ponyboy. Maybe if he were someone else, Ponyboy might not want to be honest. Maybe if there were more people around, he'd shut up. Maybe if he were smart, he wouldn't be spilling his guts when he says, "I'm not saying you got it good, either. I'm saying you don't have to think about your classmates thinking about how much they want to marry you for your money or your status. Or how you don't have to think about how your parents might not have gotten killed if they hadn't had to keep up appearances at parties they didn't even wanna go to." Ponyboy shivers, remembering how his parents had looked, how they had promised they'd get to the party fast and come back early. How the newspaper had detailed the jewelry his mother had been wearing breathlessly along with the details of how her body had been mangled. "You don't see Cherry getting mean and cold cause no one tells her no, do you? Or see your brother getting more obsessed with money than caring about how you feel."

The tell tale feeling of warmth surging in his cheeks, that familiar sharp prick his eyes that meant tears might be coming – fuck, he's so tired of crying, so tired of being sad, so tired of everything that's been changing over and over. "You should get what I get, too. A meal, a bed, a family. Everyone deserves that. But we're sitting over here, fighting over stupid stuff all the time like who's got a car and who's tough or whether or not you've got hair oil or not."

Another kid passes by. Ponyboy swallows down the urge to cry, hoping he hadn't ruined everything, getting so heavy so early. Dallas sucks at his teeth, shaking his head. "You got a lot of dreams, kid. That ain't ever gonna happen, long as we got packs and money and other shit we can fight over." There's a sort of odd relief in the fact that Dallas doesn't baby him, doesn't make his voice gentler, doesn't call him stupid.

"I know," the word comes out miserably from Ponyboy. He doesn't think he has to say that if this, if any of this goes further, that people will have something to say about a Soc kid – no, a Soc omega in high standing, being with a greaser like Dallas. That they wouldn't even want them to be friends, never mind the overwhelming urge Ponyboy has to lean over and kiss Dallas, even through the upset he feels. How he knows that if he could get past any of this, even if they couldn't date, he wanted to be friends. They wouldn't understand that he doesn't even want his jacket to leave his shoulders unless Dallas took it from him himself, or how much Ponyboy means his next words. "I can still want it – even if it's stupid."

Dallas moves closer, and there's a glint in his eyes that Ponyboy doesn't know if he likes or not with the way it pairs with the slow, wolfish smile that spreads on his face that projects danger, a hunger in him. "Well, kid," he reaches over, fingers beneath Ponyboy's chin, warm on his skin. His breath is warm against Ponyboy's skin as he says, "We can't change it. We could give them a different kind of show, though." He cocks his head towards the rest of the teenagers, challenging Ponyboy almost.

There is no more thinking of him required; Ponyboy surrenders to it, lips meeting Dallas' own, eyes fluttering shut. He's not skilled, he's never kissed someone more than sweet playground stuff that was more about shock or laughter. Kissing Dallas is very, very different, on this cold Tulsa night where the moon hangs in the sky so brightly.

He used to not understand why when people kissed in movies, they seemed to kiss too hard or they seemed to break away too early or too sharply. Dallas' tongue slipping into his mouth, the way his hand cups Ponyboy's cold cheeks, the way his scent seeps into Ponyboy's nostrils, the flush of his body against his, the way he tastes?

Movies weren't enough. Movies had it wrong, and he shuts out the sounds of people gasping or whispering, focuses solely on trying to copy Dallas' movements, trying to be more than a Soc kid who's never necked with someone before even though, fuck, he's starting to get light headed. Every inhale isn't enough, and Dallas' tongue is almost too much and —

It's Dallas who breaks away, and air rushes into Ponyboy's lungs. A dizzy, giddy feeling washes over him, and Dallas can't say Ponyboy wasn't impressive — not with that grin on his face, not with the way his tongue darts out to lick at his own lips.

More. Ponyboy wants so much more.

"That's all?" He says.

This time, Dallas' lips are almost crushing against his — and his fangs nick Ponyboy's lip, forcing blood do well up, the taste right on the tip of Ponyboy's tongue.

He could really, really get used to this.

This is shaping up to be the worst night Cherry has ever had in her whole life. She can feel her frustration bubbling up and over when she turns her head during the middle of one of the more lurid sequences of the movie to see the worst, most unanticipated sight: Dallas walking back with popcorn, drinks and Ponyboy Curtis beside him wearing Dallas' brown jacket.

To say her heart plummets all the way to her feet would be an understatement. It's more like it flops right out, sinks past the ground and keeps going towards the center of the earth the more she looks at all the telltale signs: Ponyboy's tousled hair, Dallas' swollen lips, their walks synchronized with each other as they walk towards her and Marcia.

If she were a lesser girl, she'd scream and cry and stamp her feet, yell how nothing was fair.

Instead, as Dallas lopes over, she decides to keep it in. She can't let herself go to pieces here; even though Marcia is shooting her sympathetic looks at her side when Dallas turns his head to say something to that Soc.

A Soc. A Soc omega, of all people. The very opposite of her in every way that mattered, from his gender to his sex to his wealth. The very thing that Cherry never thought Dallas would ever go for and he's ruining everything for her.

"Sorry, we got a little distracted," The laugh at the end of that sentence hurts more than a switchblade ever could. Dallas' walk is pleased, boots kicking up dust, hair not the least bit neat on his head. "Here, we got you popcorn and drinks to make up for it."

"Oh, you two must've got waylaid, huh," the joke dies on Marcia's lips — Ponyboy and Dallas don't notice, coming to sit where they were before. Having no choice, Cherry accepts the popcorn, the Coke. It tastes flat in her mouth, soured by her horrible night. And it just keeps getting worse: the movie turns darker yet, while Dallas and Ponyboy pay it no notice, full on kissing and making out two seats over.

It should be her giggling when Dallas kisses her, it should be her squirming half in his lap, it should be her getting to nuzzle against the column of his neck. Not this Soc with a yellow shirt that still has some stains on it, who clearly is new at what he's doing, whimpering more than he should, who clearly slicks up at one point when Dallas' hand ventures too far down his jeans.

Having had just about enough, the credits mercifully roll. What happened towards the end of the movie, Cherry doesn't know, shooting up from her seat saying, "That was fun, huh?"

Dallas glances up from Ponyboy's neck — she can't keep how angry she feels in her gut when she notices that he's got a hickey blooming on his neck already! – his eyebrow cocked. "I ain't see most of it. You don't wanna stay for the second movie?"

A second movie.

She could see it now: Ponyboy on Dallas' lap, his shirt riding up, Dallas' fingers down his jeans, fingering him for slick.

"I wanna go home before my Momma wakes up," she insists, loud. "You know how she is if I ain't home on time. And me and Marcia can't go alone — who knows what'll happen if Johnny Cade shows up."

Somehow the mention of his best buddy doesn't make Ponyboy back down entirely. It is, however, enough to make Dallas huff. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You wanna walk with us, Ponyboy?"

No. No, no no! Cherry wants to scream the words out, and she sinks her teeth into her cheek, feeling her fangs cut into her flesh with the restraint she has. God – Merciful, sweet Lord God – must be listening, though because Ponyboy shakes his head. "I don't wanna intrude." Liar, liar, liar. "I told Soda I was gonna call anyway so I could come home."

Dallas turns to Cherry and Marcia. "I'll meet you at the fence, okay? Just gimme two minutes."

Marcia is a good, better friend than Dallas. Her hand wraps around Cherry's elbow, her voice low, "C'mon. Don't cry over him."

"I'm not," Cherry says stubbornly, even though she wants to so badly.

Why was life this fucking unfair to her? What had she done to deserve to have an omega seemingly right out of a glossy magazine step out — slim, sweet scenting, with money — and take the boy she'd wanted since she was a little girl? What had she fucking done to deserve this?

"You really sure about being left here til your brother gets you?" The worried look on Dallas' face is kind of beautiful, mostly sweet. Ponyboy wishes they had time, a lot more time to just make out together, like they'd been doing.

Even though, frankly, he feels like a live wire. Everywhere Dallas touched him, everywhere he kissed him, every place their bodies met just felt entirely different. Electric, almost. All he wanted to do was keep on doing it, wanted to figure out how to make that friction between them spark up more. It had felt good the first few times he'd rocked against Dallas, when Dallas had slipped his hand beneath his jeans.

That's not going to happen again tonight, disappointingly. Cherry seemed upset about walking home by herself, and Ponyboy wasn't going to discount her fear so he nods. "Yeah. Sandy could show him here if he can't." He looks at Dallas' swollen lips, looks at the mark Ponyboy left on his neck, and he clears his throat. "Do... I. It was a really good date."

"Just a date? I thought I did pretty well," the way Dallas drawls out the words makes Ponyboy squirm, makes his chest flutter.

"First date. If... you want to have more," fumbling, Ponyboy feels his ears heat up again, and Dallas grins.

Dallas takes a step forward, intent clear. Then Cherry calls out his name, and he huffs. Disappointment, need makes Ponyboy whine a little when Dallas says, "I gotta go, kid. I'll see you tomorrow, maybe? Dingo's?"

Maybe.

Ponyboy nods. A yes.

The look Dallas gives him is warm, just a bit hungry. He waves, and jogs to where Cherry and Marcia are waiting for him. Ponyboy waves to them, and at the last moment he realizes he never gave Dallas his jacket back. His heart beats faster, thinking he should say something.

Then Dallas is helping the girls jump the fence, and they're gone.

Ponyboy watches, wishing he were with them. Wishing he could stay in this fantasy a little more, rather than go home, go back to his room. Back to that tomb, where he would be left to rot inside of for hours again, over and over again. But... but Dallas had told him where to meet. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he could have Dallas grinning at him. They could have burgers, a milkshake, and they could kiss and kiss and kiss. The thought has Ponyboy smiling lopsidedly to himself, left to walk around the drive in as the other movies start to play, the real late night ones that were steamier than usual.

The movies are beautiful and glossy. They can't recreate what it was like to be pressed against Dallas' chest, what it was like to hear Dallas whisper in his ear You're real fuckin' pretty when you're trying to fuck me. It didn't capture how Ponyboy had wanted to do more than kiss him, wanted to rock against his lap, wanted to figure out how, exactly, a cock could fit into him.

Even if just thinking about that last part still makes him blush, reminds him that he hasn't actually done much at all. This is the first time he's done anything, the first time he's... wanted to do anything with anyone.

Something in Dallas Winston was making him feel alive, again. Making him feel like he deserved to be in the land of living, like a normal teenager. Making him feel loved. Wanted, at least.

The grin on his face is lopsided, happy as he makes his way to the front of the drive-in. His tongue seems unable to sit still in his mouth — he can still taste Dallas, the Kool's he smoked, the sharp tang of his scent, and some of Ponyboy's own blood. The cut on his lip stings when he runs his tongue over it, and he sighs, wishing for more.

He can't, though. It's starting to get late, truly late. If he's phoning home, he'll have to phone now, draw this whole evening to an end.

Dejectedly, Ponyboy walks towards the line of the phone b —

A horn honks.

Ponyboy freezes on the spot, heart jumping in his chest. Not out of want, not cause a dangerous greaser has kissed him into a frenzy.

No. He's frozen because that horn can only belong to one person in Tulsa, the only person who could afford a 1964 Lincoln Continental just months after it came out. The blood in his veins turns to ice when his name is barked out, "Ponyboy! What are you doing? Get over here!"

Dread filling him, Ponyboy turns around to look at the monstrously huge white car that is parked just right out of the drive in. It's blocking other drivers from coming out, and it will continue to block it for as long as Johnny wills it. He is halfway out of the front of the car, and even from here, Ponyboy can tell he's pissed.

There is no ignoring him. No getting around this. If he ignores him, Johnny will pursue. If he says he's waiting on Soda, Johnny will scoff.

Ponyboy has no choice except to turn to him, wave and say, "I'm coming!"

For maybe the first time in his life, as he comes closer to Johnny, as he takes in the stormy look on his face, Ponyboy thinks that his best friend really isn't his best friend. He thinks that he is going within arms reach of a dangerous animal, coiled to strike.

He hopes he's wrong. He really does.

oh buddy. see you guys next chapter! i love comments + kudos!