A hand grips his shoulder hard, shakes it. Ponyboy groans, turning his head into the jacket he's had as a pillow, his nostrils filling with Dallas' comfortable scent. "G'way. S'early." A hand pinches his side, hard and Ponyboy yelps, forced to open his eyes and jerk his head up.
Squatting next to him is Dallas, a serious look on his face, his cigarette end burning like a bright ember as he looks down at him. He's fully dressed, with some of the meager moonlight filtering through the sanctuary windows, making him look almost artful beneath the silver light. This is one of those times that he doesn't seem like a normal teenager — who'd plan to get up this early when they were on the run? "Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Sorry to break up your beauty rest, but I need you to pay attention." He tugs at Ponyboy's hair as he talks, and Ponyboy scrunches up his nose. "I'm heading down the mountain. It's gonna take two, three hours for me to get down there, about an hour in town, and the same heading back. So I need to get going now and you need to be awake so I can tell you." Dallas throws something beside him, and Ponyboy grasps for it — it's a watch, one with a pretty face to it, with a black leather strap. It reads half-past five when he can see it in the moonlight.
"I heard you, I heard you," Ponyboy grumbles, pushing it beneath the jacket. "You're going into town. Won't be back for five hours—"
"Six or seven," Dallas corrects him.
"Six or seven hours," Ponyboy yawns. "What d'you want me to do while you're gone?"
"Finish cleaning up what you can, see if you can find anything. You hear someone, you hide unless you hear this," a three note whistle leaves his mouth. "You hear that, coast is clear."
Yawning again, Ponyboy nods. "Okay. Don't leave til you whistle. You won't be back til lunch, I guess." He hums. "You want a goodbye kiss, too?" Ponyboy's half serious when he says it, peering up at Dallas from the mix of clothes and old ratty blankets they'd found.
"Wouldn't mind one coming back," is all Dallas says, standing up with a half smile on his face. Ponyboy is too tired to feel embarrassed at the implication, just giving a small warm look back. "Just don't you dare stick your nose out of this town."
Town? Ponyboy thinks to himself, watching Dallas cross the floor. The urge to sleep tugs at him, willing him back to the makeshift bed more than the question of what Dallas means.
Sleep overtakes him, occupied by a half-state: where his imagination runs wild beneath his fingertips of the stables where he was riding with his mother, right in her lap with his father beside him on his favorite horse. It's a summer day occupied by trees swollen with apples in their branches, even though Ponyboy knows for a fact he's never been in an orchard like this. It must come from a movie of some kind, that he'd seen to be this vivid, saturated in oranges and pinks, filled with the scent of sunshine and fruit.
It's the kind of summer day that he'd want to linger in for as long as he could, with all that sunshine and wide open spaces, his parents alive, vivid beside him. The golden orchard around him seems more vivid not due to the sun or the fruit — it's his mother making it gold, vivid and her smiles warms him.
He turns his head and instead of Johnny there — Johnny should be here, shouldn't he? He always came along with them on trips — Dallas is there, peeling an apple with the switchblade from the night before, grinning. Against the tree, he's taller than what Ponyboy thought he'd be, somehow not out of place in the jeans and leather jacket he has, the knife flashing as he offers the apple to Ponyboy in the dream.
How could Ponyboy say no, even if he sees streaks of red on the fruit, even if he sees it flashing on the switchblade.
The taste of apple doesn't surge in his mouth when he bites down, and neither does blood — the taste of a dusty brown jacket does, and Ponyboy jerks awake, blinking at the landscape around him: the dilapidated, half cleaned church with footprints tracked through the dust and early morning sunlight coming through the windows in patches. The sun isn't too far up the horizon, and when Ponyboy pulls the watch out, he can see that it's a little past seven-thirty.
Stomach grumbling, Ponyboy spends a few moments wishing he'd had that apple for real, tongue pressing against the top of his mouth as if he could get the taste there. Instead, all he comes up with is a post sleep mouth in need of a clean.
The watch is tucked into his pocket, Ponyboy sitting up and looking at the sun drenched windows for a moment. He rubs at his eyes, looking around and wondering what to do next — the only breakfast available was the last few candy bars that Dallas had packed, the water pump, and maybe something he could find around him.
Staggering to his feet, Ponyboy decides that the candy bars will do. He sneezes at some of the dust around him, and makes his way to the front pew that Dallas has decided to use to put their things for now. The candy tastes good once he digs it out; he'll never turn down a Hershey's bar, no matter how half melted it is. It dissolves in his mouth, and he thinks again of the apples he'd dreamed about.
The sounds of jaybirds singing come through the church, echoing as Ponyboy eats. The candy bar is just enough to sate him, and he puts the meager rest into the backpack. Tulsa feels more distant now that he's had a sleep and a cry; less real, less of something he needed to focus on. Right now, he was in this dusty church, needing to do his best with it until Dallas came back with food and supplies — and the time was ticking.
Ponyboy looks around him, trying to decide what to do. Their meager clothes were dirty already from attempting to clean up the dust; the sanctuary needed a lot more elbow grease than what he could currently muster. Exploring it would come naturally, with how much they needed to clean it. They were meant to stay here for days, weeks on end, a thought that comforts him more than scares him.
His eyes drift towards the window, the endless green mixing with the sky.
Dallas had said a town. Just what kind of town was outside of the dusty church windows?
The urge to go out there, explore first is so appealing to Ponyboy as he looks around him. But... Dallas had said to clean the church first. Disappointing him wasn't something he was going to do. So he stands up, kicking up some dust, going through the pack of clothes. More than likely, Dallas was gonna bring back rags or something to clean things off with; for now this was all Ponyboy had to work with.
If Darry could see him in this moment, choosing to clean up himself instead of being nagged about it until he'd do it. Just a flash of his face — handsome, confused, eyes cold even though Ponyboy wishes they weren't — has Ponyboy moving faster. He doesn't want to think more about how much his father and Darry resembled each other. Doesn't want to think about what he's saying or thinking or doing in Tulsa, prefers to think of it as a far away place that Ponyboy could never reach again.
Maybe that's right.
The shirt Dallas had given him that was a million sizes too big is pulled off. It used to be the cowboy who ran the bar — his name might've been Buck, too? — thick in Ponyboy's hands as he looks at the windows. He makes his way to the pump, rinsing the shirt under the water, and trudging back inside. It's not something from a bottle that could clean the window, but it's better than nothing as he attempts to clean them off.
It takes time for him to go to and from the pump, doing as best he could with wringing out the shirt, scrubbing at the windows and coming back. The weather is cool, without humidity and easy to breathe after he takes a few minutes outside from the dust he kicks up. Every trip is taken a little quicker than the other, Ponyboy beginning to sweat the more he goes.
There's no noise out here that isn't made by the other animals, by the trees, the wind, and himself. That's what fills up his ears as he scrubs as best he can, slowly unfolding the town before and around him: various structures that were half demolished, from what he could see used to be a general store, a school house, and a few other places Ponyboy can only guess at.
By the time it's nine, all the windows are as clean as he can get them, his stomach is growling, and the shirt is entirely used up. It's now spreading dirt more than cleaning it, so Ponyboy puts it down on a rock, taking the time to breathe in the clean autumn air. His legs stretch out on the grass, some sweat slipping down his neck, eyes on the horizon. It's now fully morning, with jaybirds singing in the air, mixing with the sound of trees swaying. Unlike the flat, dusty Tulsa, this place — Jay Mountain — was green wherever his eyes went, whether it was the treetops that hadn't turned yet or the lush grass.
The only real interruption in that green landscape were the buildings that were scattered about. Ponyboy wipes at his eyes as he looks at them: most of them punctured the green landscape in whitewashed structures that were open at best and at worse, were totally ravaged, with jagged parts of the buildings jutting out or entirely exposed to the elements, starting to be overgrown with green.
Ponyboy runs his hands on his thighs, considering those buildings now, exploring them. There was no more cleaning he could do for now, and he still had hours to go for Dallas to come back. Licking his lips, he stands up, and begins his trek down into the town, or what remained of it.
As he walks, he thinks of his father, of his easy way when they had gone hunting together when he was younger. He had liked to take all of them when he could — usually when Darry was off season for football and Soda wasn't hesitant to go. Ponyboy always wanted to go, if just to bathe in the countryside, in the quiet of it all.
What he had liked less was the actual act of hunting, of having to shoulder the gun and aim it at a creature, take their life.
Ponyboy shies away from that, from how much he hated to think about glossy dead eyes, about the scent and spray of blood. Instead, he focuses on how his father had laughed around a campfire, his eyes sparkling as he spoke. How he told him about wooing the prettiest alpha girl he'd ever met, even though he hadn't had two pennies to rub between his fingers when he'd proposed to her. How she had brought him in front of her parents, and wouldn't allow her to marry him unless he had something, anything to offer.
Wistfully, he finds himself thinking about how his father had boasted, I told him if he let me work for him, I'd bring his company more than what he'd ever thought he would. And if I married Jennifer, even more. The way the campfire had bathed his face at this point in the story, how he always puffed up his chest. He said, Darrel Curtis, you've got a lot of spunk in you. So put your money where your mouth is and come back.
A jaybird trills, and Ponyboy has to stop himself from thinking further, about how much he'd thought he loved staying in the countryside, pulling himself back to the present where he was in front of what looked like a schoolhouse, judging by the board outside that had flyers that were still hanging on by a thread to the corkboard .Most of the paper was disintegrated, worn away beyond an old photo of a class. There's no year on it, and Ponyboy looks at the schoolhouse curiously.
It's all one story, the roof torn in places, with a cross that still stands on the pointed rooftop in the front. The steps are concrete, just like the ones for the church. Carefully, he steps inside the wooden doors, one hanging off of its hinges and the other torn clear off. Papers litter the floor in various stages of decay, a thick layer of dust coating them and the floor. Silence permeates the place, giving it an eerie feel despite the sunlight that filters in through the damaged roof and dusty windows.
Ponyboy makes his way through the schoolhouse carefully, turning his head this way and that. The hallways are utterly empty, and the classrooms have tipped over desks and chairs. Carefully, he pushes open a door to what seemed to be one of the faculty rooms, the drawers mostly untouched. To his delight, there's a typewriter there, abandoned, coated in dust. He blows at the dust, and coughs when it kicks up, getting everywhere. A rub of his thumb over it reveals that it's a Champion typewriter, and Ponyboy feels a spark of excitement over it. Probably the only class he'd been passing was English and typewriting — with this here, maybe they could take it back to the church.
He strokes at the keys, the sound echoing as he does it, the bangs exciting him.
From there, he pulls open the desk — papers are there, some old dried out pens, along with little knick knacks that have no interest to him. The only thing interesting is in the bottom drawer that contained what was a bottle of rum that still seemed good, a couple of pocket knives and switchblades, an old address book, a few abandoned bills and coins, and a copy of a pulpy cowboy novel. Ponyboy pockets as much as he can, moving onto the other rooms.
Whoever had left this place had left it mostly in a hurry. Some drawers are half emptied, others entirely devoid. Files are scattered everywhere with names of children and adults who used to occupy this place apparently called Windrixville — according to a letterhead he finds, it was the Windrixville Schoolhouse.
"Wonder why they all left so fast," he says to himself, turning over one of the placards they have. There's no telling, not with the level of dust and decay. The staff rooms he leaves, wandering down to the classrooms, looking at the displays for clues. They aren't much help, the glass smashed, photographs taken out of the frames or full of faces without names with frozen smiles. Whatever trophies might have occupied the shelves are totally gone too, to Ponyboy's disappointment.
The classrooms aren't much better: the same overturned desks, dusty tables, chalkboards with half written phrases on them, cobwebs in corners, and at least one room he backs quickly out of when greeted by a hissing snake he has no want to tangle with. Ponyboy opens one of the last rooms and for a moment, his heart soars at the sight of shelves and books that line them. Even a weathered book could be read.
He wedges the door open, going to the shelves, expecting something good there, exciting.
Instead, he's disappointed when he realizes that most of the books there are Bibles, and those that aren't are ones that are the kind of religions pamphlets that Mrs. Cade liked, full of talking about the light of the Lord, about the proper behavior for alphas and omegas and the like. Even reading the spines makes him recoil, and with disgust, he shuts the door with a snap.
Adventure over.
By the time he makes his way back to the church — a longer time than intended, given that he takes some time to wander about, looking at the trees, looking at the other parts of Windrixville that he wanted to explore later — it's 11.45, which meant Dallas was going to be back soon. Ponyboy was grimy as anything else, itching to be in new clothes as soon as possible.
All he can do is go back to the pump, washing himself off, and then making his way back in the church with the things he'd found. They're set in the office they cleared out, which looks even better compared to how bad the schoolhouse had been. He yawns, half thinking about taking a nap when he hears the sound of the whistle that Dallas had told him to listen out for.
All at once, excitement fills him, happiness that Dallas is back. Ponyboy returns the whistle, turning around to see Dallas walking inside, his scent hitting him first. He's sweating, his brown hair plastered to his forehead, two crates stacked up in his arms and a pack on his back. For a moment Ponyboy gapes — just how had he made his way up the mountain like that? before he scrambles to help.
"Jesus, Dally! Hold on, let me help!"
"Good, my arms are fucking killing me," Dallas grunts out, allowing Ponyboy to take one of the crates. The thin shirt he has is plastered to his skinny frame, the crate not as heavy as it looks. They both make their way into the sanctuary together, putting the crates down in front of the pews. Inside, Ponyboy can see the crate he has is filled up with Cokes, deli meat, bread, soap, and a stack of candybars that makes him beam. More is at the bottom, but that could wait as they unloaded everything.
The crate that Dallas puts down has more bread, more meat, condiments, cigarettes, matches, a lighter and more. It's packed almost to the gills and Dallas grunts when he puts down the back. "I stole these — think we should be okay as long as we steal every so often from the town for clothes, pay mostly for food." He pulls out a pack of still mostly together ice, and beneath it is clothes. "I tried to pick a good size, but you'll have to make do with what we got." He takes the ice. "I'm gonna go put this in the ice box, and you can pick something out."
At the bottom, folded in a neatly curious way, are two pairs of jeans, a few shirts, some underwear, socks, and a pair of shoes. It takes a moment for him to realize: Dallas must've stolen this from a hiker or someone preparing for their own trip. Ponyboy decides not to question it, just pulls out everything he can. All in all, it's a lot of food and supplies, enough to last a good bit of time — two or three weeks.
He grins looking over it all, at how damn resourceful Dallas is. Dallas may have been the undisputed, scariest hood in Tulsa but he certainly wasn't dumb. Ponyboy brings the deli meat to the room with the ice box that Dallas has fixed up, handing it over to him. Seeing him again has cheered him up immensely — his familiar face, his scent that makes Ponyboy feel heady, the confidence in him all make him feel much more at home. "Where'd you go? Was the town okay? What about the news?"
Dallas takes the meat from him, putting it in the ice box. "What about my kiss?" The grin he gives is sharp, teasing maybe. "I do a good job or what?"
Even if he's kidding, Ponyboy's ears grow pink. as Dallas leans over the side of the ice box. "I thought – I - I mean —"
Dallas huffs, grinning wider. "What, you feeling shy all of a sudden?" He leans closer, eyebrows going up. "Or you ain't all that s—"
Turns out, it's easier to kiss Dallas with the intent to shut him up. Ponyboy doesn't mean to kiss him too hard, and yet Dallas lets out his own sound of surprise, even though it doesn't take him long to reach up, grasping Ponyboy's hair, pulling him closer. A shiver runs up Ponyboy's spine at how good it feels to kiss Dallas, to have him again, to have that reassurance of his presence, of his care.
It's enough for Ponyboy to forget where they are for a moment, spending time kissing him like that over the ice box together, tasting him, his own hand grasping Dallas' thin shirt to drag him closer, feeling Dallas drag him closer too, a feeling in him that starts to burn with want until he's gasping for air, until the door of the icebox squeaks.
They break apart gasping and Ponyboy knows without saying that he's slick and Dallas' eyes are dark, putting the meat away, slamming the ice box close. His vision is swimming a little, his heart racing, face flushed, able to taste Dallas on his mouth, his scent filling his nostrils.
This is his world now, narrowed down to Dallas and Windrixville and the church, and Ponyboy closes the distance between them, drags Dallas down for another kiss, this one gentler than before, his hand tentatively touching Dallas' waist, the skin beneath his hand feeling slick with sweat. Dallas has to lean down a bit to kiss him better, an arm wrapping around Ponyboy's waist, drawing him closer.
Time loses meaning. There's only how Dallas groans low in his throat when Ponyboy's mouth drifts from his mouth to the column of his neck, the gasp when Dallas' hand slips downward, past Ponyboy's waistband to grasp at his ass, the sudden realization that they're both hard, and how good it feels to get their jeans undone, Dallas' finger slipping inside of Ponyboy the way he had at the theater. At the theater, it had been teasing, only a slight breach a time or two. Now, he fingers Ponyboy faster, less to give Ponyboy pleasure than to just indulge in the slick, before his hand wraps around both of their cock's at once. The sensation is so different than when Ponyboy has touched himself in exploration, in half curiosity on his own. Dallas' hand is bigger, calloused, and the sensation almost makes him buckle, keening softly. Something about it isn't entirely right — he wants Dallas back inside him, but it isn't entirely wrong either, not with how good it still feels.
Ponyboy feels dizzy, delirious, happy as they kiss, nip at each other, Dallas stroking them both with a slick drenched hand. He knows he says, I've never done this and Dallas says First time for everything, right?
He doesn't know what he says after that, just knows that Dallas stroking them both, nipping at him, latching his teeth into Ponyboy's neck and biting down as he touches his cockhead, the sound of his hand around them echoing, their hips moving, his heart is going so fast, his cheeks feel too flushed, and Dallas is —
And then he's crashing, the world ignites, and Ponyboy doesn't know where he is anymore, doesn't know anything except a blinding white and a feeling of everything coming apart in a way that he can't describe. It feels better than anything he's felt before, the way it wipes away every thought, every feeling except bliss washing over him over and over.
His legs give out, and Dallas is panting in his ear saying, I got you kid, I got you. There's a mess all over his stomach and thighs and cock and Ponyboy doesn't care, doesn't care at all. Not when he feels this good, not when Dallas is so close, not when he can't get enough of kissing him, of his body, his scent.
When his head clears, he realizes that he and Dallas have migrated to the floor, clutching each other, Ponyboy leaning against his chest. He feels warm, happy against him, his fingers on Dallas' chest. His eyes focus on Dallas' legs where his cock lies on his stomach, still erect, spurting out cum every so often on his stomach and thighs. Ponyboy blinks, his ear pressed against Dallas' chest, hearing his heart beat steadily in his chest.
"S'matter?" Ponyboy asks, lifting his head up.
"Huh?" Dallas looks down at him, and then looks at his cock, grumbles, his hand running along Ponyboy's side. "I always knot, kid. Ain't like those other alphas you hear about." He shrugs, watching Ponyboy as he digests this information — knotting outside of a knot, always. "Don't usually like a handjob cause I'm like this for awhile. Don't worry about it." He gives Ponyboy's ass a lazy smack that stings, Ponyboy gushing slick out. "Might have to go out more often if this is what I get."
Ponyboy leans up just enough to kiss him again.
this is a wilder, more expansive take on jay mountain and windrixville, i know. thanks for reading, i love comments!
