The sanctuary becomes an easier clean with the supplies that Dallas bought. In the crates, he'd managed to grab sponges and some basic cleaner. After Dallas' knot had gone down, they washed off at the pump, put their grimy clothes back on ("Why clean in the new clothes so we can get them dirty?") and had gotten to work. For most of the afternoon, they'd cleaned up the sanctuary with the sponges, cleaner, soap Dallas had gotten until they had managed to get most of the sanctuary clean enough to actually inhabit.

They were both sore and exhausted enough that when they were done, they had both been grateful for a clean at the pump, stumbling back inside to rest and eat.

In the darkening evening, they were mostly occupying themselves however they wanted now that their bellies were full. The light came from lanterns that they'd found — about three that worked, and four that didn't, the light amber and just bright enough. The church held a furnace, Ponyboy for his part was leaning on the pew, a cigarette between his lips, going through the magazines and books that Dallas had gotten, finally able to get to the bottom of the crate. Dallas was on the other pew, leaning back, fiddling with a little transistor radio they'd discovered in one of the pockets of the backpack he'd stolen. It had batteries in it, the dial lighting up as Dallas frowns, attempting to get it to tune in to an actual station that wasn't far off voices filling the sanctuary with gospel music.

The voices are ghost-like as they flitter in and out of the sanctuary, mixing at times with the sounds of crickets outside. Ponyboy looks at the newspapers first — searching for headlines about him, about Dallas, for Johnny. So far, there isn't anything about them to his surprise. Something a little like relief settles in his chest, mixing with the dreading feeling that it was just a matter of time before they read about themselves, emblazoned under a huge headline. What's there is mostly the going ons of the sleepy town below mixed with casual news of sports, and other going ons for a Sunday.

What catches his interest is the cover for The New Yorker: it's an illustration of a kid in front of a hotel bar, lined with drinks and glasses of all kinds. It's a thick issue magazine, brand new and Ponyboy fingers at it curiously unable to recall when was the last time he'd seen a magazine this thick, the last time he'd actually been excited to read one. "You want to read with me, later?" He looks at Dallas curiously, not having a gauge at all for the other boy's capacity for books at all. Darry never wanted to read books or watch movies and Soda never had the attention. "We might get bored without anything else."

"Sure," he's instantly agreeable, frowning more deeply than before, a line between his eyebrows as his fingers carefully turn the knob, millimeter by millimeter. "I heard 'em saying there was some big story in there, picked it up. If it's good, I'll get some more." Dallas glances over at him for a moment with a sense of coolness that would make James Dean jealous.

Ponyboy returns it, putting the magazine down. "What was the town like? Is it named Windrixville too?"

"Nah, some little nothing stick of a place," Dallas goes back to fiddling with the radio knobs, kicking his legs out more. "I don't remember the name, just this is Windrixville on Jay Mountain. Found it when I was trying to get to Oklahoma City, wound up in Tulsa instead."

"You know why it was abandoned?" Ponyboy pulls up another book, with a green cover that reads Dune. It's thick, and he flicks through the pages. "I went exploring while you were gone, found the schoolhouse. Everything was flipped over, paper everywhere besides one room full of snakes and one full of these weird religious books." That makes Dallas pull his eyes away from the radio, curious. "They kept talking about how omegas should be only with alphas, and only guys and girls. Real religious stuff I've never seen before." Dallas turns to him curiously, leaning his head back.

His gaze isn't hurried, isn't mired in something else. Those brown eyes are fully focused on Ponyboy, and for a second, he forgets himself. No one has looked at him like this the way Dallas does. No one's had a chance to do so.

Ponyboy swallows, trying not to let himself be embarrassed by the attention, pressing on. "It didn't make sense to me, at all. Why would they just think all that makes any kind of sense?" He looks down, his ears feeling red, unsure how to continue beneath Dallas' gaze. "You uh, ever hear of that before?"

"Yeah, a lot of weirdos are out there like that," Ponyboy focuses on his fingers, flicking through the pages of Dune, picking up words here and there. "You never know what you might run into. Your folks weren't religious or anything?" The radio flits in and out again, Ponyboy relaxing as static and voices alternate in the air.

Still, he keeps his eyes focused on the crate, on the newspapers there. It's easier than looking at Dallas as he talks, "My Momma was Pentecostal. Not sure about my Pops; he sometimes went with her to service, sometimes not. He said stuff to us sometimes that nature itself was more interesting than walls." Ponyboy pulls out another magazine, flipping through it. "I think he didn't get along with the pastor, maybe."

There's a scrape of a shoe on the floor. Ponyboy glances up, watching as Dallas frowns around his cigarette a little deeper, finger moving the knob slower than before.

Elvis' voice pours out: "I know the meaning of contentment / Now I'm happy with the Lord / Just a plain and simple chapel," Dallas turns up the volume with pleasure, filling up the sanctuary as he does it. "Where humble people go to pray / I pray the Lord that I'll grow stronger / As I live from day to day."

Ponyboy sways with the music, with the easy tones, a grin spreading on his face. Unlike the other Socs, he never had an issue with Elvis. They'd all been so quick to switch to the Beatles; not him. Dallas returns his grin, putting the radio on the pew, leaning back as the calm song fills the rafters. It turns the rafters, the glow of the lanterns, their shadows on the floor, into something more. He sways with it, Dallas tapping out his cigarette with pleasure.

For just a few moments, they both can pretend that this isn't them running away, that the sanctuary is something they came to on their own and not out of desperation. Ponyboy doesn't mind that as he puts the magazines down in the crate, watching as Dallas bobs his head with the music, his foot tapping every now and then. He blows smoke rings as he does, Ponyboy becoming engrossed with his enjoyment.

Everyone else had moved on from Elvis — all except Ponyboy, really. He vaguely remembers Johnny looking surprised when he'd asked him to turn the dial back. Maybe greasers hadn't moved either on him; the way that Dallas enjoys the song just feels infection, even if the song is calm, nothing like you'd hear in a party.

When the station moves onto the next song, Dallas lets out a laugh. "Just my luck they only had one."

"You got a favorite?" Ponyboy asks, fingers plucking at his jeans, watching as Dallas picks up a pack of crackers, opening them with a tug. "Mine's Pocketful of Rainbows. We saw the movie together."

"Hound Dog," a second doesn't even pass for Dallas to respond, grinning wide as he takes out a couple of crackers. "Can't be that one, kid. Guess you really ain't like the rest of your friends. They all don't care for him anymore."

"Well, my friends back home don't have a good track record, remember?" He leaves the crate alone, crossing the floor to sit next to Dallas and take a cracker. It's salty, buttery on his tongue and Ponyboy hums. "You didn't wanna spring for cookies?"

"I hate sweets," he bites into another cracker, the light glinting off of his rings. On his left hand, a skull ring grinned up at Ponyboy. On his right, there was a red class ring with a W glinting on it in the center. Ponyboy thinks it looks familiar as he eats a few crackers, humming. "These are just butter and salt, none of that other shit. Elvis just changed, he ain't bad. Those Beatles just look like idiots in those suits, look like a monkey gave 'em a haircut."

A burst of laughter ripples out of Ponyboy enough that he almost chokes on his crackers. Dallas goes on, pleased with himself. "None of 'em could be as cool as Elvis. Hell kind of a name is Ringo, anyway?" Ponyboy laughs with him as he bites down onto another cracker, his eyes turning a little flinty in his face. "What d'you like, then, besides a no good greaser, Elvis, and the movies?"

"You already guessed it with books," Ponyboy gives him a little smile. "I like those. Poetry, stories, anything I can find in a book, I like reading. Same for movies; can't get enough of 'em. Even the bad ones." Dallas looks a little surprised at the last part. "Johnny used to complain about it, but I used to just stay at the movie theater all day, sneak into a showing." The mention of Johnny doesn't seem to bother Dallas, just breezing right past him with no change in expression. "And the countryside, going on hunts with my Pop before he died. Horses, too. Used to go to the rodeo a lot."

"I remember that," taking the crackers, Dallas twists it close, half of them still there. "I used to work for him for a bit — your brother, Sodapop, was crazy about that horse Mickey Mouse. Used to see him all the damn time til I quit." Dallas sucks at his mouth, oblivious to the shock in Ponyboy's chest at the mention of his brother, or the sudden feeling of homesickness sweeping over him. That horse was Sodapop's favorite — a pretty mustang with a dark brown coat, wild and with an attitude. "Jeeze, those crackers make you thirsty. You find a canteen around here?"

"No canteen, no," Ponyboy twists around, "We got some rum though — I found that at the school."

Dallas huffs indignantly. "You found rum and you ain't share it soon as you got it? C'mon, kid!" He pushes at Ponyboy's shoulder good naturedly, and Ponyboy gets up as fast as he can to retrieve it. It screws open easy beneath Dallas' fingers, the scent making Ponyboy's nose burn for a moment. How Dallas tips it back so easily into his mouth, taking a long gulp of it is beyond Ponyboy. Even though he enjoys the way Dallas looks, with his neck thrown back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he drinks, some of his hair curling on his forehead. In the sanctuary, he's made up of yellow and orange tones, with half of him plunged in shadow, lips wrapped around the bottle in a way that conceals his bone white wolf like teeth. More than ever, he's dangerous and mysterious to Ponyboy, drawing him in with his toughness.

Then he splutters, some of the rum half spat out, getting on his face and chin. He gags, and for as beautiful as he looked before, now Ponyboy is smothering a laugh as he does it as he coughs and hacks. "Jesus — I ain't much of a drinker, but fuck." He frowns, the rum dripping down his chin and mouth, looking at the label skeptically. "You sure this isn't whisky?"

"Label says rum," he reaches out for the bottle, his fingers brushing against Dallas' own. Even with rum dripping down his face, there's not a single flaw to Dallas Winston in Ponyboy's viewpoint. "I thought you drank a lot. The other greasers said that about you."

"They say lots of shit that ain't true," Dallas twists around, putting out his old cigarette that was going out. Another song is playing on the radio now, a little more upbeat. "Can't do no one any good if you ain't got money or a home and you're drunk off your ass all the time unless you want the cops to get you."

The bottle is cool in Ponyboy's hand, contemplating his next words. He barely knew Dallas — it maybe was over ninety-hours that they'd known each other now, three days and change. Here they were, sitting in an abandoned church in an abandoned town, exchanging alcohol and cigarettes and stories. Johnny was dead, and Dallas was his murderer.

He shouldn't be doing this. He should be turning himself in or telling Dallas to run without him instead of looking at his brown eyes, illuminated by the lantern and thinking how he'd like to draw them. He should be back in Tulsa, with everyone else, not wondering to himself if this night could stretch on forever, or if he should be the one to close the distance and end the conversation with a kiss to Dallas' rum stained lips. He wants to — that attraction he felt at the movie theaters felt ever stronger, now that they were here alone together.

No one was going to retaliate now — no one would glare at them, there wasn't a crowd here to impress or shy away from, no one was going to interrupt. The way Dallas' focus is always on him, always intense, his eyes always burning in his face in some way or another, Ponyboy feels very, very certain that Dallas could pin him there and his entire world would narrow down to that hood and his sharp smile and his scent that was always on the edge of Ponyboy's nose, always making him aware of Dallas' dynamic in ways that he had never considered before.

If it were anyone else, Ponyboy thinks, he could do it. He could fall right into this, but something about Dallas Winston is painfully real, even if he's swathed in light and shadows like this, even if he might be the coolest, toughest person he's ever met. He licks his lips, takes a swig of the rum.

Just like Dallas, though he sputters — it really does burn fiercely going down, the taste is strong, the feeling warm in his throat like he's swallowed liquid heat, and he's gagging too. "Shit, shit! This ain't rum!" Ponyboy coughs and Dallas slaps his shoulder in agreement.

Ponyboy coughs more, Dallas getting up. "Hold on, hold on. Gimme that." Ponyboy hands over the bottle, expecting Dallas to dump it out. He instead screws it tighter, picks up a lantern. "I'll be back in five minutes, I'm going to the pump."

In the dimmer sanctuary, Ponyboy takes a moment to breathe, to try and come to himself. The more he thinks about Dallas, the more he considers him, the more Ponyboy wants him, the more he wants to crawl into his lap and have him and a voice frightening like Darry's is telling him not to do it. It clings to the realness of Dallas, of who and what is happening and Ponyboy doesn't want to disregard it. Not entirely.

Plainly, though: he doesn't know what else to do. What options were there in going home, in turning himself back in? What would that do besides get Dallas in trouble, endanger his life. Why would he want to go back to that house that was choking him everytime he stepped foot, why would he want to go back to Tulsa and look at the faces of boys who had been his friend or Johnny's friend and defend to them what Dallas had done?

He'd already said it to Dallas, to himself. They'd never part with each other. The thought of doing it makes him sick, makes his skin erupt in gooseflesh. So why was he hesitating? Why was he trying to shy away from more?

Ponyboy wrestles with it, unable to come up with an answer as the floorboard creaks, signaling Dallas' arrival. He's holding some old glasses, and a bucket. "I remembered these were here. Got some water — we gotta cut that a little bit."

Snorting, Ponyboy moves to allow him to pass, hearing the water slosh heavily at the sides. "I know that trick. Lots of kids do it to their parents' liquor cabinets."

"I taught some of 'em," Dallas sits down, dunking one glass into the water and handing it to Ponyboy, and then himself. "Sides, we gotta talk business, Pony, and I ain't doing it drunk."

Those words feel like a douse of ice cold water on him. Business. The image of his brother in a suit, of that husband of his floats up in Ponyboy's mind for a moment. He always hated the weight of that word, of everything it signified: the coldness taking over Darry, the number crunching.

His fingers wrap tighter around the glass, knuckles going white in a way he hopes Dallas doesn't notice. "We do? What - What kind of business?"

"How we're gonna live out here," the bucket is moved to the side, Dallas fixing his eyes on Ponyboy, expression deadly serious instead of the more playful or intimate look from before. "We made a promise to stay together, ain't we?" Ponyboy nods, feeling wooden as he does it. "So we gotta have some rules, kid. We can't just — you make one mistake, and I'm looking at the electric chair and they'd haul you back. So first rule: no lying."

Indignation rises up. "When have I lied to you?"

"I ain't calling you one!" Dallas says defensively. "I'm just saying, we gotta trust each other while we're out here. We need to keep it up, so we can't lie to each other, no matter what. We're all we got, and no matter what some cop says, that's it. You get me?"

Some of his indignation calms down with a swig of the cold water. "I got you. And I wouldn't rat on anyone."

Dallas flashes those teeth of his. "Good. Second, we do what we did today whenever someone leaves to go down the mountain to the town. I'll take you one day, show you how I do it." That's easy enough to agree on, Ponyboy nodding. "Third, if one of us gets caught, you run. No sacrificing, no selling out, nothing. We just run, leave the other one. They can only get one of us at a time, and if it'll give one of us a headstart, you take it."

Ponyboy shakes his head before Dallas is finished with that sentence. "No. I don't wanna leave you if that happens." An annoyed look crosses Dallas' face and Ponyboy raises his voice. "No, Dally. I'm not leaving you if that happens."

"You have to," the words are bitten out, his eyes flashing. "What sense does it make for both of us to get caught?"

"I'd rather die with you than die without you," Ponyboy snaps back, unafraid. "I'm not like those other Socs, Dal. I wouldn't leave you to rot like a coward. Would you really leave me?"

Every moment before this, Dallas has been confident, been feral, been full of knowledge. He's been brave at every turn, maybe too rash. For the very first time that they've been together, Dallas fully looks unsure of himself, his eyes dropping, his mouth twisting uncomfortably in his mouth.

All of that confident greaser is gone and Ponyboy sees Dallas for who he is: a kid like him, scared to be caught, scared for Ponyboy. Willing to do anything to protect him, even if it meant they'd fit him to the electric chair if Ponyboy was safe. Dallas isn't some alpha adult with everything in front of him, he isn't some James Dean from the screen or Marlon Brando. He's a kid, barely older than Ponyboy is and Ponyboy finds himself thinking of how Dallas could have come to this conclusion. How many people have betrayed Dallas, left him behind? How many people have walked away from him at the moment he needed them, how many people did Dallas put his faith into before this and had followed through?

Ponyboy shakes his head. "You wouldn't, would you, Dallas?"

"Promise me," Dallas says, voice rough, eyes not meeting Ponyboy's. "Please."

Since when does Dallas Winston say Please, the word trembling in his mouth.

Every part of Ponyboy knows he's lying when he says, "I promise."

He thinks Dallas knows that, as he relaxes. But it's a lie that Dallas needs, not Ponyboy.

So he gives it to him, this one lie. The only lie, their glasses clinking together in agreement. The radio fills up the sanctuary again with music, and Ponyboy knows, as he watches Dallas wipe his mouth, those rings glinting, that nothing was going to separate them for as long as he could.

"Where do you wanna sleep? Basement or up here?" Dallas says the words casually, as if he hadn't proposed what he just had.

"Together," Ponyboy says firmly. "And somewhere warm. It's getting cold." He watches Dallas stand up, offering his hand. Ponyboy puts down his glass, grasps Dallas' calloused hand and kisses him on his mouth, not content with just sharing water to seal the deal.

A kiss is better, means more to him and with the way Dallas sighs, parts his mouth for him, he must agree. The only thing missing is blood.