In the distance, he can hear the sounds of something cracking, like a tree limb — the way it webs out on the limb, the slow cracks in the wood. The sound of the furnace's dull hum comes with it and Dallas nudges against the slightly cold pew he's curled up on. The smell of autumn air mixes with Ponyboy's scent from across the room, tinged with some of the soap they've been using when they've washed up in the river.

For every day that inches closer to cold, Dallas wishes the blankets he had were a little thicker. The mornings had been fine before, just cool enough that when he woke up, it wasn't so bad. Now, though, he almost is longing for Buck's; as shitty as that place could be, it was always warm in the winter no matter what. And right now, he was missing it, missing how reliable it was compared to the church.

The furnace works; they had taken a full day to figure out how to run it together, but since it was so old, and they were being overly cautious, it wasn't always on. That might have to change, soon, Dallas thinks as he rolls over in the pew, yawning. From his spot on the pew, he can see where Ponyboy's got his nest on the pulpit itself. His hair looks like a nest from where Dallas is, his shoulders moving slightly as he sleeps on.

Of the both of them, he's the one more likely to sleep until noon as opposed to Dallas, who's always up early in the morning. He watches from his spot as Ponyboy turns in his nest, limbs splaying out, the blankets he has drawing around him. They'd gone into the various buildings, houses that had been leftover to scavenge what they could and despite feeling chilly, Dallas hadn't fussed, just giving Ponyboy most of the blankets.

Ponyboy had only given mild protest; they were both well aware that Dallas was the one who had suffered the elements before, who was much more hardened than him. So he'd taken it, while Dallas had relied on the now and then raid to bring up more clothes, soap, other supplies.

A bird chirps outside, and knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep, Dallas throws off the covers, climbing out of the pew.

The rule was that whoever woke up first made breakfast in the kitchen they'd managed to find and get to work in the church. Most times it was Dallas, though the times where Ponyboy woke up first he always considered to be lucky. Dallas wasn't a slouch as a cook; he just didn't know how to make biscuits off of the top of his head and he wasn't good enough of a shot to take down game the way Ponyboy was.

The gun they had wasn't necessarily ideal for taking down game, as Ponyboy had told him when he'd come back with a brace of rabbits one morning. They'd still done the job enough, and Ponyboy had been able to cook them into a soup good enough that Dallas had considered a risky move going down into one of the surrounding towns to find a shotgun so Ponyboy could hunt more often. That rabbit had been the best thing he'd tasted in a long time and just thinking about it as he washes his face off makes his mouth water in need.

Instead of that, though, he was using the old skillet they'd recovered to make beans and eggs — there weren't a lot of birds around here, just lucky enough to have found a nest or two. For a rich kid, Dallas had to admit Ponyboy knew more than he thought when he'd found the small blue ones ("These are Robin's eggs!") and then smaller white ones ("Those're quail. They're really good.") even though Dallas wished for a good old spread with chicken eggs. Those were much, much bigger.

He pushes some of the food around as more sunlight filters in, and as expected, Ponyboy begins to wake up. Dallas watches him carefully, as first his arm twitches, then a leg kicks out, and then a low groan fills the church. In seconds, Ponyboy is blinking awake, lifting his head drowsy and not entirely aware. He looks for Dallas first, eyes connecting — and like always, he relaxes once they do.

Then his head flops down, always needing five more minutes.

Their routine now, hardly ever interrupted.

"You find anything yet?" Dallas yells, looking around the cellar around him, hoping that his voice travels upward enough the way it has in the other houses. It's mid-October and even though they've been here for weeks with stretches of endless time, there's so much more of Windrixville's bones for them to explore.

The houses were one of them as most were still standing, tucked deeper into the valley. The school they picked over clean pretty quickly, followed by what they had guessed was the mayor's office, and then a few shops. The shops had been particularly good with supplies, and the houses they took one by one.

Whatever had chased these whackos out had been snipping at their heels bad for them to have abandoned so much. This house was a basic shack on the outside — it seemed as if the church was always going to be the best built place in all of Windrixville — the cellar decently spacious. To no surprise, the canned food has started to turn black in their jars. Dallas avoided them entirely, looking for alcohol, blankets, money (something they very rarely found), clothes, or cookware to name a few things.

So far, he'd come up with old photos that hadn't interested him, a box of useless knicknacks that he could probably pawn off down the mountain, a few books he flipped through just to check that they weren't that whacko religion shit they found everywhere and pocketing it to give to Ponyboy when it proved it wasn't, a rotted through stack of wood and a bottle of a dark drink that smelled strong.

Above, Ponyboy doesn't answer. Dallas can hear him move around, and he aims the huge flashlight he'd stolen from a hitchhiker towards the other shelves.

He flicks it downwards and to his delight finds a box of bullets. And right above it, collecting a thick layer of dust, was a shotgun. Excitement courses through him at the sight of it, crouching down to look over it. Despite the layer of dust on it, it has a sleek, brown and black form. It's heavy when he picks it up, and even luckier, there's some shells in a box beside it.

If there was a God, he was looking out in this one moment. Dallas doesn't bother looking at the rest — just grasps the box, tucks it under his arm as best as he can and makes his way out of the cellar. The cold of the mountainside hits him, and he scrambles past the side of the house and makes his way to the flung open front door.

Inside, Ponyboy is in what was probably meant to be the dining room, dressed in one of the old undershirts they'd found, and a pair of jeans, pulling out some of the china plates they'd left behind in a wooden display case onto the large mahogany table that takes up the bulk of the room. He drops utensils in a paper bag beside it, and Dallas watches from the door for a second as Ponyboy clearly doesn't hear or scent him. They're both getting a weaker version of a farmer's tan from being outside so much, and Ponyboy's hair is growing longer, the wisps of it curling against the top of his shoulders. The sunlight hits it enough that the auburn red tones look brighter than usual, Dallas wanting to reach out and grab it as he sets down the rifle with a pleased look.

Ponyboy looks up at the sudden sound, his face brightening immediately at the sight of the gun. "Holy shit. Where'd you find that?" He sets down another dish, coming around the huge table to look at it closer. "That's a Winchester 21! Really good hunting gun."

"Found it in the cellar," Dallas preens, pointing to the shells. "Found that too, so we can use it."

We, being Ponyboy. He clearly knows it as he beams at Dallas, running his hand over the gun. Dallas is so pleased with himself, it's as if he'd actually gone out and bought it himself for Ponyboy. "Needs a clean, though I guess most things here need a clean. We can see if we can find any more shells. I dunno who's house this was, 'cept it seems like they were loaded. There's so much china here, and I think the utensils are silver." Ponyboy grasps Dallas' hand in excitement, tugging him through the house.

Dallas, happy to simply have Ponyboy's smaller hand in his, doesn't object as he leads him to the full kitchen. The light catches the slight tan his pale skin was getting, the freckles that had popped on his skin looking as if they'd been put there on purpose to tease Dallas.

Like most places, the shack isn't very well kept, and still felt like the residents had left in the hurry: one cabinet door was hanging off of a hinge at a haphazard angle, the dishes for the most part remained, and there was so much alcohol in one cabinet that Dallas is stunned as his eyes work over it. The floor has dust tracks from Ponyboy being in there, Dallas' eyes roaming about.

"Jesus, were these a colony of alcoholics or something?" He frowns at the sight before him, though Ponyboy points to the corner — where another ice box was. The only other one they'd found at that point. Not even the supposed mayor's place had an ice box this big. "Shit, we could take this back with us!"

"We'd have a time getting it out," Ponyboy admits, though there's still pride in his voice. "I haven't gone to the bedrooms yet, was hoping we might find something more than just dish towels." He says it wistfully, tugging Dallas further in. "But look at this."

In the very back of the kitchen, collecting dust on it's wide barrel was a washing machine. A very old one: the drum was huge, with the word Maytag on it, a sharp red against a faded turquoise blue. There's a wringer uptop, with wheels and a mess of a contraption holding the whole thing up. Dallas raises his eyebrows at it, squeezing Ponyboy's hand before he can think further. "Jesus Christ. It's fucking gas operated, I've seen this — but we ain't got gas."

"We could get it though, couldn't we?" Ponyboy asks excitedly. "We could get gas and use it, couldn't we?"

The eagerness has Dallas rolling his shoulders in a half shrug. "I ain't sure — worth a shot though." He wipes at his forehead with his free hand, cocking his eyebrow. "What about the bedrooms? Find any good mattresses yet?"

"Never got there," Ponyboy glances behind them, and then back to Dallas. "We could go look."

"Lead the way," Dallas hooks a grin on his face, allowing Ponyboy to take him out of the kitchen and down the main hallway. Most of the mattresses they'd found were anywhere from being destroyed from animals burrowing inside or so hard and uncomfortable it had done better to use as fuel for fire or simply not bothered with at all. The sheets and covers were either totally absent or just as chewed through or so thin that they'd used them for rags. The idea that they could find a good one appeals as they walk into the back half of the house. There are two rooms in the back, the biggest one coated with a thick layer of dust on it as they walk inside. The floors squeak and inside is the bed: it's big, with old pillows and blankets on it, apparently untouched by wild life.

Letting go of Ponyboy's hand, they both come to the either side of it, pressing their hand on the top, through the layers of dust to the off white blankets. The bed squeaks just a bit — and to Dallas' disappointment, it's hard as a rock beneath the relatively soft blankets. He and Ponyboy both sigh at that, Ponyboy grumbling out, "Were all the people who lived here just monsters? Or people with wood for backs?"

Dallas wipes his hand on his jeans, getting the grime off. "C'mon. Let's move the shit we got so you can make me lunch." Ponyboy kicks the bed, both of them leaving the room. If they wanted to come back later, it would be there, like everything else.

"What am I, your housewife?" Ponyboy jokes as Dallas swats at his ass. He turns his head up, getting a smirk on his face as they go back through the house. The only windows in the place are missing the glass in the pane, filtering in the weak sunlight outside, the scent of the valley picking up with a gust of wind. Ponyboy turns toward him, cocking his eyebrows at Dallas, scratching at his cheek. "Sandwiches aren't the same thing as a steak."

"S'long as you make it, what do I care?" Running his hand on Ponyboy's waist, Dallas keeps him from stepping wholly away, staying in the afternoon sunlight. "Wife, husband, boyfriend, long as you make it while we're up here, I ain't complaining." He pulls Ponyboy closer, dipping his head downward to catch Ponyboy's mouth in a hungry kiss.

Ponyboy grins into it, whatever remark he'll make never said. They have better things to do: namely for Dallas to run his palm up Ponyboy's shirt, Ponyboy's own fingers hooking into Dallas' jean front.

It's becoming easier, to figure out how to be with each other — how Ponyboy sounds when Dallas' mouth latches onto his neck, what it feels like to Ponyboy's fingers run down the patch of hair above Dallas' crotch until he's grabbing at his cock, how much fun it is to get Ponyboy down onto the one clean place on the floor so that Dallas can flip him onto his stomach, shove his jeans down and press his mouth to that slicked hole he has, tongue lapping out to catch it.

And above all, Dallas loves how Ponyboy sighs in happiness, the taste of slick on his tongue, and just how much of it Ponyboy always has just for him.

It's a perfect prelude to lunch.

The afternoon is filled the way it tends to be after one of those home raids, with both of them trying to organize what they've got. The plates, utensils, the gun and ammo go in the office they've converted to a storage room, right next to the other piles of things they've gotten. The ice box, Dallas checks — they've probably got another day before he has to go down to the town to get more. Two more, really, if the weather kept at it.

There's enough food in there that they're not too bored with what's there, Dallas organizing it as he finishes off the sandwich he'd been promised.

"You wanna go wash clothes at the river with me, kid?" He asks, raising his voice.

"No," Ponyboy always says no, even though Dallas thinks one day it'll be different. "I'll come next time. Sides, I think we're okay with laundry right now." Dallas hears the strike of the match, and Ponyboy continues, "You wanna read with me, while we still got light?"

Chuckling, Dallas shuts the ice box, and walks to the chapel in a few steps. Waiting for him, propped up in his nest with a cigarette and the magazine they've been slowly going through is Ponyboy. His shirt hasn't been put back on after their romp — not that Dallas minds, with the bite marks he's left on Ponyboy's shoulder or how good he looks beneath the chapel light. "Where are we?"

"We're...," Ponyboy flips the magazine pages, scanning it, eyebrows working together, "At the part with Perry! C'mon."

Dallas walks over, keeping himself to the very edge of Ponyboy's nest instead of entering it. He folds his much larger legs beneath him, leaning against the pew that Ponyboy has pushed in a comfortable position. "Go on, I read last time and you know more words than I do."

"It's not that complicated," Ponyboy blows smoke from his nostrils, wrapping the magazine around, eyes flicking towards Dallas. "You sure you don't wanna sit nowhere else?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he gestures for the cigarette, which Ponyboy offers.

He clears his throat, his voice steady as he reads, "Like Mr. Clutter, the young man breakfasting in a café called the Little Jewel never drank coffee. He preferred root beer. Three aspirin, cold root beer, and a chain of Pall Mall cigarettes—that was his notion of a proper 'chow-down.'" As Ponyboy's voice fills up the church, Dallas relaxes with every word.

The scene unfurls in his head as Ponyboy continues, "Sipping and smoking, he studied a map spread on the counter before him—a Phillips 66 map of Mexico—but it was difficult to concentrate, for he was expecting a friend, and the friend was late."

Dallas shuts his eyes and listens as Ponyboy talks, his voice confident, reminding Dallas of someone else, someone who he hadn't seen since he was ten. He only interrupts to ask, "What's a chamois?"

"It's a type of leather," Ponyboy answers helpfully, taking the cigarette from Dallas now, taking a long inhale. "It's used by artists, so you can blend things in."

"So, he's just been looking at the map a lot? Touching it?"

"Sounds like it," there's genuine pleasure at Dallas understanding what Ponyboy had said, more encouraging than any teacher had ever been for Dallas when he'd bothered to go to school. "He's obsessed with it."

"Okay, okay, pick back up," Dallas plucks the cigarette back, leaning back on the pew to listen again.

That's always the best part about these — the things Ponyboy knew beneath that Soccy demeanor was vast. He'd never acted like one of those Socs who thought Dallas was stupid for not knowing certain things, never acted like he'd spit on him for daring to ask a question. Every time Dallas asks, Ponyboy pauses to answer, and sometimes when he doesn't know, they try and figure it out together.

Despite his best efforts, though, Dallas feels himself getting lulled by the comfort of Ponyboy's words, and the more they exchange the cigarette, the closer he gets to Ponyboy's nest. Until, he finds that his head is halfway in Ponyboy's nap, his fingers in Dallas' hair, his scent filling up Dallas' nostrils as he inhales.

The comfort goes through Dallas like a wave, feeling Ponyboy's nails against his scalp, turning in gentle, easy circles that no one else had ever done for him.

It's not surprising that Dallas' eyes droop or that he doesn't fight the urge to finally fall asleep, half in Ponyboy's lap, half out, without complaint.

When he wakes up hours later, to a pitch black night, he's aware that he's been pulled into Ponyboy's nest, pressed against his shoulder. Beneath him, Ponyboy's body is warm, and he's snoring a bit in Dallas' ear, his hand on Dallas' waist. Their legs are tangled up together, and the cigarette has long burned out. The warmth of their bodies, the softness of Ponyboy's skin, the calmness emanating from his scent, all seem to pull Dallas deeper into his bed.

There's safety, comfort here in this tangle of blankets, with this boy that Dallas had never considered before. A safety and comfort that's frightening — how on Earth could they have this together, like this? How could Dallas breathe him in like this, feeling this good, this calm?

How long could it last?

Some sort of animal bellows in the distance, snapping Dallas out of his stupor.

It takes so much of him to pull away from Ponyboy's arms, to disengage from his scent. Dallas looks at the dark line of his body, sees Ponyboy roll into the warmth he's left.

A cold draft sweeps through the chapel and Dallas shivers, knowing that going back to his pew wasn't going to be nearly as warm.

But... this was Ponyboy's nest. His. They weren't mates.

He didn't know what they were — runaways, felt like the only firm word for them. What he did know was that a nest was important, that omegas were particular about them and just falling asleep during a story wasn't the same as being a mate, being in love despite what they had at the moment, whatever it was.

So reluctantly, he tugs the blankets on Ponyboy until he's covered against the cold, and makes the short, lonely walk to his own, much colder pew.