March, 1976 – Palermo

Ponyboy wraps his arms around a stunned Johnny first, and like they had as kids, they seem to melt into each other. Dallas doesn't mind that at all — he understands what was between them, what had been lost. What bothers him is that he can't make any sense of what he's seeing at the moment. Ponyboy, in Palermo, with his grandfather who was much, much richer than what he thought, and who was deeply embedded in the Mob.

Ponyboy, the kid who read books and watched sunsets and seemed to get lost in his head all the damn time no matter what was going on. Ponyboy, who he hadn't seen since Dallas had dragged him into the hospital, a gun in his hand, Ponyboy pleading for him to stop until Dallas had lifted the gun, pressed it into the doctor's face, demanding to see Johnny. Ponyboy who had to be pulled away when that guard had tackled Dallas, had wrestled the gun away from him, Ponyboy who had been screaming for him while Dallas had tried to fight, claw his way into the room, Ponyboy who yelled The gun's empty! The gun's empty, he didn't mean it!

The last time he'd seen him, his face had been a mess of bruises, his hair still a shocking platinum blonde beneath the hospital lights. That had haunted Dallas for weeks on end as he'd served out his sentence, unable to get word if Johnny had lived or not, if Ponyboy had been able to see him or not.

Until he'd finally been let out, and in front of him there were the remnants of the pack he'd cared about — Johnny mercifully alive, that boy he had loved so much. And Darry, his head bowed as he'd told him, Ponyboy's gone.

It had dogged his steps for years, what had happened in those months away. Darry had never told him everything, and every time he had tried, things had gotten shorter — and then Darry had gotten his letter in the mail from the Army and that had been that.

Soda he hadn't even tried. Not when Soda had up and gone, a month after he'd gotten out of jail. And now, Ponyboy was here, at twenty-four going on twenty-five who was saying to Johnny, halfway in tears, "I had no idea where you were! I – Johnny, how did you get here? And, Dallas? How – Are –"

"We're mates," the stunned tone isn't leaving Johnny any soon; he looks at Dallas as if he's dreaming and needs reassurance. It's been a long time since he's seen that look, had that need from Johnny. "We have been since you left. Pony, how... When did you get here?"

"January?" The word is said limply, Ponyboy clearly still himself with the way he doesn't understand what Johnny's really asking. He pulls away from Johnny to come around the table to Dallas, hesitating as he gets closer.

Dallas doesn't know what the hold up is, his arms just grabbing Ponyboy and dragging him tightly to his chest. Some weird feeling of solace runs through him, a weight he'd been holding for years suddenly gone from his shoulders instantly at the contact, unable to hold at the sudden surge of Pony's scent against his senses. It's not entirely the same scent as he'd been used to in Tulsa: this was the scent of a fully blossomed, fully presented omega. One who'd been around family for some time, even if it was a family that Dallas' nose didn't recognize. The questions in his mind only expand when Ponyboy squeezes him closer, nuzzling against him for a moment the way he'd never done as a pup.

No more was he wearing a badly executed platinum job on his hair. It was back to normal, the red undertone in Ponyboy's otherwise brown hair seems to have evened out, grown long enough that it's framing his face, and a little past the tops of his shoulders. Some of it is pulled back into a half ponytail, the ends curlier than what Dallas remembers. Maybe he'd never seen it curl because he never had his hair this length when they were kids; Dallas can't recall entirely, pulling away to look over Ponyboy much more closely.

His eyes have turned a full hazel, with a mole on one cheekbone, both ears pierced. Those really were his Mama's earrings in his ears, pretty gold hoops that compliment Ponyboy's shy smile. "You're holding on kinda tight, Dally." The teeth in his mouth are sharp, slightly pointing inward that's charming — helped by the fact that they're sharper than a normal omega would have, Ponyboy's face dotted with a few freckles.

"Shit kid, I haven't seen you in eleven years. Kinda think it's fair, isn't it?" Still, he lets go, Ponyboy's eyes roving over him. "How in the hell d'you know my nonno?"

"Dallas," Texas snaps, "Let him sit down. He's a guest." Texas' expresion is hard to parse out — as if he can't decide whether to treat Ponyboy a certain way because he's both his father's guest, yet sullied by a connection he can't quite understand that exists between him and Dallas, his most hated son.

It's not an enviable position to be in.

"Go on," Vincenzo takes control again, gently touching Ponyboy's back, "Please, sit, 'Ippodamio. Ignore my son's rudeness, hunger makes him grumpy. The food will help him get it back."

Ponyboy gives Dallas a half grin, then pulls away, going to the head of the table while Vincenzo sends a look of annoyance towards Texas. He pulls the chair away from Vincenzo's immediate right, sitting down in a way that was clearly familiar — evidence of someone who'd had countless meals here, who was endlessly comfortable where he was and would always be welcome.

Johnny seems just as rattled and surprised as he is as they all sit down again, his hand drifting up to his mouth, biting at his nails nervously. Antonio is the only person who isn't unsettled, moving to sit beside Dallas instead when Vincenzo comes out with a higher chair for Artemisia. He's grateful for it, as Antonio pointedly fixes a napkin to Artemisia's front as the food is set on the table and Austin moves to the other side of Johnny. It leaves Ponyboy sitting next to Texas, and if he's bothered by it, Dallas can't tell.

The seconds slip by as they all gather themselves, adjusting napkins and plates and cutlery. Vincenzo addresses a few of the staff as they all settle, with food finally coming out to the table.

Food that he can see is rather light, mostly consisting of wine, finger foods and Dallas' stomach grumbles in protest. Texas seems to be equally hungry, with the way his face contorts, waving his hand to the dishes. "Are we going to have a full course by course meal tonight? After a flight that long?"

The look that Vincenzo delivers is mild, entirely unphased by Texas. "You grew up in this house, did you not? You know I serve meals as I always have. Did you not prepare your sons?"

"No," Dallas cuts in, watching as Ponyboy talks softly to one of the staff. Red wine is poured into the glass in front of him, and Dallas tries to gauge how Ponyboy feels about this, coming up with nothing other than relaxed. This really seemed to be a place that suited him, that he understood, and Dallas finds himself having to tear his eyes away, trying to keep up with the food as best he can, picking at the small plates, only distracted when Art tugs at his sleeve for food that she wants.

He passes it along to her, watching Johnny as he sits in his uncomfortable position beside Texas and Ponyboy. It's clear he wants to speak to Ponyboy too, with the glances he gives him and Dallas. The idea of speaking out in the open isn't appealing, and not in front of Texas of all people.

Which is unfortunate when it's Texas who, as plates loaded with pasta are finally set on the table — a more familiar and heartier food that Dallas is at least acquainted with — turns to Ponyboy to ask, "Your name is Ponyboy, is it? Ponyboy... what? How do you know Dallas and his mate?"

Ponyboy gives Texas a warm look. "It's Hippodamus Atreides — just everyone calls me Ponyboy."

"Atreides?" Johnny and Dallas voice their confusion together — Johnny curious, Dallas more forceful, demanding even though he can visibly see his grandfather's face turn towards them even if his expression doesn't change as he eats.

"It's... complicated," Ponyboy turns toward them hesitantly, clearly also not wanting to have this discussion here either. "My Pappo has known nonno since they were kids. But I met Johnny and Dally in Tulsa, when my Mama was alive. I had no idea you all knew each other."

"And who was your mother?" Texas cuts the sausage on his plate, half sawing it, half squinting. "Was she Sicilian? Greek?"

"No," Ponyboy answers, gripping his fork a little tighter. "She was from Oklahoma."

"Oklahoma?" Texas spears his sausage a little too sharply, raising an eyebrow. "And what was she, exactly? My son has told me very little about Oklahoma — I didn't think we had a foothold there before him." Ponyboy's ears tip pink as Texas goes on, "As far as he tells it, there isn't much to be said about it at all."

Even if he won't say it outloud, Dallas knows exactly what he's implying. He glares at his father, at the implications, and not for the first time, Dallas wants to punch him like he'd done as a child.

"'Ippodamio?" Vincenzo interrupts, speaking a little louder. "Come, come," He beckons Ponyboy over. Immediately, Ponyboy stands, leaning over as Vincenzo whispers into his ear. As they talk, Antonio leans over to say something to Texas who rolls his eyes dismissively.

All the while, Austin doesn't seem to pick up or notice the mounting tension at the table.

Ponyboy pulls away from Vincenzo, grabbing his plate and another piled high with food. "I'll see you guys later. I gotta get my Pappo his food."

Dallas wants to tell him, demand him to come back or better, force Texas to apologize. Instead, he watches as Ponyboy gathers up food and leaves, still making all this muddled. Frustratingly, it's Vincenzo who's voice cuts over everything with, "No more questions for now. Eat, take a moment to rest. We can save those for after the meal."

Texas huffs, and Dallas finds himself doing it too. Austin still doesn't care; he just digs into his plate, and Antonio does too. Johnny meets Dallas' eyes over the table in agreement: this wasn't over. As soon as they could, they'd go looking for Ponyboy.

But first, this meal had to be done.

Dusk is settling by the time their plates are cleared. If Dallas had another bite, he's sure that he'd sink to the floor with how heavy it is. As it is, he rubs at his eyes as they settle into the courtyard, starting to feel the tugs at jetlag.

The meal had mostly been spent dispensing small talk here and there, with taut silences interrupted by the sound of cutlery until they had finished. Dallas had been expecting to be dismissed; instead, they'd been directed out into the warm spring air, and with no other choice, he'd done it.

Johnny hadn't wanted his help as they'd made it out to the various chairs, easing in one on his own despite his winces. It's him who has Vincenzo's attention now, his voice steady as he talks. "I work at a hospital, as an administrator. Dally and I've been in New York since '69. Ponyboy — he's an old friend of ours. Haven't seen him since we was sixteen, seventeen."

"Interesting, interesting," Vincenzo bobs his head, looking at Texas who's refused tiramisu in favor of a coffee. Something like affection makes itself known on his face; a softening as Texas sips at the coffee. An affection Dallas has never felt the least bit for his father, and seeing it on his grandfather's face is strange. They all resemble each other strongly, he can't deny that. So to see it so openly on his grandfather's face, when he's never seen it directed towards him from Texas, makes him feel uncomfortable. "Here, listen. You haven't heard me play in years, Francesco."

That affection mirrors itself on Texas' face too, humming, mouth hooking itself into a soft smile. "No, no I haven't. Go on, go on." It's more said for Austin and his near dozing off than it is for Dallas or Johnny. Still, leaving now wouldn't look good.

Dallas holds off on getting up as Vincenzo disappears inside for a moment. He looks up at the other windows, at the sprawling castle they're in. He can see that there are a few guards posted up, with guns. Otherwise, this place is calming, with the evening air cool against his face, as the sun slowly sinks down the spring air. If Dallas knew better what he was getting into, if he could find a moment to relax, he'd think he'd like it.

His eyes keep their focus on the windows above as Vincenzo comes back. Dallas tries to guess where Ponyboy was staying, what rooms he might be in, who would be in there and why.

The sound of a violin begins.

The sound is tentative, and then it slowly unfolds itself into a calming song that Dallas doesn't recognize as his eyes flit from window to window, seeking even a hint of Ponyboy. The rooms above stay as ambiguous as ever, Dallas dropping his eyes to look at Vincenzo playing in the center of the terrace. He plays in a way that Dallas can only think of as clean: his fingers moving carefully, the bow singing on the strings, Vincenzo clearly enjoying himself. The wind picks up, his gray hair lifting with it, his eyes shut, playing a tune he's done before.

The violin seems to weave a spell on every, bleeding out some of the tension in Dallas' bones, in his father's face, in Johnny's slowly slumping form. The notes are so clear, and the song carries with it some sort of melody that Dallas feels is almost familiar.

Austin begins to doze and Antonio idly plays with his daughter's hair as Vincenzo plays on. Dallas pays attention to the way Vincenzo looks like them, with the same proud features, the graying hair that he could easily picture as something darker, with the hands that move smoothly resembling his own: big, boxer-like. The rings there glint as he plays, that seem like something he himself would pick.

What would it have been like, Dallas thinks, if he had known him before? What would his life had been like if his father had never cast Dallas out at such a young age? If he had never looked at him and found some kind of unnameable sin in his face?

"Are you still playing that one?" An amused, husky voice shatters the peace, one that Dallas doesn't recognize. His head snaps up to see someone approaching from the other side of the terrace. His scent is alpha — Dallas can pick that up immediately. He's got a cigarette between his fingers, wearing a striped gray suit, his hair windswept, black and gray running through it. He takes his time coming up to them, eyes dark and glittering. "Why don't you play something a little more lively, 'Cenzo?"

The smile that graces Vincenzo's face is brimming with familiarity, a genuine warmth, and once again it's jarring for Dallas to see that on the face of someone who resembles him so closely. "It was one of her favorites."

"It wasn't her only favorite," the man takes a drag of his cigarette, now close enough that Dallas can see his dark eyebrows, a long nose and the intensity of his eyes grows. The man has a presence around him — Dallas can feel it as he gets closer, able to see a polka dotted brown shirt beneath the suit. There's a broad confidence in the way he walks barefooted to them, a charisma in the dark brows and the intense look coming from them, eyes darting between him and Texas. The man possesses a level of intelligence there that's uncanny, and Dallas immediately doesn't think he can trust this man as he continues, "You could get something a little more upbeat!" He gestures around, shaking his head. "You're gonna put them all to sleep like this!"

Texas for once, seems to pick up on the same thing Dallas does, tensing up visibly in his seat, no longer half way to sleep. The unknown man isn't even as tall as Texas, yet the way he stops in front of him, he knows he'd put up a fight if he could, knows that he casts a long, long shadow. His suit looks expensive, well taken care of despite his windswept hair and dark eyebrows. Vincenzo for his part isn't perturbed; in fact, he looks amused, pointing the bow at him, "Atreo', this is for Francesco. We always played it after dinner."

"Ah, that wasn't all you played," his eyes dart over to Johnny and Dallas, smoke issuing from his nostrils, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Don't let him fool you. Vincenzo's a little dramatic. Atreus Pelopides, nice to meet you." He sticks his hand out to Texas, and Texas shakes his hand hesitantly. "I knew your parents, grew up together."

"It's Texas, not Francesco," Texas clarifies.

Atreus gives a laugh, one that's clearly derisive. "I've heard. This your boy, Dallas?"

"Yeah, and my mate, Johnny," Dallas points out Johnny, Atreus sauntering over, offering his hand out. His handshake is firm, his hands more calloused than that of a regular gangster even though he's got a telltale ring glittering on his pinky finger.

"Daisy told me he had friends here," Atreus looks down at them with a sardonic expression, his eyes piercing. "If you're looking for him, he's upstairs in my room." He clicks his tongue the way a rider would at a horse, waving away. "Just go up the stairs, take a left and you can probably hear him yourself. Go on, I need to talk with your nonno."

Daisy? Dallas doesn't know where the hell he was getting that from with Ponyboy — but a dismissal to go see Ponyboy was one he would take and so would Johnny. They both get up from their seats, Dallas keeping an eye on Johnny as he goes. Atreus watches, his dark eyes burning in his face, the expression on his face piercing, as if he can see something that Dallas can't.

And whatever he saw, Dallas couldn't say what it was or what he thought about it — only that whatever his thoughts were, whatever his feelings were, he doesn't know if he'd want to hear what they were.

Quickly, he makes his exit with Johnny back to the main part of the castle, through the dining room that was being cleaned.

"He gives me the creeps," Johnny mutters beneath his breath, and Dallas agrees with a short nod. Once they're out of the room, they're at the magnificent marble steps. Johnny grips the steps tightly as they go, and Dallas wants to offer help, to pull him up. Johnny doesn't seem to notice his look as they make their way up the steps, and Dallas finds his hand pulling away from Johnny instead of toward as they make their way. Their steps echo as they go, Dallas keeping two steps behind, just in case.

They make it up, Johnny panting a little, eyes darting around. "He said to take a left."

Dallas looks to their left, and as Atreus had said, there's a door open, with light spilling out into the hallway. There's the sound of music coming from the room — the lyrics are clear in Dallas' ears: Soltanto mia! / Vorrei tenerti qui / vicino a me / adesso che fra noi / non c'è più nulla. It's the sort of song that Antonio would probably sing, full throated, the sort of Italian pop music he liked to keep to himself most times. Ponyboy's shadow falls on the floor, clearly swaying with it in the room, unaware of their presence.

Ponyboy's scent is mingling with that of Atreus' — clearly family members in a way that Dallas thinks of as totally foreign to Mr. Curtis and Mrs. Curtis. There's an edge to it, one that Dallas demands to understand better, and he's sure Johnny wants answers too. Impatient, he grasps Johnny's arm, pulling him forward and compelling him to lean closer as Ponyboy's shadow moves deeper into the room.

Johnny gives him an annoyed look; Dallas keeps on helping him get to the room, not wanting to argue about Johnny's pride right now. Not if he was going to sweat like that and strain himself.

He'd thank him later. Maybe.

Not now. He gets them to the illuminated door where Ponyboy is, peering into the room. It's spacious, with a balcony that overlooks the rest of the castle. There's a bed in one corner that's been freshly made, with the pillows arranged neatly; a round table with a tablecloth in the corner where Ponyboy had clearly taken his meal with Atreus, their plates, cutlery and glasses still crowding it; curtains are blowing a little in the wind, and that's where Ponyboy has moved to, the main window that leads to the balcony. His back is still turned towards them, a cigarette in his hand as he turns around, looking for something.

That's when their eyes meet and Dallas is once again overwhelmed for a moment at the passage of time on Ponyboy's face, at the years there. He still had ample puppy fat on his face, still clearly in his twenties.

He just wasn't that young kid anymore that Dallas had pulled from the fire too late — whether the evidence was on his pinkened arms from the burns or the slight change in his face as he takes Johnny and Dallas in with some surprise. "Oh! I – I was gonna come down."

"Atreus sent us," Johnny pulls his arm away from Dallas, and he has no choice but to let him go. He looks around the room with awe, his shoulders hunching up. "Are you — can we come in?"

"Oh, sure. Pappo doesn't mind," Ponyboy gives Johnny a warm look, going to the side table where the record player is on. He pulls the needle off, stopping it with a flick. "I was just trying to clean up before I left."

Johnny is the first one who crosses the threshold, looking around with clear awe, shoving his hands into his pockets the way he always does in a new place he can't figure out. It's Dallas who lingers at the door; this man was related to Ponyboy, and he didn't know how. And with what little he knew about the man, there was a part of him that didn't trust this even with Ponyboy's presence. His eyes look for little hints of who Atreus is as Johnny scrubs at his cheek, a wistful smile on his face.

"You said you been here since January? Why? How'd you get here?" Dallas watches as he and Ponyboy seem to size each other up for a moment: Johnny with his shorter hair, his scarred wrists hidden by his pockets but not the one on his face in the jeans and shirt he'd worn — opposite Ponyboy who's hair was more fashionably long, and now that they were under a better light, Dallas could see that the clothes he wears are more expensive than something that he would've been able to afford in Tulsa. Not as flashy as it could be — just noticeable enough.

He never would have considered Ponyboy in clothes like this, in circumstances like this. The room is warm, beckoning and Dallas still for a moment tries to find a flaw in the green comforter on the bed or the stack of vinyls on the desk or the photo on the mantle of who he can see is Mrs. Curtis, beaming — alongside Atreus, the man who occupied this room. The man who Ponyboy had gone to for years, who Dallas could faintly hear in the night air, laughing at something down below.

"Well, it's kind of a long story," Ponyboy's eyes settle on Dallas, open and curious. "I really, really didn't have any idea about – I mean. I didn't think I..." He runs his hand through his hair, shrugging. "C'mon, Dally. I got some smokes and I think Pappo left some snacks if you guys are still hungry."

Reluctantly, Dallas steps into the room, watching as Johnny takes a chair from the table, dragging it over towards the middle of the room. Dallas takes a seat on the bed, Ponyboy tapping out the ash of his cigarette. "Though," Ponyboy scratches at his cheek, "Before I dive into all that: How have you guys been? Nonno told me he was having his family come in — and nothing about either of you."

"How are you calling him nonno when he ain't related?" Dallas snorts.

"He told me to," Ponyboy grins a little. "I tried not to, and he got kinda mad at me until I would." He scratches at his arm, finger trailing one of his scars. "It felt a little weird at first. But – I thought you guys were still in Tulsa."

"We moved to New York when I turned eighteen," Johnny says, a half smile on his face. "I wanted to finish high school before we went, so we waited til spring of '67. Wasn't exactly easy, though." His smile doesn't visibly falter; it's just Dallas who can see some of the half drawn lines on his face that spell discontentment.

"We moved 'cause New York had better medical care than Tulsa," shifting on the bed, Dallas leans back, not wanting to dive into all of those issues just yet. Just being in his grandfather's house was enough; talking about why he hadn't grown up a majority of his family, to talk of the dysfunction wasn't something he wanted to bring up. Not with the way Ponyboy seems to be waiting eagerly for more. "They were saying they couldn't fix Johnny that well in Tulsa, where New York had a better everything. 'Sides, wasn't much to stick around for at that point."

Ponyboy frowns. "There wasn't? What — what happened after I left?" He says the last three words quieter than the rest, as if some part of him knows.

How much, he isn't sure. There had never been any letter to his knowledge, never had been any calls. Dallas hadn't thought about it in such a long time, that the question about why hadn't been at the forefront of his mind the way it suddenly rears up now, looking at Ponyboy. That was a good family — why the hell hadn't Ponyboy called or written?

"Steve got drafted, soon after," Johnny supplies, rubbing his hand over his thighs. "Did two tours, and he married Evie when he got back. It was a really nice ceremony — we got invited, didn't we, Dally?" Dallas nods, watching as Ponyboy takes another drag from his cigarette. "It was at the city hall, 'stead of a church. Evie's parents weren't really happy about it — still weren't real excited about her marrying a greaser."

"They were mad she was marrying a white guy with a record," Dallas interjects, plain with his words. "They wanted someone who could count higher than fifty." A laugh ripples through all of them, and Dallas smiles a little more. "They've got a kid smarter than him."

"Really?" Ponyboy offers his cigarette to Johnny who declines. Dallas, though, takes it from him, taking a steadying drag. "What about Tim or Curly Shepard?"

"Curly got killed in '67," Dallas inhales as Johnny talks solemnly, "Tried to hold up the Rex-All, and the clerk had a shotgun. Tim Shepard works with Dally, though. Seen him a few times."

"Tch," leaning back, Dallas rolls his eyes. "He ain't the smartest, gets the job done. Angela ran off with some hood a few years back after he blew up on her; left some kid name Byron holding the bag and all."

A pensive look overtakes Ponyboy as he listens. "I remember him. He was a grade below me, had a brother named Mark, I think."

"Mark's in prison," Johnny's shoulder slump a little. "Got caught selling drugs, went in. Rumor's... rumors say that his brother turned him in. No one really knows. What about you, Ponyboy? You didn't keep in touch with nobody?"

"No," Ponyboy reaches for his cigarette, Dallas returning it, their fingers brushing. Beneath the light, Dallas can see that his fingernails have charcoal beneath them, and flecks of paint. "Wasn't nobody to keep in touch with by the time I was getting to writing." He takes another drag of his cigarette, silence settling between them all with that.

Johnny doesn't have to look at Dallas to know that he seems to be questioning this. No one, at all? As if he understands what he's implied, Ponyboy hastily adds, "Just, I couldn't find nobody by then. Everyone had changed names or moved. I would've written you both, if I knew where you'd gone."

"And where did you go, kid?" Dallas half growls. "You ain't answer that."

His eyes dart between Dallas and Johnny, his shoulders tensing. Ponyboy looks almost... afraid for a moment, hesitant to continue. Something in him was holding it all back, keeping something close to his chest that he didn't want to say and Dallas' patience had officially run out.

Atreus' voice breaks over them — speaking what Dallas thinks is Greek, the words pointed. Dallas whips his head around to the doorway where he's standing, pointing to him and Johnny. He hadn't caught his scent, and whatever he says, when Dallas turns back around, has Ponyboy's ears going red. "Oh uh — Sorry, I should be letting you guys sleep. I'll show you where you're sleeping."

Dallas' frustration could be cut with a knife as Ponyboy stands up, Atreus moving from the doorway. Johnny looks hesitant, but they have no choice but to follow Ponyboy out. All the while, Atreus' eyes are burning in his face, watching them go, heavy on Dallas' back.

He thinks about Atreus, about his eyes as Ponyboy quietly takes them to their room. He thinks about what it could mean, about the years between him and Ponyboy and Johnny.

As he watches Johnny make his way to their things, however, his mind is right back where it had been earlier: on the distance between them.

Because there was only one bed here — huge, fitting for Dallas' much taller height.

And Dallas doesn't know when was the last time he and Johnny had shared a bed.