Spitting the mixture of spit and toothpaste into the sink, Ponyboy doesn't think he's been this happy in awhile. The lack of Hank Williams playing downstairs certainly plays a part, having a hot relaxing shower adds to it, and not being here trying to find a way out of a murder helps triple.
Dallas is downstairs, and Ponyboy has never been happier than to be in Buck's, splashing water on his face, wringing out the towel he'd used to brush his teeth with. The mirror and bathroom are immaculately clean — Darry would be jealous to see how clean it is in comparison to how they could get it at home. The idea of a teenager lived here would shock anyone who didn't know better, Ponyboy amused as he makes his way out of the bathroom and into Dallas' room. He pulls on the spare jeans Dallas had brought from the house, followed by one of Dallas' own shirts he'd left out for Ponyboy, the cotton light against his skin.
As usual, his bedroom is the sparse twin bed with the wooden railing pushed against the wall and the drawer stand with the cracked mirror on top of it that had a pack of cigarettes and a glass of water. The last time he'd been here, when Dallas had been so bruised up, Ponyboy had read a book. Now, he looks around it more carefully: there's a small closet that looks like it doesn't have a whole lot in it, the window has an ugly beige and pink stained floral curtain over it, and an unused bookshelf beneath.
It's no bigger than his room at home, maybe even a little smaller. Ponyboy doesn't mind it, running his fingers on the furniture. It's already dark outside, and the parking lot had some people already turning in for the night.
Any minute, the music would come on and Ponyboy hopes that he won't have to hear any honky tonk music that night. That was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do.
The door opens, Dallas stalking inside with a grin on his face. "You got all cleaned up?" Leaning against the door, Ponyboy takes in how he looks: Dallas still resembles a lean tomcat, full of danger on every speck of him. Pony thinks he's grown half an inch, brown hair askew, his dark eyebrows even darker on his face with the shadows. "The better cook's here tonight; the bar ain't gonna fill up til around nine so we got time to sit down and eat without every redneck in the county trying to take a whiff of you."
"That's just you," Ponyboy shrugs on Dallas' flannel top, running his hand through his hair. Given Dallas never wore grease under any circumstance, Ponyboy's forced to just let his still mostly blonde hair hang against his neck. His hair's at least grown a little over half an inch, his roots showing. It was like his textbooks said: post heat hormones were always intense, revitalizing. "What do they have?"
"Typical bar food, nothing really fancy," Dallas runs his eyes over Ponyboy, the brown looking a little brighter than usual in the light. "You wanna come down or stay up here with me to eat? I got a tv I stole a couple months ago that works if you don't wanna sit in the booth."
Ponyboy doesn't have to think too long on that one, thinking of just how many people might show up and gawk at him in the bar or ask questions. "Let's eat up here. I don't want anything fancy anyway."
Nodding, Dallas reaches over, running his fingers over his neck, scenting him. "I'll put in the order with Sunny. You're smart, you can set up the tv. It's in the closet."
Just the touch, the weight of his fingers on his neck feels like a much needed salve for Ponyboy, his eyes shutting just for a moment. Dallas seems to pick up on it, running his thumb over Ponyboy's neck longer, pulling him closer. His scent washes over Ponyboy, his body coming closer until their foreheads and knocking together, Ponyboy's fingers grasping his shirt, their breath mixing, and then their mouths find each other, tongues following just as easily, pulled together like gravity.
The burgers could wait.
Right now, they could be two kids, necking at Buck's for a minute. That's all Ponyboy wants or needs, and as he opens his mouth wider, tongue slipping into Dallas' mouth, he thinks that's perfect.
"Samantha? Did you have a bad dream?"
"No. I just started it,"
Ponyboy cracks a grin at the television, taking another bite into the burger. He and Dallas are sitting next to each other, the portable tv plugged in and sitting on the makeshift shelf. They've rearranged the room, having Dallas' bed and the drawerset switched places so they can prop the television up against the shelf, aligned with the window to watch. There aren't too many people below, the volume up on the television as the intro to Bewitched plays on the television.
"You always watch this?" Ponyboy chews, glad he doesn't have to worry about manners with Dallas. They're sprawled against the bedframe, the plate of food between them. At Dallas' knee, he's got a bottle of Jim Beam he'd gotten from downstairs and a glass of water he's sipping out of. "I didn't know you liked this show."
Finishing a gulp, Dallas wipes at his face. "Sure, I like TV okay. Not all of us just like reading books all the time." He reaches for a french fry, turning his head halfway to look at Ponyboy. "You guys always have it on at home, doncha?"
"Yeah, 'cept what's on isn't always interesting," Ponyboy gestures to the animation of Samantha wiggling her nose, "I like Sam. Same for Perry Mason. You like... games shows, I think?" Ponyboy takes another hefty bite, Dallas nodding beside him.
Weeks, months ago and he wouldn't have thought about what Dallas had watched or listened to. At the time, it had seemed like something that might've gotten him in trouble or something he couldn't have ever asked. Now though, he likes to see Dallas shoving the rest of his burger into his mouth, smeared with ketchup on one side of his mouth, thinking as he goes.
There were so many details of Dallas he'd never paid attention to, and so many of it he wanted now, hungered for. The tally had been growing well enough, a slight memory from the heat hotel floating up as he and Dallas continue to watch in contented silence as Sam dealt with her mother for a bit: of them on the bed between a round, Dallas' cock nestled inside of him, watching the television on low while his hips rocked forward, sending pleasurable signals up his body, hitting his brain. The images had been in a ghostly black and white, Ponyboy only concentrating on how Dallas had felt, on how good his nose had felt nudged against his neck.
As good as the memory is, Ponyboy allows it to just slide over his mind. It's nice to be here, in Buck's on a school night, sitting on the other side of Dallas, to see him grin at jokes or roll his eyes at corny bits, to fight with him over a french fry they'd both wanted. Ponyboy is the one who wins that one, popping it in his mouth with a smirk, laughing when Dallas shoves him out of half annoyance.
When the show cuts to commercial, Dallas opens the Jim Beam, grabbing one of the spare glasses. "We're gonna split this. Don't drink too much, alright?"
The smell is so sharp that Ponyboy wrinkles his nose against the burn, polishing off his bottle of Coke. "You're sure I won't —"
"Darry ain't here, and you need to loosen up just a bit. You're having a crazy time," finishing, Dallas screws the top on the whisky, a stubborn edge to his voice. "You're a pack member now, and you're mated. I had beers at nine, Darry's treating you like a baby and you ain't." He offers it to Ponyboy. "Besides, this is better than a beer Two-Bit could steal."
Beer had never smelled well, ever. Ponyboy remembered the whisky sip he'd had at the bonfire, and trusting Dallas, trusting the reckless grin on his face, the warmth of his fingers bumping against his and his dark eyes, Ponyboy takes it from him, and takes a tentative sip.
Like the taste at the bonfire, it burns it's way down his gut and sinuses, Ponyboy coughing for a moment. Determinedly, he takes a second, bigger gulp, that burns just as much, his eyes watering on reflex. The taste is so strong, Dallas taking the glass from him, taking a swig himself, a good bit of it left. "See, you'll be okay." The glass goes on the floor, Dallas grasping the now mostly clear plate and setting it on the dresser.
"Ugh, I can't imagine drinking that all the time," Ponyboy mutters, reaching for Dallas' glass of water, throwing his empty bottle of Coke away. He polishes off the cool water, putting the glass beside the plate.
A swell of laughter, raucous, floats up through the wooden floorboards. The normal Buck's crowd was here, apparently. Dallas cranks the volume up with a flick of his long, handsome fingers. "You ain't supposed to." Samantha's voice echoes, Dallas coming to sit on the bed behind Ponyboy, hand dropping heavy into Ponyboy's blonde hair. It feels good, Dallas tugging on it a little. "Geeze this is gettin' long. They're not gonna get too much quieter, just to let you know."
"I figures not," Ponyboy says, sighing as Dallas runs his fingers through his hair a little more, the patterns soothing. "You wanna go down there, if we can't watch anymore?"
The press of Dallas' thumb against the back of his skull feels so good at that moment. It goes in circles, massaging the back, right down to the roots. Waves of calmness seem to emanate from it, Dallas' voice deeper than ever as he says, "Sure, kid. Long as we don't lose any money at those tables."
He laughs, takes a sip of the whisky, grimaces, and passes it back to Dallas. "Keep rubbin'. You're gonna put me to sleep like that."
"Hope not," the press of his thumb against the base of his neck has Ponyboy's shoulders shifting downward, his eyes shutting in the black and white television screen. "Thought I was gonna get lucky with you tonight."
Ponyboy laughs, and soon Dallas joins him.
The jukebox in the corner is blasting a song that Ponyboy doesn't recognize. Or, at least, he thinks maybe if he weren't so drunk and happy that he might recognize it. It doesn't matter in the larger scheme of things that was Dallas' hand on his hips, his own hands balled up in Dallas' shirt, the thrumming of music in the crammed dance hall of Buck's and the way Dallas tastes whenever their mouths meet, whenever a hand dips below a waistband or when their hips meet each other.
There must be almost fifty people crammed into this room, the jukebox pressed to it's very limits as it fills up the room. Smoke is everywhere, the sound of hollering and the clink of beers, and bodies young and old around them moving in their own dances, whether it's shambling or eager. The scents of everyone mix with that of alcohol, the smoke itself, the outside air that wafts in every now and then.
None of it bothers Ponyboy or Dallas. Not when they're intertwined on the dance floor together, laughing, kisses, tearing at each other, Dallas' fingers slowly probing at Ponyboy's ass, Ponyboy grinding his hips against Dallas' own, working each other up.
There's no worry that a Soc will barge in and provoke them, no anticipating a fight from Darry, no having to think about lawyers or the burning church or Darry's anger or Soda's concern or Johnny's worried face.
Right now, he's just dancing, drunk and safe with Dallas at Buck's. Dallas' eyes pick up the light sometimes, showing a brown ring around the dark. Sometimes, his teeth glint in the light, sometimes Ponyboy can taste the whisky in his mouth, sometimes he can feel his mouth widen and his jaw clenching tightly as he bites Ponyboy's neck, sometimes Ponyboy's mouth meets the mating mark on his neck back.
All of it is drenched in a haze, one that Ponyboy sinks into as they dance, as the music grows louder, as people dance around and with them.
There is nothing that matters here in this moment, aside from that. There's just the room, the music, the people around them and he and Dallas pressed against each other.
Just as it should be.
Just as he wishes it could be.
At some point, he closes his eyes and opens them. He doesn't know when he and Dallas had left the floor. He knows that they're on the roof top together, the wind sharp and cold, and that They're lying on blankets together and when Dallas looks at him with a lopsided smile, he knows that he could just fall into it if he could. The meanness there, the cynical side of Dallas still lies beneath that sharp white row of teeth, mingled with real tenderness, real want.
"When this is over," Ponyboy says, his tongue heavy in his mouth, "Or if things don't go right, I love you, Dally. No matter what."
Dallas. beneath the stars, with his dark hair a mess above his eyes, shakes his head. "Pony, I'm not gonna let you go to the fucking - to the jail house, if you lose. I'm not." There's an odd determined glow to his eyes as Ponyboy runs his fingers through his hair. "Jail — I know jail would turn Johnny into something else. If you went in — "
"If I went in, I wouldn't blame nobody. Not as long as you're there for me," the words are drowsy, heavy and he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. "I love you, Dally. That's what matters."
He means to say more things. Means to say, The only way I could get through it is thinking about you out there. Means to say, I trust you. I love you. I'm not scared here.
Instead, he thinks he falls into Dallas' chest, surrounded by his arms, and greets the darkness of sleep, unaware of Dallas' face growing colder, more determined.