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"WHAT ARE YOU DOIN' OUT OF THE COOLER, DAL?"

Ponyboy asks the New Yorker, surprised to see him out and about. His emerald eyes frosting over in the cold Oklahoma wind; the tips of his ears matching the red on his cheek from the nippy air; his dark hair contaminated with street soot, the debris sticking to his anxiety-riddled skin.

            The youngest Curtis tries to itch his neck— the dry blood dripping down his skin is starting to become an irritating reminder that he should've been more careful— but his older brother pulls his hand away, worried that he'll accidentally pick open the cut.

           "Leave it alone, Pony," Sodapop scorns softly, before turning around and eyeing up the greaser that is so opposite of him, he still cannot believe they're friends.

           Sodapop is the fun-loving sweetheart, someone who gets drunk off of smiles, almost as sweet as lemonade during a hot summer day. When people hear that Sodapop Curtis is coming, they gleam. Dallas is the brooding cold-heart, someone who gets a high off of violence, his frigid gaze leaving a shiver wherever he treads. When people hear that Dallas Winston is coming, they grieve.

            And then the middle-Curtis child remembers all the things that made them the same. They are the close in age. . . Dallas a little older by thirteen months. They went through family trauma and are still struggling with it. Both are good-looking (attracting girls and guys to their unique charm). Both are caring in their certain ways; how Soda cares for Ponyboy the same way Dally cares for Johnny.

            Both are beautiful boys who deserves to be loved.

           "Yeah, what are you doin' out, Dally?" The greaser with pecan-colored hair questions, his eyes automatically flickering down to the dried blood on the fair-skin knuckles. He's seen them torn and bruised but never bloody. "I thought you were in there for anotha' week?"

            "If I wanted to be interrogated, Curtis," the brunet teases, feeling a bit relaxed after punching that guy relentlessly a few hours ago. "I would've stayed in there."

            "I'm just stating the obvious, Dal," Sodapop back treads, worried that he'll come under fire from the renown hotheaded brute force of the borderline hoodlum.

             Steve Randle walks by, rubbing some dirt off his face before pushing his best friend back towards the house— Soda allows him to, seeing it as an easy escape.

            "Well, Imma be honest with you, Pony," Dallas says, putting his arm around the youngest.

             His voice dropping to a soft but stern tone, subtly hinting that whatever he's about to say is strictly confidential between him, Dally and Johnny— cause it's always been them.

             "Some sweet-lookin' doll bailed me out." His smile smug, his voice sly, his eyes almost glowing of the thought of the woman.

             Ponyboy strains his greyish green eyes, wondering why Dal was bragging cause it didn't seem to fit with his reputation.

             "A soc?" His question slips from his tongue, earning a short-hand to the back of the neck. "S-Sorry, Dally," he mumbles, trying to control his voice but, apparently, the life-or-death adrenaline pumping through his veins is a lot for a kid to handle.

              Dallas shrugs, dipping his head back as if to say yes, before accepting his apology and dropping his hand from the boy's purple-clothed shoulders. He starts to walk, Pony starts to follow, meeting Johnny in the middle— who couldn't seem to move because of the irrational possibility of deadly consequences.

              Johnny Cade felt so tiny, like a lost little puppy kicked to the side of the curb most days. Abandoned and left to starve. If it wasn't for the Curtis gang, he wouldn't be breathing. They were a group of misfits who didn't really belong to the Tulsa city but they belonged to each other.

              And yet, he felt guilty— not being able to help his best friend. He used to fight for those he cared about, couldn't care less about getting hurt by some rich bastards. Until that one night, where he was punched too hard and bled too easily.

              And now, he couldn't move whenever a mustang was around. Shouting and scuffling clouded his mind, blurring everything into a destructive haze. He felt like a burden— even after the countless nights Ponyboy and Dallas said he wasn't; that he could never be; it still was burned into his brain, stamped as an eternal reminder of what life once was.

"It'll go a lot better if the socs stay on their side of town, man," Johnny mumbles, stuffing his hands into his jean jacket pocket as his kicks some pebbles down the side street. His fingers graze over the six-inch switchblade, calming him down a little.

"Yeah, well don't you worry about that, Johnny," Steve answers as Two-bit pulls out his own blade and Dallas pulls out a cigarette.

The group of boys walk until they reach the Curtis' front yard, the grass is a bit frosty from the rain last night and the cold, bitter temperatures that came and left before the sun rose.

Steve and Sodapop hollered as they talked about their job and their girlfriends, excusing themselves from the group in a playful fight. Two-bit Matthews swings closed his dagger, walking in the direction of Darry, checking up on the oldest sibling who cares deeply for everyone.

While the two youngest and impressionable swarm to the baddest influence of them all. . .

"Were those the guys that did that to ya?" Dallas softens his chocolate eyes, trying not to show too much care, in case Tim Shepard started hiring spies. He would never hear the end of it.

It was the second time today that he dropped his tough persona, he felt sick to his stomach. He usually has it under control.

He ignites his cigarette off his St. Christopher, waving from Ponyboy's bloody cut to Johnny's deep scar on his cheek. Pony glances over to his best friend, his eyes flaunting pithiness without realizing it.

"No, it was uh.." Johnny stutters, closing his eyes briefly to reconcile with the constant nightmare: Brass rings, drunken breaths, humiliating laughter as he begins to cry and whine in pain. . . "It was other guys."

"Now that I'm out," Dallas inhales the nicotine, the smoke burning his lungs in a bright way; calming down the nervous flutter in his stomach as he tries to word his phrases carefully.

Blowing out, he points at Johnny, promising him the truth. "I'm gonna make it my business to get the guy who did that to your face. I mean, I got one already, I'm going through a list."

"What do ya mean, Dal?" Johnny asks, confused and surprised to hear that his big brother-from-another-mother has already begun. He looks to Ponyboy, who shrugs with the same shocked expression. This is new.

"Do y'all think this is my blood?" He chuckles darkly, raising his hand into the spotty sunlight. Flexing his knuckles, he hissed under his breath in pain, the rings clamping around the raw skin.

"Well, I don't know Dally," Pony shrugs, laughing a bit as he motions to the beaten bones, "it is on your hand."

"You should've seen the other guy, smartass," Dallas mumbles, the cancer stick between his pink lips, jumping up and down as he talks. "I got out on a favor, don't wanna waste it. What'cha's plan for tonight?"

"You think it's a good idea to be slashing tires?" Pony crosses his arms, trying not to control the older boy because he is afraid of his hotheaded actions. But he couldn't control his disapproving tone. Like a true wannabe novelist, he was always too easy to read "You're gonna waste that girl's money."

"I'm sure she has plenty to spend, Pone."

"Wait, Dal," Johnny walks closer, knowing that this is very confidential and of grave importance. "A girl bailed you out?"

"I was gonna tell ya later, but someone's a fucking blabber-mouth," he huffs in annoyance, eyeing up a suddenly timid Ponyboy. "But yeah, some chick named Rory? She said she knows you?"

Johnny nods, but doesn't say a word.

The pretty social with the nice smile and shiny, brown hair that sits next to him in a majority of classes. Quiet and timid like him. Always jumping slightly in her chair when a door slams, just like him. Rory Anderson always been so kind to Johnny Cade.

What on Earth was she doing at Tulsa's jail?
Much less, bailing out a derelict like Dallas?

"And hey," Dally waves off the idea all together, trying to think of something that would cheer up Johnny quickly.

"Who said I was lookin' for police trouble, man? I just wanna see a movie, like the good ol' days." He turns to his younger brother-from-another-mother, patting him on the shoulder. "Right, Johnny?"

"Yeah, man," the tanned boy smiles a toothy grin, savoring up every second with the only one he relates to. He then glances over to Pony, the only one he relies on.

"Alright," Ponyboy smirks, hoping a fun night. He hasn't had one in a really long time. "I'll come."

"Good," Dallas grins, patting the two boys on the back in a shortened embrace. He starts to back away, smoking his bud some more, "cause I got a feeling that I'm gonna see that doll again, maybe you'll like her?" He offered up the idea, before pointing back to Ponyboy . . . "I know you will."

CAUSE  THERE'S  ONLY  ONE THING,  DALLAS  CAN'T STAND. . .  PONYBOY'S   DISAPPOINTMENT.

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