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Chapter Text

Body blocking is a foundational technique in horse training and handling that uses the handler’s body position and movement to influence or control a horse’s direction and behavior. By stepping into a horse’s path or positioning their body strategically, a handler can signal the horse to stop, turn, or move away without using physical force. The technique relies on the horse’s natural inclination to yield to pressure and avoid confrontation, making body blocking an effective, nonverbal way to guide and establish boundaries through trust and timing.

The giant twin screens of the Tulsa drive-in towered above rows of cars, each metal speaker crackling with the soundtrack of Beach Blanket Bingo . Sodapop Curtis smiled as his friends made general nuisances of themselves in the humid night air. Two-Bit Matthews, Johnny Cade, Steve Randle, Dallas Winston, Soda and his younger brother, Ponyboy, had all come out to watch a movie and of course that meant teasing each other and heckling other guests. On the screen, bronzed teenagers danced and surfed under a bright California sun, making the dust choked night feel warmer than it actually was. The pop of a distant Coca-Cola bottle opening and the buttery scent of popcorn drifted from the snack bar, mixing with cigarette smoke and the gasoline tang off idling engines. 

“Sugar Kane might be the girl of my dreams,” Two-Bit stage whispered, crunching popcorn loud and obnoxious between his teeth as his eyes followed the blonde on the screen.

“You’re outta your mind,” Steve argued, leaning far over to reach for a handful of kernels himself. The whole gang was spread out, one or two seats between each of them to make up for how loudly they talked, how widely they sprawled. “Lorelai’s way hotter.”

Soda snickered at his best friend, kicking out to jostle his chair. The neon from the snack bar glowed across their faces, casting everything in candy-colored light.He teased, “Careful, Steve, your fish fetish is showing.”

They fell into bickering and elbowing, Johnny and Pony muttering small grumbles of complaint a few seats down, and Sodapop grinned, full of that warm, fizzy feeling that came from being around his outfit. The sixteen year old tilted his head back and laughed, not because anything was that funny, but because it felt good to laugh. He liked nights like these; liked the way his clothes felt and his hair laid. He liked knowing he was handsome and young with a beautiful girl waiting for a call from him when he got home. Nights like these helped him forget how much he missed his mom’s lemon cake, or how Darry had stopped smiling ever since the funeral, or how he didn’t know if he’d ever go back to school. Soda didn’t let himself dwell on how scared he was for Pony half the time, or how empty the house felt with only three of them rattling around inside it.

The middle Curtis son liked being the sunshine, the guy people looked at when he passed, especially when Sandy was on his arm and smiling up at him like he’d lassoed the moon. Being serious and solid was Darry’s job and it looked exhausting. Sodapop figured one of them had to keep things light. He liked being the guy who could make Ponyboy laugh when he was sulking and keep Steve from punching a hole in someone’s dashboard. It made people feel better and maybe if he smiled big enough the ache in his own chest would hush for a while too. So he threw popcorn, and cracked jokes, and leaned into the night like it couldn’t touch him because someone had to.

From the corner of his eye he watched his baby brother watching the movie and marveled for a second that the kid had still managed to turn fourteen and grow taller and sprinkle his face with more freckles all without their parents watching. Ponyboy was all gangly limbs and a cracking voice and Sodapop loved him so much it felt suffocating sometimes. He remembered hugging him as a baby, barely big enough himself to even fit his arms around his blanket, and couldn’t believe those milky grey eyes had gotten so green. Pony watched the movie in snatches, his gaze flitting over his shoulder periodically and making Soda turn around in turn. He didn't see anything behind them besides Dallas.

The New Yorker was relaxed into his own seat at the end of the row behind them so he had space to sprawl and smoke at his leisure. His sharp eyes reflected the light off the projector as he sat and stared ahead at Ponyboy, the two of them making electric eye contact every few moments. Sodapop watched the exchange back and forth like a volleyball game, a curious tickle crawling up the back of his neck and then spreading all over his body when his little brother suddenly stood. The baby greaser made his way back to where Dallas sat in a slow, awkward shamble as if he weren’t headed in that direction and the hood’s eyes tracked his every step. When Pony sat down beside the older teen they were thigh to thigh.

“Hey, Dally.”

“Heya, Pony.”

“How ya likin’ the movie?”

“S’fine.”

“Hey.” Steve dug a sharp kick into Sodapop’s thigh and he winced, turning round to his best friend with a scowl. Steve scowled right back, bigger and meaner. “You’re missin’ the movie, man.”

 “Yeah,” Two-Bit agreed, more popcorn on his lap than had made it into his mouth. Johnny was one seat down from him, big brown eyes locked on the screen. “I think they’re about to sing another corny song.”

“I’m watchin’,” Soda grouched, settling back into his seat even as his mind wandered back to the end of the second row where Ponyboy and Dall sat.

Sodapop Curtis and Dallas Winston weren’t the best of friends, but the DX worker liked to think there was a mutual respect there. Dal was the kind of guy who would throw the first punch, take the blame, and vanish before anyone could say thanks. He wasn’t easy, wasn’t warm, but he was reliable in his own twisted way and even if Soda couldn’t always stand how reckless he was, he’d never say Dallas wasn’t loyal. The guy would burn down the whole damn city for someone he cared about so long as you didn’t ask him to talk about it after.

All that was why Sodapop figured Ponyboy had gone to Dallas the night he and Darry had gotten into that fight two weeks prior. The sixteen year old still cringed when he thought about that crack across his baby brother’s cheek ringing through the house like a gunshot. He’d nearly taken Darry’s head off himself after Pony had run out, the two of them getting into their first big blow out since their folks died. It hadn’t mattered, hadn’t fixed anything, and Ponyboy hadn’t come home until the next day smelling like leather and cigarette smoke. He’d had a new bruise on his cheek and a busted nose, but he’d been safe and calm and quick to mouth off to Darry that at least someone cared about him.

And that someone had been Dallas Winston.

Dallas Winston who had always been sharp edges and bad timing, but had managed to be in the right place at the right time just when Ponyboy needed him. He’d been safe that night, or at least, he’d felt safe to Pony and that was what mattered. Soda remembered lying awake that night staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of the front door. Waiting to hear his little brother’s voice or his footfalls in the kitchen or anything that meant he was still theirs , but the house had stayed quiet. Getting the kid back the next day with a snippy statement that Dally had been there for him hadn’t set off the alarm bells it maybe should’ve, Soda had just been grateful to the other teen.

But now they were sitting together at the movies.

Steve aiming another kick at his leg pulled Sodapop from his musings, a sneer already half ready on his face before he realized Steve wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, he and Two-Bit and Johnny were all turned over their seats, staring behind them matching looks of angry apprehension. Soda followed their gazes and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach with a swoop when he spotted three Soc’s picking their way through the rows of seats. He recognized Bob Sheldon and Randy Anderson, two pricks from his old class that had roughed up Johnny not too long ago, the rings on Bob’s hands glinting in the screen light. The last boy with them had actually worked with Soda at the stables a few years back when he’d still had Mickey Mouse. He remembered the kid’s name was David Parker and blinked when the guy caught his eye and then quickly looked away.

Bob and his flunkies sat two rows behind and four seats over, snickering and laughing and throwing condescending remarks out ahead of them. Plenty of people had already left when the greasers got too loud, but now with another group of teens, the last few stragglers wandered away with mutters and curses. Not moving, their outfit ended up all turned around in their seats looking at three shit-eating grins staring right back. 

Soda leaned over his chair and they all pushed towards him. He muttered, “They seriously sit that close?”

“Those are the guys from last time,” Ponyboy said, face washed pale in the night as he leaned around Dallas’ shoulder. The older teen had thrown his arm around the kid. “The ones that rolled up on us walkin’ the girls home.”

“Ignore ’em,” Steve scoffed, earning Two-Bits concurring nod. “They ain’t dumb enough to go three on six.”

It felt easier said than done, but they all agreed, settling back in to watch the movie, not nearly as carefree and stupid as they had been earlier. Everyone was on alert, ears perked up and waiting for a reason. Behind them, Bob whispered something to his friends and they laughed, low and mean. Sodapop didn’t know exactly what had happened that night before Pony got home, but the stress in the fourteen year old’s shoulders didn’t sit right with him. Johnny looked sick. A handful of seats down from him, Sodapop could see the gang pet’s hand buried in his pocket, no doubt gripping the blade he’d started carrying ever since he got jumped. Steve was rolling his shoulders and neck, stretching his muscles to warm them up. Two-bit seemed unphased, but he was chugging the beer he’d snuck in faster, probably not wanting to waste any if he ended up needing to break the bottle open. 

Uneasy silence settled over them for a time until a voice snapped across the rows, “Hey! Hey! Curtis!”

The middle Curtis brother turned without thinking, a bit stunned at being singled out since he hardly knew these guys. Steve let out a string of curses to stop him, but the sixteen year old ignored him. He saw his brother turning too and together they peered two rows behind and four seats over at Bob, Randy, and David, already half out of their seats and ready for the reason. Soda tossed back, “What, man? Can’t you see we’re watchin’ somethin’?”

“I’m not talkin’ to you ,” Bob said, voice slick and slow like something spilled under a car. He leaned forward, gripping the empty seat in front of him with both hands. “I’m talkin’ to Baby Curtis.”

Pony stood fully then, fast like a fight bell had rung and ice shot through Sodapop’s veins. He liked being the sunshine, but he knew when shit was about to get serious and he vacated his seat quickly to follow right behind his kid brother as he stomped over to the other teens, shoulders high and tight near his ears. Ponyboy was a greaser through and through with a reputation and an image all his own to protect, but that didn’t mean Soda would just let him go walking into a bop with no backup, Darry would kill him. So together they went loping over to where the Soc now stood, weight settled on their back feet and chests puffed out.

“What?” Pony’s voice was cold, biting. His big brother had never heard him sound quite so angry and he shifted, arms crossed over his chest to make him look bigger. He was taller than the three boys, but not as bulky. He checked them up and down for blades but didn’t see any.

“So hostile, kid,” Bob mocked, grinning down at Ponyboy with an annoying smirk. “We never got to finish our chat the other night.”

“Yeah, you ran off when your girl started cryin’.” Soda’s breath hitched as the baby greaser mouthed off and he heard Two-Bit howling with laughter while Steve snickered. Even Randy snorted a little, earning a harsh look from Bob. “So what?”

“Promised you, Matthews, and the wimp a jumping and figured there’s no time like the present. Three on three, fair’s fair.”

Sodapop bristled and he knew he had to step in. He hated seeing Ponyboy fight, always had—even back when it was just play-wrestling in the yard that got too rough. It wasn’t play anymore. Ponyboy was a fourteen year old greaser in a decently known gang, but he was still too young and too pretty to be throwing fists with guys who didn’t care if he bruised easy. Soda could understand pride, but he could never stomach seeing blood on his brothers’ faces. The cut under Pony’s chin from when he’d been jumped was still a faint raised scar over pink skin and it haunted the sixteen year old. 

That scar was a reminder, small but sharp, that the world didn’t see his baby as a baby anymore. Still, that didn’t mean the older teen had to just stand there and let things escalate. Soda stepped over, shouldering at the smaller boy’s body trying to angle him behind him. It was a technique he’d used to use with Mickey Mouse and with a baby Ponyboy when he’d wanted them to turn a certain way or back up a bit. It was gentle and instinctual and filled with more love than Sodapop knew how to handle as he tried to talk to Bob. 

He began, “Hey now-”

And was shoved away.

Hard.

The teenager stumbled slightly, more surprised than really knocked off balance as he turned wide eyes on his little brother. Pony’s neck was red, ears glowing, and there was something furious and humiliated pulsing in his posture. “Pone-”

“Cut it out, Soda!” he hissed, eyes still locked on Bob and beginning to shift his weight around testily. “You want a bop, you got it.”

“Woah, woah!” the older teen eased, pulse hammering in his ears as he tried again to step between the Soc and the fourteen year old. The air had immediately gotten ten times thicker and everyone who’d still been sitting stood, spreading out to allow room for wide sweeping blows. Two-Bit and Johnny were making their way from the row, picking over towards Ponyboy as Sodapop kept trying to talk them all out of a brawl. “Let's just take it easy, guys!”

“Soda, you’re embarrassin’ me,” Ponyboy accused in a hysterical whisper, grey-green eyes flicking over to his brother in a scathing glance as they all squared off, three on three.

“I’m try’na-”

“You can’t call in your boyfriend halfway through, Curtis,” Bob said suddenly, interrupting the brothers’ semi-private conversation. Soda blanched, watching the way Pony paused, confusion obvious in the line of his stance. “Winston can’t step in if you're gettin’ worked over.”

Sodapop’s mouth dropped open, a trap door with its hinges snapped off. The words lit like a match thrown in a gas tank and the explosion of Pony’s temper sucked all the air out behind it, leaving the older greaser’s ears ringing and hollow as he swung wide eyes around to look at Dallas. Why had Bob said that? What did that even mean? What did Bob know? What did Soda not know? So many questions battered his brain and the sixteen year old could barely process the fact that Dally was up out of his seat and getting closer to them fast . Pony was still spitting fire in Bob’s face and his voice came back to Soda in a rising echo.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about you white trash -!”

Dallas whistled, long and piercing, a sound so loud it made them all wince, Soda jerking his head back like he’d been smacked. Ponyboy’s tirade stopped on a dime, his flushed face snapping to Dally, startled and accusatory. Questions started racing through Sodapop’s mind again and he wondered: Why had Dal done that? What did that even mean? What did Pony know? What did Soda not know? Ponyboy’s eyes were bright, feverish in their fury, and Dal held their gaze with unflinching ire in return. Soda swore he could see an electric current zipping between the two, sending messages of morse code thrummed out by their heartbeats and the thought made his stomach tight. 

“I was talkin’!” Pony blurted, voice cracking in the middle.

Dallas didn’t back off, didn’t let the kid go any further, just stepped closer, right up into his face, jaw clenched. Body blocking him. If Darry were there he’d have the guy’s collar in his fist by now, but Soda just stared, subconsciously stepping back to make room as the taller teen pushed up on his baby brother. He snapped,  “Oh yeah? Yeah ? Well now I’m talkin’.”

Dal turned on the Soc and his buddies and the rest of them fell back a breath, staying at the ready but letting the toughest guy handle things. This was how a rough patch usually went when Darry wasn’t around to play Superman and calm things down, but Soda didn’t mind it too much. Dallas was such a wild and scary character it was more likely someone giving them trouble would back off after dealing with him directly. Still, he settled his weight back and eyed the line of the hood’s shoulders curiously. Pony was hovering at his elbow, having been half shoved aside from his own burgeoning bop, and Soda’s gut twisted. 

He let his eyes study the two greasers, the way they stood together, the way they were a solid wall of snark and smoke as Dallas got in Bob’s face about what he’s said. The words were still echoing in Sodapop’s head: your boyfriend . He couldn’t tell if it was just a cheap shot, a slur tossed out for a reaction, or if the Soc had seen something. The way Dallas had jolted to attention the second Pony’s voice rose and the way Ponyboy had responded to that whistle made the DX worker wonder.

Soda’s hands curled into loose fists at his sides. Not from anger—he wasn’t even sure what emotion he was riding. Something close to fear he thought. The rest of the gang all shifted around them, Two and Johnny flanking Pony the closest while Steve hung back by Soda like always. Dallas was right in front of his brother though, and Ponyboy was allowing it. He’d shoved Soda off, snapped at him. Told him he was embarrassing. It had stung, but the older greaser could take it. He knew his baby was growing up and wouldn’t let him take up for him forever, but he’d let Dallas straight up silence him. The seventeen year old had whistled, mouthed off, and then stepped right into the confrontation like that was his job and it made Sodapop wonder . 

The sixteen year old was so caught up in wondering that he missed most of what was said between Dal and the Soc boys until suddenly the New Yorker lunged. He grabbed Bob by the front of his crisp shirt and yanked him forward over the seat with enough force to knock the breath out of him. Chaos broke out instantly—Randy and the other Soc scrambling to pull Dallas off, only to freeze when Johnny flashed his knife and Two-Bit shattered a bottle on the back of a folding chair. Sodapop cursed loud and fast, his voice rising in panic, but Dally didn’t flinch. He dragged Bob even closer, their noses nearly crushed together, holding him in a choke that was more threat than restraint.

“You listen to me, you piece of garbage,” he growled through clenched teeth. Bob clawed at his wrists, his grip useless without leverage, half-draped over the seat in front of him and wheezing like a kicked dog. “You ever get to thinkin’ you can touch that kid, I want you to remember me in your face right now tellin’ you different.”

Sodapop really wished he’d heard what was said as Bob snarled, “Get your hands off me, Winston!” 

Dallas’ smile widened and the crazy, sharp edge of it made Soda’s skin crawl. “You want your ass kicked? Cause you’re kinda beggin’ for it, man.”

“Jesus, Dallas, that’s enough!” 

Dal kept hold even after Sodapop’s shout, looking hard into Bob’s eye for something no one could find but him. When he finally got at whatever it was, the hood let him drop like dead weight, chair clattering over and the other two rushing to pick their friend up. The greasers stepped back in a wide arch, shoulder to shoulder, quiet now, letting the moment settle like dust. No cheers, no pats on the back, not even a joke from Two-Bit yet, just the heavy buzz of movie dialogue still droning from the screen. They watched the Socs curse and argue and pick themselves up in a huff. Bob glared at each of them in turn, an ugly bruise already painting the side of his throat, face flushed with humiliation and anger. 

The Soc spat at the ground near Dally’s feet and hissed, “Crazy hood!”

He and his friends slunk away into the darkness beyond the concession stand. A heavy silence hung in the air as the greasers watched them retreat. Only after they were gone did the tension break, each of them breathing easier and standing looser. Soda let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and turned to Steve whose face was twisted up in a furious frown.

“That was boring,” Two-Bit complained, the first to speak as always as he pitched his bottle into the grass and gave Johnny’s shoulder a playful punch. “Those guys were chicken-shit outta their minds.”

“That sucked,” the gang pet huffed, shoving his hands deep into his denim jacket pockets. He was white as a ghost, but his knife was safely stored away now. “Let's just get outta here.”

They all agreed and began loping off into the night, stiff and spread out like they were headed to a rumble. Soda kept throwing looks over to Pony, but the kid was too occupied to notice, freckled face creased with displeasure as he hopped the fence after the rest of them. He didn’t look up to talking and so Soda left him alone, but noticed how Dallas hovered nearby, shadowing the baby greaser’s steps in his long, loping stride. Soda watched, the tickle and tension that had been building all night coming back when he looked at them. He reached out and smacked Steve's shoulder, nodding so that his best friend would look over at the other two greasers.

“What the hell was that about?” he wondered, wanting someone to tell him he wasn’t crazy but then also call him a fucking loon all at the same time. Steve observed their gang members, then cut eyes back to Soda with a shrug.

“Nothin’ man,” he said, throwing an arm around Soda’s shoulder to jostle him. “Ya got nothin’ to worry about.”

Chapter Text

Clucking or clicking is a common vocal cue used in horse training to prompt movement, especially forward motion. It mimics natural herd communication sounds and is often paired with body language or pressure cues, like leg squeezes or rein releases. The sharp, staccato noise catches a horse’s attention and signals it to start or pick up speed. Over time, horses learn to associate the cluck with a command and will respond to it reflexively, much like a dog responds to a whistle.

Sodapop Curtis did, in fact, have something to worry about. Maybe he should have seen it coming after Ponyboy came home long past curfew, reeking of beer and adrenaline with Dallas Winston’s St. Christopher chain hanging off his neck. Soda had been at Buck Merrill’s that night, high on life and the sweet smell of Sandy’s perfume, and he was ashamed to admit to Darry that he hadn’t even known their baby brother had been there, apparently cozying up in some dark corner with the toughest guy in Tulsa. Darry had grounded Pony fast and hard; no hanging out, no after-school loitering, and certainly no seeing Dally, but that had lasted only as long as the hood was locked up. The kid had sulked through that entire week, pulling away and spitting like a wet cat whenever Soda tried to ask him what was up. He went to school, went to track, came home, and shut up into their room in a huff everyday, refusing conversation or company.

The middle Curtis son had tried to suggest maybe Darry’s punishment had been too harsh, but the twenty year old wouldn’t hear it. They’d all existed awkwardly around each other like the worst table at a wedding for days and then Friday everything had been flipped on its ear.  Pony had been meant to go to school and then to track and then be straight home and his brother’s had assumed he was on his way to do just that and then Dallas Winston had stormed in through their never locked front door. Darry, just home from work, and Soda, heading out to his evening shift, had both balked, surprised to see the New Yorker out of the cooler and looking so put out as if they’d begged him over and then slammed the door in his face.

“Where the hell’s Ponyboy?” he’d snapped, sharp jaw jutted out as he went stomping towards the hall to find out for himself. Seeing his big brother about to blow a gasket, Soda had stepped in, stumbling after the older teen as he shoved their bedroom door open to see there was no pouting fourteen year old hiding behind it.

“Pony’s at school, Dal-”

“No he ain’t,” the hood had interrupted, face carved into a displeased sneer as he turned around again, shouldering back into the living room where Darry sat glaring at him. “He wasn’t at school and he didn’t go to track so where is he?”

Things had been bad after that.

A flurry of worried questions had quickly devolved into a confused shouting match and by the time Sodapop convinced Darry their kid brother probably wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere, Dallas had slipped out leaving chaos in his wake like he always did. Soda had called Steve to cover his shift at the DX and then the two Curtis boys had sat up, waiting and wondering on Ponyboy until the kid himself had sauntered in just before sunset. Dallas Winston had loped in right behind him, looking smug and satisfied and before anyone could say anything, he’d slung an arm around Pony’s neck and pulled the smaller boy into a sloppy kiss.

Things had been worse after that.

Sodapop shivered, pulling himself from the memory as he squinted out across the fairgrounds. Darry’s hollering still echoed through his teeth like a bell toll when he thought about that conversation too long and so the sixteen year old tried to forget about it. Pony had been sitting too straight, like he was bracing for a hit, and Dallas hadn’t sat down at all. Soda remembered thinking, absurdly, that his little brother’s hair looked too neat for the moment. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t even unexpected if the greaser were being honest. It just hurt a little in places Sodapop hadn’t known were still tender. Ponyboy had used to listen to him , to come to him , to lean into him , but now he had Dal for all that and it stung. He’d get over it though.

“Woo! Let’s go, Dallas!” His baby brother’s voice ripped and rattled out of his throat and Soda’s grin was a testy wince as he leaned away from the noise. He bumped shoulders with Steve Randle and his best friend laughed and jostled him and joined in the hollering.

They were at the rodeo to watch Dally ride bronco. The day had opened hot but not unbearable, Tulsa heat sitting low and thick on the grass like a heavy quilt. The rodeo grounds smelled like churned dirt, manure, and kettle corn, the kind of scent that stuck in your nose long after you left. Kids ran screaming through the fairway, faces sticky with sugar, while horses clomped behind low wooden gates, their eyes wide and rolling, hooves pawing at the dust. The midday sun had baked the whole area by the time the bronc events started, beating straight down over the bleachers and casting the arena in bright, white-hot monochrome. The crowd buzzed loud and wild, stomping feet on metal risers, sloshing sodas, and clapping calloused hands with dry, sharp cracks.

When Dallas was up he hopped onto his horse easily, rope coiled tight in his glove, teeth bared like a dog’s. The gate swung wide and the horse shot out like a bullet and Soda knew his friend was riding Trigger. They all cheered, leaning around their seats unconsciously as if they were the ones being bucked, but Dallas held on like he was made for it, one arm loose, body pitched forward, the fight in him coiled and cracking with every turn. Soda felt something coil in him too, tight and sour. He hadn’t ridden in a while, not since tearing that damn ligament. He didn’t miss the pain or the risk, but he missed the rush, the roar of the crowd, the way time slowed down when it was just you and the horse. Seeing Dallas out there, grabbing the spotlight and every eye in the stands, including Ponyboy’s, dug into him in a way he didn’t care to name. Eight seconds stretched an eternity. 

“Nice job, Dallas!” Johnny Cade bellowed down the stands, the loudest any of them had ever heard him once the bell had rung and the ride was over. Out in the arena, the hood’s head cocked up to them, cowboy hat keeping the sun off his face as he smiled, wide and toothy. When his eyes found Ponyboy at Soda’s side his grin went salacious and he smacked a kiss into the dusty air.

“Glory, but your ears can get red, Ponyboy,” Two-Bit Matthews snickered on the teen’s other side, tall frame blocking the folks behind them as he stood and started to map a path down the bleachers. “C’mon, lets go get ‘im.”

They met Dallas back behind the chutes, cajoling and razzing him on a good run as all around them other cowboys got their mounts together. Riders limped or swaggered past, dirt streaked across their shirts, some still shaking out their arms after being tossed. The gang crowded Dallas in a loose, familiar orbit, Two-Bit cracking jokes about the way he’d nearly eaten fence on his dismount and Steve jawing about luck, not skill. Johnny offered him a small, impressed smile and the New Yorker returned it with a noogie so vicious the gang pet’s hair stuck straight up after. Soda added his own snipes and laughs and watched his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Ponyboy was leaned into Dallas like it was second nature, his slighter frame tucked beneath the older boy’s arm, shoulder nudging comfortably into the space just under Dally’s. His arm wasn’t around the hood, nothing obvious, but his eyes kept flicking up with every barb like he was checking how they landed. In return the New York native didn’t drape an arm around him, didn’t make a show of it, but mid-conversation he bent and pressed a rough kiss to the fourteen year old’s hair. The rest of the gang jeered, but Soda breathed deep through his nose and looked all around for something to occupy his eyeline, hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

He’d had a few weeks now to get used to the idea of Pony and Dal together, but he still couldn’t seem to make the same peace with it the others had. Two-Bit had taken the news with the same lopsided grin he gave everything else; loud, shrugging, a little inappropriate. He’d joked about owing his girl five bucks and then changed the subject. It had helped that Johnny hadn’t looked surprised at all, just nodded like they were late to the party, and that Soda had done his damndest to stay neutral, even if he’d still felt off-kilter. Steve had been harder to read. He didn’t say much at first, just looked between them and muttered something about the world going crazy, but he hadn’t picked a fight, and that was saying something. He had found Soda later though and asked if he was alright. Sodapop was embarrassed when he thought about how much he’d cried in response.

“Stayin’ for the rest of the riders?” Johnny piped up, shifting his weight with a jolt when a horse nearby snorted. Dal nodded, leaning in to light a match off the back of the St. Christopher necklace around Ponyboy’s neck. The kid just tilted his chin up, making room for the way the hood leaned down and puffed his weed to life in the hollow of his throat. Soda’s gut clenched.

“Yeah, gotta help clean up after Buck’s done,” the seventeen year old explained, smoke billowing from his lips and nose as he straightened again. “You guys can head out though.”

“I’m here for the barrel racing,” Two-Bit announced, wide face split on a goofy grin as they all rolled eyes at him. “Marcia’s ridin’.”

“She’s good,” Pony noted sincerely, reaching up to steal Dal’s smoke. The guy didn’t even flinch, just took his dusty hat off to shove on the kid’s head. “I’d watch her.”

They all agreed and bid Dally a brief farewell to make their way back to the stands. The bleachers had thinned out some since the bronco rides, but the crowd came alive again as the girls lined up, their horses stamping at the soft dirt. Cherry Valance wore a red kerchief that flashed like her hair each time her gelding rounded a barrel, posture rigid with nerves and Soda clapped heartily. She was good. Marcia followed two riders later, leaning deep into the turns like she was part of the horse itself, grinning wild as she cleared the clover pattern clean. Two-Bit hooted for her like a fool, hands cupped around his mouth, while Steve made a smart remark about her tight jeans and caught an elbow from Johnny. Ponyboy clapped along with the rest but didn’t shout, just smiled, eyes tracking the way the horses moved, legs blurring with power. The cowboy hat was too big for him and drooped down over his ears.

By the time the final riders were clearing the arena, the sun had traveled far enough to stretch long shadows across the fairground. Cowboys led tired broncs and barrel horses back toward the trailers, their gear clinking with each step. Buck was hollering something across the lot, dust rising around his boots as he pointed to a pile of hay bales that needed stacking. Sodapop stretched his arms overhead, a yawn cracking his jaw as he drifted back toward Steve’s truck. They’d done their cheering, hollering, and betting for the day, now it was all about beating the crowd before the parking lot turned to chaos. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, the sixteen year old did a double take when he didn’t see Ponyboy or Johnny trailing behind them. Two had gone off to find Marcia.

“Where’s Pony?” Soda asked, slowing down and casting about for his baby brother. Steve kept walking, munching on a candybar he’d snagged from God-only-knew where, and pointed a thumb over his shoulder casually.

“Went to look at the horses,” he said, “Took Johnnycakes with ‘im.”

Soda caught a glimpse of his brother’s silhouette slipping between a couple of rail posts, Dally’s hat still perched on his head like a crown. Johnny was right behind him, following like a lanky shadow as they moved toward the hitching posts, stopping every so often to run a hand along a horse’s nose or stare into the soft brown eyes that blinked back at him. Ponyboy only had eyes for one mare though and Sodapop cursed fitfully, changing course as he saw his brother making a beeline for Trigger’s pen. Steve swore a blue streak, doubling back when he saw his best friend wasn’t with him anymore, and the two greasers went stomping after their youngest gang members.

“Hey, girl,” the fourteen year old was cooing when Soda and Steve came up on him and Johnny. He was stepped up on the bottom wrung of the bay’s stall, eyes tracing her quivering flank and hands tucked out of biting distance. “You did good today.”

“You shouldn’t be up there, Pone,” Sodapop called, making Johnny jump where he stood a few paces back, watching his best friend. Grey-green eyes flicked over a shoulder at Soda and he raised his brows in response. “She’s still skittish.”

“S’why I’m not touchin’ her,” Pony retorted, tossing copper colored hair out of his eyes, shuffling his shoulders a bit as he got more comfortable on his perch. “Dally said I can look from here til she calms down.”

“She could still charge the gate,” his big brother argued, fighting the urge to plant fists on his hips like he was Darry or something. The horse nickered in her pen, back to them all and their drama. Soda kept an eye on her just in case. “She don’t know you, could get spooked.”

“She knows me, Soda,” the fourteen year old said and Soda could hear the eye roll even if he couldn’t see it. “She’s Dal’s.”

“Forget it, man,” Steve huffed, face scrunched up at the thick stink of manure back near the stables, his lips parted as he tried to breathe through his mouth. “Kid gets kicked, serves ‘im right.”

Ponyboy threw the bird over his shoulder, but didn’t get off the gate, instead turning so he could chatter down to Johnny still on the ground. Soda watched the younger greasers, noted the carefree curves of their smiles and the way their noses crinkled as they laughed and decided to just let it slide. With a sigh he propped himself on a nearby fencepost and set to waiting. He and Steve shot the shit and passed a weed back and forth as the day wore on, the sun dipping further in the sky until it cast long shadows over the bleachers and drenched the arena in deep, honey-gold. Dallas didn’t show up again, off somewhere being useful, and Two had to have caught a ride with Marcia and Cherry. Soon the fairgrounds were nearly empty and beating the rush wasn’t an issue anymore because they’d missed it entirely. 

“Shit, lets get outta here,” Steve said at length, his last smoke crushed under his boot, a healthy pile already stacked at the bottom of the post they leaned against. “Told Evie I’d take her to the Dingo tonight.”

“Yeah, Sandy and I’ll be there,” Sodapop agreed, stretching with a pop between his shoulder blades as he turned. 

Pony and Johnny were still over by the pens, the younger teen having hopped down at some point to talk face to face with his friend. He was chatting animatedly still, hands gesturing out in front of him and freckled cheeks creased on a smile as Johnny nodded enthusiastically to whatever he was saying. Dal’s horse, Trigger, had wandered over, giant head bent over the side of the gate to nudge and nuzzle at Ponyboy, her huge nose bumping the teen’s neck testily, greedy for a treat. Pony just smirked, brushing her away without fanfare as he kept talking. 

Sodapop clicked his tongue, sharp, twice. It was the same sound he’d used since Ponyboy was little; when the kid was still snot nosed and used to follow him around like a trailing colt. Back then it had meant come on, little buddy, and Pony had always responded, sharp as a tack. Even when he’d been sulking or dragging his feet, a cluck from his big brother could make him pick up his head and hurry right along. Soda had learned it working at the stables and decided to try it at home as a goof. It’d always worked. 

Now though, in the fading light and dust, Pony didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He just kept talking, happy and bright, like the noise hadn’t registered at all. Sodapop blinked bemusedly, a horrible feeling gripping him right in the intestines as he tried again. He clicked, louder this time, a twinge of frustration coloring the sound. Still nothing. Pony just laughed at something Johnny said, grey-green eyes sparkling with mirth. Horses all around were shifting with unease.

“Pony,” the sixteen year old called instead, heat spreading over the back of his neck as he caught the way Steve’s brow quirked off to the side. “We’re headed out.”

“Maybe you oughta whistle for him,” his best friend suggested in a rough rumble, sounding like the words made him ill to say. “Like how Dallas does.”

Soda shot him a look. “I’m not whistlin’ at my baby brother.”

The two DX workers stared at each other and then at the younger members of their outfit and then Dallas Winston himself came stomping over, changed out of his riding clothes and yanking on a jacket it was way too warm for. Soda cut eyes at him and thought, crazily, that he looked real different without his chain and then turned back to his brother. Ponyboy hadn’t noticed the New Yorker coming over. 

“Glory, you fucks’re still here?” the hood said in way of greeting, wiping his large hands on his jeans. Dirty streaks smeared behind. “What’s the hold up?”

“Your boyfriend won’t come,” Steve leered, the word huffing out of him like some great imposition. Sodapop flinched, gaze snapping to Dally whose face twisted up with displeased confusion like he was calling them idiots with just the curve of his brow. He turned towards the gate, saw the other two and bit his bottom lip with sharp white teeth.

The whistle was short and crisp and Ponyboy’s head perked right up. His stare landed on Dallas like a dart thrown into a board, bullseye, and the hood tossed his head over his shoulder impatiently. “C’mon, kid, it’s time to go.”

The fourteen year old came bounding over, Johnny hot on his heels, and Dal tossed an arm over his shoulder automatically. One beast with two backs and four legs they turned, tilting towards the parking lot, Johnny on Dal’s free side picking up the conversation he and Pony had been having over by the gate. Almost immediately three sets of loud laughter were echoing into the approaching night and Sodapop watched them with a sour bubbling starting up in his gut. He sucked his teeth irritatedly, trailing the other three, Steve right beside him. His best friend bumped his arm, lips sucked in with concern, but Soda just shrugged him off. He’d get over it.

Chapter Text

Hand-feeding is a common practice used in training horses to build trust, reinforce positive behavior, and establish a bond between the animal and the handler. By offering treats like carrots, apples, or feed from an open palm, trainers can reward obedience or calmness, associating human interaction with something pleasurable. It encourages the horse to approach willingly, remain focused, and respond to cues. 

The sun was just starting to dip below the rooftops when they piled into the diner, dirty shoes thudding against black-and-white tile, leather jackets creaking, and voices loud with the kind of energy that only came before a party. Outside, the sky had stained purple, and inside, the red vinyl stools shone beneath buzzing fluorescents. The jukebox in the corner rattled out “ I Feel Good” at full volume, and the whole place smelled like grease and fried onions. It was cool outside, late November breezes nothing to sniff at in Tulsa, but inside they were all battered with heat from the kitchen.

Sodapop Curtis flopped into a booth, dragging his girl Sandy down with him as his legs bounced with jittery excitement. His girlfriend shot him a sugar sweet smile and the seventeen year old beamed back, whole face warm with pleasure as the rest of the gang piled in behind them. Dallas Winston was turning eighteen, legal age for all the shit he’d been doing anyway, and it seemed like every greaser in town was geared up for a big blow out at Buck’s later in the evening. Before that though, it was milkshakes, chili fries, and stolen smokes before the sun went down. 

Steve Randle and his girl Evie slid into the booth that was back to back with Soda, turning on their knees to peer over at their friends immediately. Two-Bit Matthews and his Soc girlfriend, Marcia, came putzing in from outside, Marcia’s friend Cherry Valance close behind. Soda waved at them wide and loud as if they were half blind and the rest of their outfit laughed good-naturedly. Dallas, Ponyboy, and Johnny Cade were all squeezed into the booth opposite Soda and Sandy and already looking over their menus with interest. 

Two and Marcia pulled chairs over while Cherry slid in next to Sandy, the two girls regarding each other like creatures from different planets. With all of them there, the booths were too crowded, their voices too loud, and the jukebox kept skipping back to the same damn song, but Soda didn’t mind. He had the friendly fizzies going at full power and he pulled Sandy in for kiss after kiss, chasing the sound of her laughter as much as the taste of her mouth as his friends all jeered and blew straw wrappers at them. Their amusement only fueled the middle Curtis brother on more.

“Get a room, you two,” the birthday boy hooted, lounging in the booth with a wicked sharp grin. 

His arm was tossed over the back of the seat, circling up and around Ponyboy, but not actually touching him. His other arm was pressed half along the window edge and half along the table, hands in clear view while Pony’s stayed dropped out of sight. Soda noted the distance, the tight lines of their bodies, and eased up a bit. Seeing them holding themselves back was enough to sober the younger teen. They were careful, those two. Careful in a way that still startled Sodapop sometimes; like he kept forgetting they had to be. Three months in and his kid brother still blushed like mad when Dallas so much as looked at him too long in public, but it wasn’t all nerves. It was knowing who they were and where they were, and what could happen if the wrong person caught the wrong kind of look passed between them. Soda didn’t blame them—didn’t like it, sure, but he understood. 

“You two’re disgustin’,” Pony griped.

“Just wait til you’re in love, Ponyboy,” Sandy quipped, pretty face smoothed out in contentment, her hand rubbing her boyfriend’s thigh under the table. She was sweet and delicate and perfect and Sodapop hadn’t told her about his little brother and the toughest guy in Tulsa getting together. Couldn’t form the words out of his mouth any time it came up. The seventeen year old dragged a finger through the greasy grime on the table top and tried not to think too hard about it.

The baby greaser snorted at her, his smile twisted up at the corner so that his canines caught the light flickering down from the ceiling. The face made him look like Dallas and Soda covered his cringe with a sniff. Evie suggested, “Let’s order.”

Chaos crashed across their group like a wave hitting the shoreline and from across the room Soda noticed their usual waitress already rubbing her temple in the onset of a migraine. Menus crinkled, voices overlapped, and poor Marion didn’t stand a chance as Pony shouted for milkshakes over Steve’s request for a chili dog while Evie argued with him about getting a side of onion rings. Two-Bit kept adding things ‘for the table’ like they were made of money while Marcia just rolled her eyes and asked for a salad. Cherry ordered like she was at a country club and Sandy tried to politely decline a burger until Sodapop insisted on ordering it for her with extra pickles. Across the booth Johnny mumbled something about grilled cheese before Dallas cut in demanding he get a double stack of fries.

“Anything else?” Marion sighed, pencil frozen midair. The poor woman looked exhausted.

“I like this hair on you, Marion,” Two announced, causing Steve to snort. “It’s real pretty.”

“Save it for the check, Keith, you’re gonna need it.”

They all laughed as the jokester placed a hand to his chest, pantomiming offence as their waitress stalked away, her usual auburn hair glowing platinum blonde in the buzzing lights of the diner. With less spectacle than ordering had called for, their large group split off into smaller bunches of conversation; Sandy turned around to talk with Evie and Steve over the seatback, Two-Bit pulled Marcia and Johnny into some outrageous story or another, and Sodapop found himself chatting with Cherry and the happy couple across from him. Ponyboy was twisting his straw wrapper tight around his finger before unfurling it and starting over while Dallas drummed out a half-familiar beat on the table, sharp eyes poking all around the room while the others chattered animatedly.

“Eighteen,” Soda said at length, his smile feeling tight around the edges as his little brother’s boyfriend honed in on him. “Gettin’ up there, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“He’s ancient!” Two hollered, breaking from his own talk for half a second just to be a pest. Dally flipped him the bird, but he was smirking and Ponyboy was studying the line of it in apparent awe.

Sodapop tried not to think about the numbers too often, about the almost four long years stretched between his baby brother and the meanest guy in their outfit, sitting there with the devil in his grin. Despite everything Soda knew, he knew , Pony wasn’t a baby, but fourteen wasn’t some seasoned member of society either. Fourteen was still sharp knees and sudden moods, still homework and curfews no matter how late you snuck in. Even if Ponyboy had always been a little more mature than the year on his birth certificate, his big brother knew there were things the kid hadn’t even thought about that Dally had already lived through.

Dallas was older than even him; Soda had only just turned seventeen the month before, the whole gang treating him to whatever he wanted all night at the Dingo. The only people older in their outfit were Two-Bit and Darry and Darry was an adult. It was weird to think about how someone also entering that stage of life could make his little brother blush. Could kiss up on him when company wasn’t mixed and the world just kept turning. None of the others seemed to mind besides Darry who minded loudly and often enough for half the town. Sodapop didn’t want to be like that, to be a grumpy old man while he was still in his teens, so he didn’t say anything. He just thought about the eighteen candles Dally would blow out later and counted the freckles on his baby brother’s face like it’d be the last time every time.

“I could’ve used that ride earlier, Dal,” Cherry said suddenly, drawing Soda out of his musings. She was leaned across the table, her red hair tumbling over her shoulder like a waterfall. She was still in her cheerleading uniform from school. Sandy scooted further into Soda’s side and he let her, brow furrowed at the random statement as Cherry just stared Dallas down. The hood could not have looked less interested in what she was saying, but Sodapop noticed the way Pony dug an elbow into the older teen’s ribs; a subtle push for him to play nice.

“Yeah,” the New Yorker drawled, eyes roaming the table top like the salt shaker could give him an out from the conversation, “I was only there to pick up Pony.”

“That’s sweet of you, Dal,” Sandy piped up innocently, her voice high and reedy the way it always was when she addressed Dallas. Sodapop had worried at one point that his girl may be a little bit in love with the hood like so many others. However, when he’d asked her about it, hat literally in hand, the blonde had laughed fit to choke a horse; deep, ugly guffaws that doubled her over as she’d fought to catch her breath. She’d assured her beau that she was scared of Dallas, not enamored, and they’d never discussed it again. 

“Yeah, real sweet makin’ me ride around in Buck’s bucket,” Pony chimed in, snickering when the eighteen year old started slapping playfully around his head and face. The rest of their table laughed and cajoled and Soda felt displaced to be the only one besides Cherry who didn’t join in. The pretty Soc just watched, twirling her hair between two fingers. The jukebox skipped again and James Brown’s voice came screaming through the room.

“WOW!”
I feel good! - I knew that I would!
I feel good! - I knew that I would!
So good! - So good!
I got you!”

“Glory, they gotta fix that machine,” Two-Bit sighed like he was the owner of the establishment and frankly fed up with how long repairs were taking. “How long’s it been skippin’?”

“It was busted on Ponyboy’s birthday too,” Johnny offered, practically mumbling into his lap as all eyes turned to him. “Kept playin’ Jerry Lee Lewis joints.”

The boys at the table all made affirmative noises, recalling how many times they’d heard “Great Balls of Fire” that night, the repetition starting off funny before growing wearisome and then swinging right back to funny again. Steve thumped the booth over Soda’s head rhythmically, imitating the piano beats of the opening and funny turned to hilarious in hindsight and soon they were all laughing again. The girls just watched, smiling and nodding like they were humoring a rowdy group of toddlers until Marion came back, a large tray balanced on one hand.

“Mains are on the way, but here’s your sides,” she huffed, dropping baskets of fries and onion rings and Marcia’s salad and then traipsing off before any of them could ask for more food. Soda was sure they would have, Evie’s menu back in front of her face.

The seventeen year old chomped on his fries contentedly, good mood restored as hot saltiness blistered the roof of his mouth. He looked around the table and saw them all doing the same hot fingered dance followed by wide mouth breathing and smiled. Across from him Dallas popped fry after fry, totally unbothered by the temperature while Ponyboy waited, the only one with enough self control to not risk a fat tongue. His big brother watched him amusedly and wondered how he’d ever been worried this kid would grow up too soon; it was that quick, the way he forgot his own feelings sometimes.

“Hey, Pone,” he beckoned, waiting until grey-green eyes perked up to him before zooming the fry in his hand through curving loops and swoops through the air. “Here comes the plane!”

Everyone laughed and Soda laughed and stretched the fry out expectantly, the heat of it feeling like electricity on his fingertips. He’d used to do this all the time; if a pouty Pony wouldn’t eat his broccoli, dad called in Captain Sodapop to fly their mission home. If his baby brother was sick and disgusted by mom’s chicken noodle soup, Captain Sodapop could steer an ocean liner into port no problem. Even if everything was just fine, Soda could toss a kernel of popcorn and Ponyboy would open wide to catch it, smiling at the spectacle as the older teen acted like he’d just made a game winning goal in the semi finals of some made up sport only he knew the rules to.

So everyone laughed and Soda laughed, his eyes creased shut in his amusement, but when he opened them again he saw that Ponyboy wasn’t laughing. The kid’s face had pinked up, quick and fierce, and he’d ducked down slightly, his neck disappearing into the folds of his hoodie as he scowled . All the spite and vitriol standard for a fourteen year old was in that scowl and Sodapop leaned away from it, eyebrows shooting up. He could see how young his brother was in that expression, but he could also see the hints of Dallas Winston starting to seep through, giving the kid more bone and bite than he’d ever had before.

He bitched, “Knock it off, Soda!”

The laughter turned to ‘oooh’s and jibes and Soda barely heard it as his grin wavered. Not much, just enough to be noticeable to anyone paying attention. He sat back, hardly feeling the way Sandy rubbed his arm in mock sympathy, and dropped the fry back into his basket, watching the way his kid brother huffed and puffed in obvious irritation. He twisted in his seat, face half hidden into Dally’s side and the hood let him, not laughing but not throwing a hissy fit either. He quirked one brow up at Soda and the seventeen year old just shrugged; he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. He was still wondering, mind far off and hazy with brimming sadness, when he saw a wave of red cresting in his peripherals.

“You sure are cute when you blush, Pony,” Cherry cooed, tone cavity sweet and cloying as she reached out, looking like she meant to pinch the young boy’s cheek.

Dallas slapped her hand away so quick half the table only heard it happen.

All chatter cut off abruptly, the silence a bubble in the middle of the other noise of the diner; bells ringing, orders being shouted, James Brown still singing about how good he felt. Sodapop blinked, realized he’d gone tense and tight all over, and tried to ease his shoulders down, mouth hanging open just like Two-Bit and Marcia at the end of the table. Sandy had a hand pressed to her cheek and Johnny and Pony were both just staring wide eyed at Dallas who had pinned Cherry Valance in a dead eyes stare. The girl had her hand curled towards her chest, blush high on her cheeks and redder than her hair as she gaped back.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” the hood asked after a beat, back in his casual lean like his hand hadn’t flipped out quicker than a switchblade to swat the girl away.

“Jesus, Dal-!”

“It was just a goof,” Cherry forced a chuckle over Evie’s admonishment. Her lashes were fluttering like she had something in them and Sodapop prayed it wasn’t any goddamn tears. He didn’t want her to cry. “Come on, you’re babying him.”

Everyone at the table shifted awkwardly and suddenly Soda hoped the girl was about to cry. The thought was foreign and ugly and he frowned when it crossed his mind, dropping his arm around Sandy to grip her tighter and absorb more of her goodness. Dallas hadn’t moved an inch, maybe hadn’t even blinked, but slowly his brows curved downwards to carve a harsh line across his face. Where Ponyboy’s scowl from earlier had been the spitting, acidic sneer of a kid, this was the stoney, damning frown of a young man and Soda swallowed dryly.

Dal leaned in, his elbow propped up on the table as he near covered Pony with his body so he could talk directly into Cherry’s face. He announced, “He’s mine to baby.”

Marcia and Sandy both looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in the condition of their nail beds. Johnny cleared his throat and sat straighter.  Steve muttered something unflattering under his breath and Evie smacked his arm. Two-Bit flashed a hollow smile, eyes darting between everyone like he was waiting for someone to laugh and pretend it hadn’t happened. Soda kept watch over the three main characters of the drama and watched as Cherry backed off, one perfect brow arched curiously as Pony and Dallas just sat there. Their bubble burst suddenly, sound flooding back in as Marion returned with their main dishes and started listing them off with robotic efficiency. Ten milkshakes, a chili dog, a turkey club, two burgers, a slice of chocolate cake, a grilled cheese, and a bowl of chili with extra sour cream ended up not being enough to break the tension, but they all pretended it was and tucked into their food awkwardly.

Sodapop’s gaze flicked from Dallas to Cherry to Pony to his plate and back again. The birthday boy didn’t dig into his chili, still taught with malcontent as he instead focused on the fourteen year old beside him. Ponyboy poked at his cake nervously, grey-green eyes cast low like he wanted to sink beneath the table and his big brother regretted trying to play with him now. It felt like he’d crossed over some line he hadn’t realized was there which had given Cherry the go ahead to do the same. He didn’t really know what the Soc girl was trying to prove by baby-talking and belittling Ponyboy, but he was worried she wasn’t trying to prove anything; he was worried she was just copying him.

Across the table, Pony abandoned his fork to lean into the arm Dallas still had across the back of the booth. He looked restless, too big for his skin and antsy and fourteen and Soda loved him so much it ached. He watched as Dal picked up the fork and chopped off a big bite of cake, stabbing it to drag up to his boyfriend’s lips. Pony flinched back, freckled face scrunching a bit like he was going to argue or snap again, but the New Yorker just waited him out. No funny voices. No swoops or dives. Just a firm hand and a quiet dare.

Pony ate the bite.

And the next one.

And he let Dallas feed him the rest of the cake in stops and starts, the older teen pausing every once and a while to spoon some chili into his own mouth. In his leather jacket and wild hair and dangerous face, the hood didn’t look sorry or embarrassed or put out, just settled. None of them dared say a damn thing about it and halfway through the dessert Ponyboy seemed to forget what he’d been so up in arms about to begin with, licking chocolate off his lips contentedly and reaching out occasionally to take a fat slurp off his milkshake. Soda ate mechanically watching them, thinking something so tender probably didn’t know an age. In the back of the diner, the jukebox skipped again. 

“WOW!”
I feel good! - I knew that I would!
I feel good! - I knew that I would!
So good! - So good!
I got you!”

Chapter Text

In horse training, placing a hand gently on the neck is a calming, grounding gesture that mimics the way herd animals communicate reassurance and dominance through touch. This contact can trigger a horse's natural instinct to relax. It reinforces trust, establishes control without force, and encourages the animal to follow cues more willingly. The pressure should be steady but gentle, signaling presence, connection, and leadership rather than fear.

The DX was quiet in the way winter afternoons could be; sun low and bleached, wind slicing mean through the bay doors no matter how tightly Soda tried to keep them shut. The whole lot smelled like cold rubber and motor oil, edged with the tang of gasoline that clung to clothes long after a shift ended. It was mid-January in Tulsa, and with most folks at work or staying indoors unless their car was rattling to death, business was slow enough that Sodapop could actually hear the radio buzzing from the office inside. 

Usually Steve Randle would have been propped up beside his best friend, cracking jokes and talking nasty about his girl Evie, but school was back in session and so Steve had the evening shift. Instead Dallas Winston was stretched out in a folding chair near the pumps, boots kicked up on the curb, blowing lazy smoke rings into the air like he was on vacation. He’d dropped by just to kill time and now was making a full afternoon of it, keeping Sodapop company, or maybe just loitering in case trouble wandered past. Either way, the silence between them wasn’t tense. Not anymore

“Y’oughta seen his face,” Dally was saying, voice pitched just loud enough to push boundaries even with them out there all alone. “Whole goddamn milkshake down that letterman jacket. He looked like a strawberry sundae with a stick up his ass.”

Sodapop smirked small, wiping his hands on a rag and shaking his head. “You’re gonna get banned from Frosty’s one of these days.”

“Let ‘em try.” The hood grinned around the cigarette in his teeth, like he’d welcome the fight. The other greaser thought he saw traces of Pony in that smile, or maybe it flowed in the opposite direction.

Soda had stopped waiting for the whole thing between Dal and his kid brother to blow up about a month back and their dynamic had improved with that little change in attitude. The seventeen year old had been skeptical for a good long while, but five months was longer than most of Dally’s flings. Twice as long as he’d ever stuck with Sylvia and about ten times softer. Whatever the hood had going on with Ponyboy, it wasn’t some passing spark and Soda had watched them enough by now to stop pretending it didn’t matter. Dallas didn’t run when the kid got moody, didn’t snap when he got mouthy, and didn’t look twice at anyone else. And Pony looked steadier these days, much as it pained his big brother to admit. Brighter.

It wasn’t exactly what Soda had imagined for either of them, but he was starting to get it. 

“Curtis!” Both teens perked up at the sound of John Creek’s gravel-thick bark echoing from inside the station. Soda winced. John was his and Steve’s boss and a real pain in the ass so the seventeen year old hurried over to the door before he could start hollering any louder. He leaned into the gas station, eyebrows popped up expectantly. 

“Yeah, boss?” he prompted with a lopsided grin that usually kept him on people’s better side. The man was stationed behind the counter like always, half-eaten chili dog in one hand, lit cigarette in the other, and the station’s crusty landline pressed to his shoulder. He waved the receiver at Soda without looking up.

“Phone. Make it quick.”

Soda blinked; that hardly ever happened. He waited until John grunted and lumbered out to check the pumps (and probably bitch at Dal) before ducking behind the counter and grabbing the line. Lifting the receiver like it might bite, he greeted, “Hello?”

“ Soda .” It was Darry, voice tight, serious, and heavy with that weight he never seemed to put down anymore. “I need you to go pick up Pony from school.”

That was all it took to send every alarm bell in Soda’s body screeching. His breath hitched, free hand tightening around the coiled cord as his brain sprinted ahead of him. “What?! Why the hell—?!”

“He’s fine ,” Darry said quickly, cutting through the panic with practiced ease, though there was still a frayed edge in his tone. “ He got in a fight. Nothing major, but he’s being sent home for the day. I can’t get him—gotta head into the site early, the crew’s short and boss’ll dock me if I’m late.”

“Shit,” Soda muttered, rubbing a hand over his face and glancing through the grimy glass out at the street. He exhaled slow, tried to drag his pulse down from his throat.  “Alright, I’ll head over now.”

“Thanks, Pepsi-Cola, ” his big brother breathed before the line went dead.

Just before Soda hung up, a voice from the door drawled, “What’s the ruckus?”

Dallas was propped up in the doorway one brow raised lazily in the perfect picture of indifference. Sodapop knew him better than that now though, knew the way his spine would go stiff whenever Ponyboy’s name got tossed around. He blinked at the hood.

“Pony got in a fight,” he grouched, tossing the phone back on its cradle and pushing through the door. “Darry wants me to pick him up from school.”

The New Yorker was right behind him flicking the ash off the end of his smoke with a jaw set like granite. “I’m comin’ too.”

It wasn’t easy convincing John to let him cut out early with no one to cover the shift, but Soda swore up and down Steve would be around within the hour, fresh off the final bell. The day had been slow anyway, quiet pumps, dry air, a breeze sharp enough to keep folks indoors. He knew he’d lose the pay for the day, never mind the hours he had worked, but that was just the cost of doing business when it came to Ponyboy. Still, he doubted John would’ve budged at all if Dallas hadn’t been standing nearby through the whole argument, arms crossed, smoke curling from the side of his mouth like he was daring the man to say no. 

With a sour grunt and a wave, the man relented, and Soda didn’t wait around for him to change his mind. Dallas had Buck Merrill’s Thunderbird for the day, a rust-brown beast that squealed like a stuck pig when it hit forty. Soda let himself be led to it, still feeling the buzz of nerves from the phone call. He barely had the door shut before Dallas peeled out like it was a damn getaway.

“Darry say what the fight was about?” Dallas asked, hands tight on the wheel, knuckles bone-pale and jaw working, “Or with who?”

“Nah,” Soda answered, bracing himself as the T-bird hit a curve too fast and the tires screamed protest. The interior of the car stank like booze and Buck and his stomach roiled.  “Just said they’re kickin’ him out for the day. Said he’s fine.”

The hood huffed, low and sharp, and pressed harder on the gas.

They reached the school in record time, the Thunderbird growling low like it had opinions as it settled half onto the curb. Soda tried not to look like a complete idiot as they stepped out. He always felt a little weird coming back to his old campus; like he’d aged a decade in the year and some change since he’d dropped out. The building was the same dull brick, same cracked linoleum floors, though someone must’ve greenlit a facelift—fresh white paint fought to cover years of dirty handprints on the hall walls.

The seventeen year old made for the office with purpose, Dally stalking a step behind him like a shadow with fists. A few younger kids scattered out of their path and Soda heard a locker slam in the distance, the echo like a memory. His boots squeaked on the polished tile as he pushed open the front office door and caught sight of his baby brother. Ponyboy was sat in the corner like a kicked dog, arms crossed hard over his chest, lip split red and swelling. He looked little and angry and sad and mean. His brow furrowed and pink flushed up his neck as he looked up and caught sight of his brother.

“Ponybaby,” Soda breathed, more air than sound, relief crashing over him in one sickening, warm wave. Darry had said it was fine, but something in the middle Curtis brother hadn’t settled until he saw those grey-green eyes himself.

The fourteen year old’s face went even redder. He sat up a little straighter, tried to look less like someone caught misbehaving. Voice defensive and worn around the edges, he accused, “They called you?” 

“Yeah,” Soda said, walking further into the office proper. Some Pavlovian part of him felt his palms start to sweat and he wiped them on his dirty jeans. Nothing like being called into the principal’s office. “Darry couldn’t leave work. Told me to come get ya.”

The kid’s chin dipped in understanding, still seeming put out and petulant until his eyes flicked over his brother’s shoulder and caught sight of Dallas. He looked about as surprised as anyone could look, mouth dropping open with a comical popping noise as the hood stalked over. Soda watched warily as Dal stood over his brother, head tilted and sharp eyes studying his boyfriend’s little face. He was clearly assessing the damage, but still he reached out, real casual, and tugged lightly at a lock of auburn hair.

“You good?” he asked, voice low and serious. When the kid nodded, an ugly smirk split the New Yorker’s face and he tilted his head the other way. “ They good?”

The youngest Curtis’ responding smile reopened his lip and blood dripped down his chin as he shook his head proudly. Soda huffed, angry and anxious and tired as he finally turned towards the clerk’s desk. The woman sat there was the same one he remembered from when he’d been enrolled and Soda tried for a charming grin, aware all at once that he stank like blue collar work and should have been in his fifth period class right at that moment. Steve and Johnny were somewhere in this building learning and bettering themselves and Soda was here skipping work to pick up his brawling baby brother.

“Hey there,” he cooed, “I’m Sodapop Curtis here to pick up Ponyboy Curtis for the rest of the day.”

 “I need your signature.” The woman didn’t look up, just slid a paper across the counter with one hand and gestured at a pen with the other. Her voice was clipped, the tone adults used when they were trying to be calm but were two seconds from losing their temper. Soda knew the tone; Darry used it a lot these days. “Then I’ll go over the incident report with you.”

The teen nodded, snagged a pen, and scribbled his name in the box. The form was pink and Soda remembered dazedly that the last time he’d gotten in trouble at school the form had been yellow when his mom signed it. He caught sight of the word ‘ suspension ’ typed near the bottom and swallowed hard. Out of the corner of his eye, Pony stood, his sneakers scuffing against the linoleum as he approached the counter, Dallas right behind him. When they were stood beside Sodapop, the woman cleared her throat and began reading.

“According to the gym teacher, the altercation started during fourth period when Ponyboy Curtis and another student, David Parker, exchanged words in the locker room. Ponyboy turned the altercation physical when he shoved David and—”

“He said somethin’ ‘bout Dallas!” Pony snapped, eyes flashing. “I didn’t start it!”

The woman blinked but didn’t seem surprised, face smoothed with indifference. Soda, caught off guard by the sudden heat in his brother’s voice, reached out, hand landing gently against the back of the kid’s neck. He gave a light squeeze, fingers pressing in the way he would do to  a skittish colt or the way their dad used to do when one of them got too riled up.

“Easy,” he murmured, soft and sorry. He hated seeing his baby upset.  “Ain’t nobody blamin’ you—”

Pony jerked away like the touch burned him, shrugging his brother off with a grunt and folding his arms tight across his chest again. His eyes were big and shiny and he glared at Soda in the brief glances when he wasn’t glaring at the clerk. He growled, “ She is! And Darry’s gonna!”

Sodapop’s hand hovered a moment in the empty air, like maybe Pony might come back to it. When he didn’t, when all the seventeen year old got was that wounded snap and the way his kid brother folded in on himself, guilt curdled in his gut like spoiled milk and he wilted. It wasn’t just the fight that had Ponyboy all wound up, it was the fear of getting in trouble, the dread of disappointing Darry again. Soda knew that kind of fear, had worn it like a second skin more times than he could count, but hearing it from Pony, like he was already bracing for the fallout, put a crack in something tender inside him.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

“May I continue?” the woman behind the desk sighed, the glare off her glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights above them. Ponyboy’s red rimmed eyes snapped to her and he sneered.

“It ain’t fair —!”

Before Soda could intervene, Dallas did it for him. He moved quick, quiet, and grabbed his boyfriend by the scruff, yanking him back from the counter with a short tug. No gentle coaxing, no soft words. Just a firm palm against Pony’s neck, fingers hooked around the nape, steady and sure. Sodapop saw the way his thumb pressed into the tender spot just below the kid’s ear and cringed. It was the kind of touch that said enough without raising its voice.

“Cool it,” the hood said, calm but commanding, “Let the lady finish.”

Half expecting his brother to kick up a real fuss, Sodapop could only watch in awe-struck horror as all the fight seemed to drain out of the fourteen year old’s shoulders. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose before letting it out in a whoosh and relaxing his weight back into the hand on his neck. He leaned subtly, body not touching Dally’s anywhere except where he was being held, and yet Soda could see the way the New Yorker was now holding his brother up. Physically and emotionally. The eighteen year old blinked like the burden weighed nothing and nodded back at the desk clerk.

“Go ahead.”

Dallas didn’t even look at him. He kept his hand there, grounding, while the secretary resumed, her tone less sharp, more routine, and Sodapop just stood there. The woman behind the desk droned on, something about a day’s suspension and a note for a guardian to sign, but the greaser barely heard it. His green eyes were locked on the quiet way Pony’s breath synced to Dal’s. His mind was trapped on the way his own hands had failed and the older boy’s hadn’t. It didn’t hurt, not really, not like a punch, but it settled somewhere low and sore in his ribs all the same.

“We’ll take him home,” the DX worker muttered, barely glancing at the messy stack of papers the secretary shoved toward him. He took them, folded and uneven in his hand, and added, quieter, “Thanks for callin’ us.”

Dallas gave a single nod and dropped his hand from Pony’s neck, brushing it instead against the kid’s shoulder as he turned. Ponyboy followed, calm now, quiet, like the worst of the storm had passed. Soda trailed behind, papers crumpled in his grip, and tried to summon back the sense of calm he’d felt an hour ago at the DX when he still believed he’d made peace with it all. He knew Dal and Pony were solid, not just a fling or some reckless teenage game. Five months was longer than any stretch with Sylvia, and hell, it was longer than most things in Dallas Winston’s entire life. Of course he could calm Pony down. Of course he knew how to handle him.

It made sense .

Still it made Soda’s eyes hot as they climbed back into Buck Merrill’s beat-up Thunderbird. Ponyboy slid into the front seat without hesitation while Soda sank into the back, slow and heavy like Darry after a double shift and watched as the two of them moved in quiet tandem, settling into some routine that didn’t include him. Pony fiddled with the knobs on the radio, fingers knowing how far to push each one without jamming it. Dal reached across him, tugging the seatbelt over the kid’s lap and snapping it in like muscle memory. The kid grabbed a dented cigarette box from the dash then leaned in so Dallas could strike a match off his St. Christopher necklace. The weed came to life between them, passed back and forth like breath, and they found a scratchy station just as the car pulled off the curb.

“Tried Peggy Sue — tried Betty Lou — tried Betty Lou
Tried Mary Lou, but I knew she wouldn't do!
Barbara Ann, Barbara Ann
bar, bar, bar, bar, Barbara Ann!”

“This things a piece’a shit,” Pony griped, pulling his feet up onto his seat, knees up near his chin. Dallas hummed his agreement, one hand on the wheel and the other leaned out the perpetually open window. Thing was busted, never rolled up. His driving was much smoother now and Soda wondered if it was because he knew he had precious cargo. 

“You’re gonna get grounded again,” the East coaster announced two streets over, stopped at a light and one brow quirked in mock accusation at the younger teen. “Startin’ to think you don’t wanna spend no time with me.”

“Lay off,” the fourteen year old sighed, cigarette flicking between his fingers, “Already gonna be lousy enough gettin’ it from Darry when he gets home.”

“He won’t go too hard on ya, honey,” Soda piped up, noting the way the two up front glanced at him in the rear view almost like they’d already forgotten he was back there. Dal not so subtly made a sudden turn and the middle Curtis brother knew then he was rerouting to take Soda back to work. “I won’t let him.”

Grey-green eyes scrutinized him in the mirror’s reflection, freckles bouncing as the car rattled down the pot holed street. Eventually Ponyboy turned to look between the seats back at his brother, studying him longer than usual, and Soda tried for his third killer smile of the day. He wanted the baby greaser to know he could trust him and rely on him and let him put a steadying hand on his neck. He didn’t have to always just turn to Dallas Winston.

“Sure, Soda,” Pony said after a beat, turning forward again and passing the weed to their driver. Dal took it, his hand brushing Pony’s as he did. He didn’t even have to glance over to know it was there. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Take-, Barbara Ann (bar, bar), woo (take my hand)
You got me rockin' and a rollin', rockin' and a reelin'
Barbara Ann, bar, bar, bar, Barbara Ann!”

Chapter Text

When training horses, it’s important to speak in a calm, steady voice with low, soothing tones. Horses have a strong instinct to read emotional energy. Repetition, patience, and a soft tone help build trust, reinforce cues, and prevent the animal from becoming anxious or defensive. Over time, a horse will associate a certain voice with safety, guidance, or correction.

The Curtis house was never truly quiet, not with three boys under one roof and the walls thin enough to hear the wind think, but a Sunday afternoon could settle around them soft and muffled if the timing was right. No arguing, no radio chatter, no Steve Randle or Two-Bit Mathews pounding through the front door. Just the low drone of the TV in the living room where Darral Curtis Jr. sat stretched long and loose across the armchair, one leg slung over the side and his gaze barely tracking whatever baseball game was on. Sodapop Curtis stepped into the front room slow, a dish towel still slung over one shoulder from the kitchen, half-dry hands stinging faintly from the cold sink water. He paused at the threshold, gaze scanning, brow puckered.

“Where’s Ponyboy?” he wondered, leaning against the door jam as Darry’s grey eyes flicked over to him. “Dal should be pickin’ him up any minute.”

“He’s in his room makin’ a mess,” the twenty-one year old drawled, the sigh audible in his tone even if it remained trapped inside his broad chest. His little brothers had told him when he sighed all the time it made them feel lousy so he was trying to cut back. “He’s all bent outta shape about somethin’.”

There was a sound then; a dragging thump like a drawer being yanked open too hard. It was followed immediately by a ringing slam, the sound of the same drawer being shoved shut, and Soda quirked an eyebrow. From down the hall he could hear his younger brother moving around in his room, and not his usual soft shuffle either. The fourteen year old was stomping around, muttering to himself, and cursing lowly, the exact words obscured by the distance. Soda cringed as something clattered to the floor, maybe books or a shoe or one of those dumb school folders he always carried.

“Should I check on him?” he asked, turning back to his big brother with a concerned frown. Darry shrugged, eyes already back on the television.

“Better you than me.”

Tossing the towel behind him toward the sink, Soda headed down the hallway, wiping his hands dry on the thighs of his jeans. Partly because they were still wet, but mostly because he was nervous. Ponyboy had been touchier than usual the past few months, quick to take offense where none was meant, quicker still to be foul about it. Both older Curtis brothers had caught the sharp side of his mood more than once. Darry met it the way Darry met everything,  stern jaw, snappy words, and the threat of consequences, but Sodapop hated fighting with his baby brother.

He didn’t like fighting with Darry either, but those instances were rare and mostly contained. With Pony it hadn’t used to be a problem. For so long the kid had looked at him like he hung the stars, some angel-faced hero with tuff hair and a silver tongue, but these days his halo had apparently tarnished. Pony grumbled now, and bitched, and puffed up over things that wouldn’t have even made him blink a year ago. Sometimes he was still the same dreamy kid with poems in his pockets and a world behind his eyes, but more and more Soda had to squint to see him.

Puberty really was a bitch.

The DX worker reached their usually shared bedroom door and found Ponyboy hunched over in the middle of a disaster area. A room shared by a fourteen year old and a seventeen year old was never going to be immaculate, but at that moment it looked like a tornado had picked a fight with a laundry basket and lost. Drawers were yanked out and dumped, the closet door hung open, the inside having clearly been rummaged. The bed was pure chaos. Ponyboy was crouched by his school bag, rifling through it with twitchy hands and a thundercloud on his face. After a moment, he upended the whole thing in a single frustrated motion, its contents spilling across the already cluttered floor.

He was searching through that mess, eyeing every pencil like it had killed their parents when Sodapop finally knocked on the doorframe with two knuckles. Careful, cautious. “Everything okay, kiddo?”

“I can’t find it!” Pony barked, springing to his feet and moving towards his desk. He was flushed to the ears, fists clenching and unclenching as he swiped at papers and notebooks. “I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t—!”

“Alright, alright, slow down,” Soda coached, stepping fully into the room at last. Something crunched under his sneaker and he winced. “Can’t find what?”

“The chain!” the baby greaser hissed, hand flying to his neck to feel and finger at a chain that wasn't there. “Dal’s Saint Christopher!”

Soda blinked, stunned. He hadn’t even realized the medallion was missing, but now that Pony said it, the absence was glaring. That necklace had been Dallas’ for as long as anyone could remember. Soda had seen it catch the sun on the hood’s collarbone during rumbles, glint bright through sweat and smoke. It wasn’t loud like the stolen college ring Dal used to flash around; it was quieter than that, older somehow. Untouchable. He never spoke on where it came from. Never let anyone mess with it. Never took it off.

Until Ponyboy.

That chain getting gifted hadn’t been a moment, it had been a message. 

And losing it now? 

Yeah, Sodapop got it; that was panic shaking his brother’s bones.

“Okay,” he said gently, the weight of it all starting to settle on his shoulders. “When’d you see it last?”

“I definitely had it on when I went to bed last night.”

“You check the—?”

“Yes, I checked the bed, Soda,” Pony seethed, grey-green eyes flashing. Soda raised his hands in surrender.

“Just makin’ sure,” he said, trying to keep things level. He moved toward the dresser, nudging through what few clothes hadn’t been flung out yet. “I’ll help ya look.”

They tore the room apart first, overturning sheets, shaking out pillowcases, patting down the mattress in case it had slipped between the springs. Soda crawled halfway under the bed while Pony scoured the bookshelf, pulling down paperbacks one by one and checking between the pages like maybe he’d tucked it away without thinking. When that turned up nothing, they moved to the hallway, retracing steps with quiet urgency, checking the coat rack by the front door, the scuffed-up entry rug, the basket of socks beside the dryer. 

In the bathroom, Pony swept his hands along the sink ledge, knocking over a half-used bottle of mouthwash while Soda crouched by the hamper, digging through rumpled shirts and jeans. The hallway echoed with the rustle of clothes and the soft creak of floorboards as they searched. Eventually, Darry joined in with a heavy sigh, clearly picking up on the tension even without all the details. He checked under the couch cushions, behind the laundry room door, his tall frame moving from room to room like a shadow. The house felt tighter somehow, smaller with all of them combing it like detectives, and still the silver chain refused to turn up.

“This is perfect,” Ponyboy grumbled some time later, slicking sweat off his brow to wipe on his shirt. He was covered in dust from crawling around on his belly like a salamander. “This is just fuckin’ perfect, Dal’s gonna have my ass.”

“Dallas will understand,” Darry huffed, moving back towards the couch, ready to wave the white flag of surrender if it meant he could actually enjoy one of his rare days off. His younger brothers heard the telltale groan of him sinking into the recliner and Sodapop sighed. He knew Darry wanted to care but just couldn’t summon the energy. Not about a necklace, anyway. Not about Dallas Winston’s necklace. 

“Perfect,” Pony repeated, grey-green eyes glassy and far off as he peered around the hall at a loss. His big brother reached out as if to clap him on the shoulder and then remembered their visit to the principal’s office. Instead he just tried for a calming tone.

“Relax, kid,” he tried to soothe, keeping his voice low and even, “We just gotta keep lookin’.”

“Nah, I’m done for,” the fourteen year old insisted, mouth twisted up in a familiar grimace that Sodapop knew meant his baby brother was trying not to cry. “Dally’s gonna be so mad.”

Actual, honest to God tears started gathering on his lashes and the seventeen year old forgot about the principal’s office for just a moment and gathered his sibling into his arms. The fact that Ponyboy let him broke Soda’s heart just a little and he hummed a low hurt noise in the back of his throat. 

“Oh, honey,” he cooed, “It’s gonna be fine, I promise.”

“You don’t know that,” Pony snipped back. Petty, petulant. He was stiff in Soda’s arms.

“Course I do,” the DX worker went on, voice still quiet and sweet, trying to coyly incite a smile part of him knew wouldn’t come. “Big brothers know everythin’ and I say—”

“Glory, Soda, just stop it! ”

The words landed like a slap; not loud, not cruel, but raw and frayed at the edges. Pony jerked out of his arms, eyes blazing instead of brimming. His face was flushed and his hands were fisted at his sides. The shift from nearly crying to bubbling fury was sudden, dizzying, but Soda didn’t miss a beat. He backed away, hands up like he would with a guy who had just pulled a blade. From the living room the TV garbled nonsense down the hall and Darry was suspiciously silent.

“Easy, Pone,” the seventeen year old tried to placate, “I was just tryna’—”

“You were just tryna’ baby me again!” the younger teen plowed on, freckled face pink and shiny. Soda blinked at him. “I’m not gonna calm down if you just pet me or talk real slow—I’m not one of your horses , Soda! I’m not some stupid animal that don’t know any better!”

The words stung more than Sodapop wanted them to. He stood there dumb, throat tight, hands half-curled like they might’ve reached out again if given a chance. He tried to remind himself his baby brother was just maturing, tried to recall what it had been like when he’d been fourteen and angry and antsy all the time. Soda had at least had his father there to guide him, his mother there to soothe him. Ponyboy just had his brothers and it was becoming glaringly obvious that they weren’t enough.

The baby greaser had always been sensitive, but never so quick to pull away, to twist something well-meaning into something ugly. Soda knew he’d been using his old tricks, the soft voice, the steady hand, the calm coaxing that used to work when Ponyboy was little and sick or scared. He didn’t think of his brother like some horse to be broken, he thought of him like something precious to be protected, but maybe that’s what Pony was sick of—being precious. 

The middle Curtis son swallowed hard, heat building behind his eyes, and tried to will the ache down. He muttered, “I know that.”

“Do you?” Pony shot back, but it came out thin. Less fire, more fallout.

Before Soda could figure out what to say the front door creaked open with its usual groan, slicing the tension like a knife. Pony turned away sharply, dragging his sleeve across his face in one rough motion like erasing the tears could erase the whole damn scene. From the front room two voices traded stiff, murmured greetings. Then the hallway filled with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and the sound of heavy boots and Dallas Winston stepped into view, weed between his teeth and suspicion already in his brow. He didn’t miss much, never had, and he definitely didn’t miss the way Soda looked deflated or the way Pony stood hunched and wrecked against the wall.

“Someone die in here?” the hood asked, voice all drawl, but eyes already searching the scene sharply.

Sodapop watched as his baby brother turned to face his boyfriend, head low, shoulders tight, and lip caught hard between his teeth. He looked like every emotion was warring inside him (guilt, panic, shame) and none of them were winning. His hand drifted to his throat, to the bare skin where the St. Christopher should’ve hung, and that drew Dally’s gaze like a magnet. Behind the New Yorker, Darry reappeared at the end of the hall, arms folded, face unreadable. Soda could tell he was watching, waiting just like him, to see if Dal would blow up on their baby brother.

“I lost your chain,” Ponyboy finally confessed, voice cracking open like a fault line. “I lost it. I swear I didn’t mean to, Dal—I had it when I went to bed, and now I can’t—”

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, kid,” the East coaster cut in before the younger boy could work himself up any more. Soda stepped back as Dal pressed into the hall, crowding the already cramped space further. “Ya didn’t lose it.”

Pony sucked in a breath like it hurt to breathe, eyes wide and rimmed red. “I—I looked everywhere. I looked everywhere , Dally!”

“Nah,” the older teen insisted, tone rougher now, sure of himself in a way that left no room for panic. “Ya didn’t. Tell me everythin’.”

So they did. One by one, in fragments and cross-talk, the Curtis boys walked Dallas through the morning. Soda explained when they’d all woken up, the half-hearted chores they’d picked at, how Ponyboy had discovered the necklace missing sometime between brushing his teeth and grumbling over toast. Pony tried to fill in the gaps, but his voice kept dipping, the shame of the thing sitting high in his throat. Every time it got too thick Dally just offered him the cigarette between his fingers, no commentary, no judgment. Ponyboy smoked like the act grounded him, pulling his shoulders down from his ears. Soda stood off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest, and tried not to resent how much better Dallas was at being needed.

“He really did look everywhere, Dal,” Darry finished. His voice was low, calm, but it carried an edge of defensiveness. “We’re sorry, man.”

But Dallas didn’t look angry; he hadn’t from the start. He just looked thoughtful, like he was rearranging puzzle pieces in his head, finishing someone else’s crossword. He took one last pull from his cigarette then crushed the butt between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Alright then,” he said, eyes cutting to Pony. “Lemme ask you somethin’. You have your mornin’ smoke today?”

“Sure,” Ponyboy answered, blinking. “Why?”

“Out your window like always?”

“Yeah…?”

Dallas smiled. Not soft and sweet, but that sharp-toothed grin that always looked like it was hiding a secret, like he’d just caught the world in a lie. He reached out, calloused fingers curling around Pony’s jaw, and pulled the kid in for a quick, claiming kiss. It was loud, wet and unapologetic and Darry groaned aloud, muttering something sharp under his breath.  Sodapop made a sound of protest mostly for show, but neither of them moved to stop it.

When the two broke apart Pony’s face was beet red and Dallas was already moving, stepping past them with the loose confidence of a guy who knew exactly where he was going. A gangly line of Curtis boys fell in behind him like ducklings, trailing through the hall and out the back door into the yard. The grass was dead, the breeze was biting, and Soda’s breath puffed out in front of him like smoke, but Dallas didn’t seem to feel the chill as he marched along the back of the house and made straight for the patch of brittle weeds and cracked dirt beneath Ponyboy’s window. He was muttering to himself.

“You stick your head outta this window like some kinda dame on a ship and it was only a matter’a time before that thing got snagged on somethin’,” he said, squatting down, the tip of his boot nudging through old leaves and cigarette butts.

 A brief silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of traffic out front and the slow rustle of Dallas combing through debris, fingers skimming across the dead grass with practiced ease. Then he paused.

“Gotcha,” he muttered, the victory in his voice smug and pleased. He reached into a yellowed thatch of grass and came back with a glint of silver. The necklace dangled from his fist, the broken clasp twinkling in the sun like it had something to say for itself.

“Glory!” Ponyboy gasped, the sound breaking out of him like a sob. He surged forward and barreled into his boyfriend, both of them staggering a step back as his arms closed around Dallas’s middle. The hood didn’t flinch, just held the chain a little higher and let the kid take it reverently in both hands. The St. Christopher medallion was dusty but present. “How did you—?!”

“Next time,” the hood said, low and pointed, “Tell me when somethin’s lost. Don’t go fallin’ to pieces and givin’ your brothers hell.”

“Thank you!” Darry scoffed from behind, throwing his hands toward the sky in exhausted relief before turning on his heel and stomping back toward the house like he was late clocking out of a bad shift.

Ponyboy ducked his head, shame and gratitude warring for space on his face. He whispered, “Sorry.”

Soda watched him, an ache blooming behind his ribs like it always did when Pony apologized too quick, too quiet. He wanted to be angry still, maybe even hurt, but what was the point? The kid had lost something important and even if he’d lashed out in the worst ways, he’d been scared because it mattered. Sodapop could understand that to some extent.

Puberty really was a bitch.

“It’s alright, Pone,” he said finally, the fight fizzing out of him. He was exhausted all of a sudden. 

“No, really, Soda,” the fourteen-year-old insisted, grey-green eyes lifting to meet his with that same pleading earnestness he used to give when he was little and had torn a library book. “I shouldn’ta said that stuff. I was just freaked out and—”

“No worries,” Sodapop interrupted, mouth attempting to twitch into a reassuring smile but not managing it fully. He started for the house, hands shoved deep into his jeans just to give them something to do. He could feel Dallas watching him, cool, unreadable, and it made him walk faster. “Just glad you found it.”

Really though, he wasn’t just glad the necklace had turned up. He was glad Ponyboy could breathe again, that the storm had passed. That whatever fraying thread tied the three of them together hadn’t snapped entirely. Still, something inside the greaser twinged. Maybe it was the memory of Pony’s voice, sharp and furious, accusing him of treating him like a horse instead of a human. Maybe it was the look on his brother’s face when he turned to Dallas instead of him.

Maybe it was the part of Soda that still wanted to be the one who could fix it all.

Maybe it was the part that knew those days were gone.

Chapter Text

At its core, horse training relies on trust . A horse that trusts its handler is more likely to follow cues willingly, recover faster from stress, and respond calmly in unpredictable situations. This trust is built gradually through consistent handling, clear communication, and repeated positive experiences. Handlers who earn this trust often find their horses more willing to cooperate even when injured, unsure, or afraid.

Sodapop Curtis sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands pressed hard over his mouth. His boots were still on, laces half-tied, DX uniform shirt slung over the doorknob behind him from his rush to get to his room and get some privacy. He was shaking, the tap-tap-tap of his foot turning into a jarring vibration that racked his whole body as he stared at the letter on the ground between his feet. It lay open where it had fluttered from his fingers looking deceptively innocent and yet his hold world had been shattered on that page. Waves of anxiety and shame and misery crashed through him, feeling the same way it did before he got sick and the seventeen year old fought back the urge to vomit, his jaw starting to ache from how hard he was clamping it shut.

Bits of the short message came back to him in flashes making him cringe and squeeze his eyes closed over and over. He was getting a headache from how tightly his whole body was clenched. The curt, cursive handwriting glared up at him accusingly and the greaser sucked in a fat breath through his teeth.

He and Sandy's mother had never been especially close, but Sodapop had always thought the middle aged woman liked him well enough. They'd shared several dinners and she’d known his folks and he always got her flowers on Mother’s Day and always carnations because Sandy said they were her favorite. Apparently she liked him well enough to let him date her daughter for nearly two years, but not enough to tell him when that daughter started stepping out on him. She hadn't even ended the note with ‘Sincerely’ or ‘Regards’  the way common decency said she should, just wrote it all out plain: Sandy was pregnant, the baby wasn’t his, and she wasn’t coming back.

The room felt too small, his staggered breaths ballooning in his chest and echoing in his ears, but Sodapop didn’t cry; couldn’t. Not with everyone just down the hall. From the living room the middle Curtis brother could hear Two-Bit Mathews cracking open a beer, Steve Randle thumping around looking for records, and Dallas Winston and Darry bickering. He assumed Johnny Cade and Ponyboy were whispering in some corner like always and bit his lip picturing their little faces blanching in shock if he went out there bawling like a baby. No, no, he wouldn’t do that; everyone was having a good time out there and Soda didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to be the guy who broke down over a girl that hadn’t even written him herself.

So he stayed still, fingers squeezing his chin until his teeth hurt, trying not to breathe too loud. Trying not to think about blue eyes and blonde curls and promises made on his front porch last summer, all dust now. His green eyes swam with memories of Sandy and soon they were full to bursting from all those pretty pictures. The gentle plop plop plop of his tears landing on his jeans despite all his efforts not to let them cracked a fissure somewhere deep in Soda that no amount of breathing could close and finally he let the waves crash up. 

He gasped, releasing his face to wipe at his eyes futilely, shoulders already starting to shake with building sobs. Sadness, thick and wet, pooled deep from his insides and started spilling out of him. His eyes, his mouth, even his nose dripped tears and spit and distress as he gave himself over to the crying. The sound of his own hiccups and whines echoed around him and he keened, desperate to escape the noise but having nowhere else to go. His only comfort was that the bedroom door was closed as he started bawling in earnest.

“Sandy!” he gasped through his cries, her name a garbled mess of sound and feeling, “ Sandy !”

He cried and cried and when his ribs ached and his face felt rubbed raw he cried some more, blind with his tears, horse from his sobs. The seventeen year old didn’t think he’d cried this hard since his parents had died and maybe not even then. Because then at least he’d had his brothers and Sandy to comfort him. Now he had no one and the loneliness more than the heartbreak ripped at his insides in a way that felt like real, sincere physical pain. He groaned, clutching at his gut and wondering if maybe he was having a heart attack as his chest started to ache something awful too. His lungs burned. His throat seized. And all the while he called Sandy's name like she’d hear him from across all that distance, Tulsa to Florida, and come rushing back.

I’m sorry, she’d say. 

I won’t leave you alone, she’d say.

His breath was coming in loud and painful stops and starts when Sodapop heard the door creak open and he buried his face in his hands. Shame spilled into the cracks left behind by dejection and if his face wasn’t already red from crying it would have flushed in embarrassment then. He didn’t want Darry or Steve or, Christ forbid, Two-Bit to see him like this. The seventeen year old turned his body away from the door, half curling on to the bed as he tried to stifle his whimpers.

“Go away,” he mumbled, voice trembling like a leaf on a breeze, “Please.”

There was a beat of silence, a moment where the person who had walked in probably considered listening to him and then a soft, gradually maturing voice soothed, “Easy, Pepsi-Cola.”

Soda huffed out a breath that was half sob, half sigh as his little brother eased into the room, shutting the door softly behind him so the noise from the gang faded into a distant hum. The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful, it was thick like humidity before a downpour and Sodapop could feel it pressing against the back of his neck. Ponyboy approached the bed and he clawed at his cheeks, trying to erase the streaks of salt and shame that proved he hadn’t held it together this time. He couldn’t stand to look up at the kid whose skinned knees he used to kiss better, whose bedtime stories he’d made up on the fly. The last thing he could stomach was being seen like this by someone who used to think he could do no wrong. He kept his gaze cast off to the side, straightening up slightly as Pony came to sit right beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Grey-green eyes studied Soda’s face and he wondered what he looked like. Probably not movie star handsome the way people had always said. No, Sodapop imagined he looked stupid and scared and small and wiped at his face again, a great big sniff cutting the silence between them. Ponyboy’s hands were in his laps, fingers picking at his cuticles nervously as he watched his big brother, probably taking in the blotchy skin, trembling chin, and ruined pride. Sodapop didn’t feel handsome, he felt raw.

“What’s wrong?” Pony asked, soft and unsure. His voice had that thin edge it got when he was scared. Soda tried to shrug, but the motion only succeeded in cranking out another cry from his chapped lips.

“Umm,” he rasped, voice rough and wet, fingers dragging up to scratch his temple. The tears were rising again and he blinked hard, locking his eyes on the ceiling. “Sandy left to Florida. She’s pregnant and… it’s not mine.”

Sodapop thought Ponyboy couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d told him the world was ending. And the thing was it had; for Soda at least. He rubbed his palms together for something to do, the callused skin making a dry sound like sand slipping through a sieve as he looked sideways at his little brother. His freckled face was open and honest with shock and the middle Curtis brother could see sympathetic sadness swimming through the fourteen year old’s irises. Something hard tugged under Soda’s ribs and he sniffed again, breath catching in his throat. His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“I’m really, really sad, Pone,” he admitted, the words wobbly around the edges and he watched the shock on his baby brother's face morph into resolve. The kid scooted closer without hesitation until their sides were pressed tight, his small shoulder tucked into Soda’s like a wedge of reassurance.

“I’m here,” he promised.

That was all it took.

The tears came back fast and brutal, dragging a choked sob out of Sodapop’s chest as he curled toward his brother. He buried his face in the younger boy’s shoulder and wept, no holding back, no pretending. His body shook with it, each gasp like gravel trapped in his lungs and Pony held him. His skinny arms wrapped tight around his big brother and one hand found the back of Soda’s neck to squeeze, steady and firm.

“I loved her,” Soda sobbed, clutching Ponyboy like he might disappear too. “I loved her, Pony!”

“I know,” the baby greaser whispered, fingers threading gently through his brother’s hair as he rocked them both with quiet determination. The motion was stilted and awkward because he was so small, but he kept at it. “I know, Soda. It’s alright.”

The older greaser cried until his ribs ached and his throat went raw, tears soaking into the shoulder of the same kid he used to carry piggyback through the backyard. It was dizzying, disorienting, that the same hands he’d once guided across their first fencepost were now carding through his hair, calming him. Part of him wanted to feel embarrassed, but there was no space for that, just grief and a quiet awe. Ponyboy didn’t shy away, didn’t flinch or fumble or treat him like he was broken. He just held him, steady as stone, whispering soft reassurances that sounded too old for fourteen but felt like truth anyway. 

Somewhere deep in the haze of it Soda suddenly realized the comfort wasn’t coming from habit or mimicry. Pony wasn’t copying things he’d seen Soda or Darry or even their father do; it was just coming from somewhere deep within him, pure and natural. Right under Sodapop’s nose his baby brother had grown into someone who could shoulder a sorrow not his own, and at that moment the sorrow was Soda’s. The kid carried it like it was nothing and Sodapop let him because he needed him; he needed his baby brother.

As soon as that thought permeated his sorrow the seventeen year old’s crying switched up. Whimpers of despair became quieter, less ragged, drawn now from a different kind of ache. One born of guilt and longing. He tightened his arms around Pony and shifted, pulling the kid into his own shoulder now, switching their position just slightly so he could hold instead of being held. It hit him all at once how much he'd taken this closeness for granted. How many times in the past few months he’d tried to coddle and baby Pony when the boy really didn’t need it anymore; didn’t even seem to like it. Still Soda had teased him, talked at him, tried to corral him instead of getting to know him. The new him.

Face sore and slick with tears, Sodapop drew back so he could look at Pony. Even now, the boy’s expression worried and serious and his jaw sharper with age, Soda still saw the soft faced baby he’d been so obsessed with from the moment his mom held out a small bundle of blankets and told him he was a big brother now. Without really thinking and still half blind from salt water, the older teen reached a hand up and pressed it firm over Pony’s cheek, cradling him close and drawing a thumb over his freckles.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words trembling between them. Pony blinked, bemused.

“What for?”

“I been treatin’ you like a baby and you ain’t. Not anymore.”

The fourteen year old’s eyebrows hitched up, clearly confused at the sudden change of subject, but still he nodded. He reached up too, wiping at Soda’s cheek affectionately, brushing his tears away as he shrugged.

“It’s alright, Pepsi-Cola, I know that-”

“No, you’re growin’ up and I didn’t wanna see it.” The middle Curtis brother shook his head, stomach full and sick as the truth caught in his throat. His eyes wandered to the letter still laid limply on the floor. “I didn’t wanna see alotta things I guess.”

Had there been signs with Sandy? 

Had he ignored her cues like he’d been doing with Ponyboy?

Sodapop’s stomach twisted; of course there’d been signs, he just hadn’t wanted to see them. He’d put his girlfriend up on some kind of pedestal so high she barely looked real anymore, like she was a dream he could keep frozen in time if he held her tight enough. He bragged about her to the gang, brought her flowers, kissed her knuckles like they were made of glass, and every time she hesitated—when she pulled her hand back too slow or smiled too thin—he just smiled harder. Told himself she was tired, or cold, or stressed, or anything besides flawed. 

He’d planned to marry her once she finished school but had never even asked if that was what she wanted. When she’d used to talk about the future Soda had just joked he didn’t care what she did as long as he was there. As if she couldn’t imagine any version of her life that didn’t have him in it. Soda hadn’t left much room for Sandy to change. He’d been too busy being her sunshine boy; easy, breezy, never frowning Sodapop. Always on, always steady. 

But people didn’t always want steady. 

Sometimes they wanted real. 

Ponyboy certainly did, his relationship with Dally was proof of that in spades. Dallas Winston was sharp-tongued, foul-mouthed and mean on a good day, but he never faked it. He didn’t smooth things over for comfort or swallow his temper to keep the peace. What you saw was what you got, even when what you got was hard. Even when it hurt. And somehow that had become a kind of honesty Ponyboy trusted more than all of Sodapop’s soft smiles and easy answers. Dal didn’t coddle, he didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, and he let Pony take the shape he needed without squeezing him into something smaller, safer, easier to carry. He took him seriously.

Sodapop blinked hard, throat aching. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken Ponyboy seriously. 

His little brother had followed his gaze and spotted the bit of paper on the floor. Grey-green eyes flicked over to Soda and when he shrugged his permission, the fourteen year old snatched the letter up and read through it quickly. Soda could tell just from how many times the kid’s eyes went back and forth across the paper that he read the note multiple times; it wasn’t that long.

“She didn’t even end with ‘Sincerely’ or nothin’,” the kid grumbled when he was satisfied, freckled face pinched with displeasure. Soda snorted a surprised laugh, watching as Pony folded the paper carefully and set it back on the floor. He stared at it for a quiet moment before turning back to his brother. He said plainly, “I’m not gonna run away just cause you baby me a little bit. That ain’t gonna happen.”

“You ain’t a baby though,” the seventeen year old sighed, rubbing roughly at his temple as he resettled on the bed, “And I gotta get used to that.”

Silence stretched out between them for a time and Soda tried to tune into the noise from the living room. He could hear Mickey Mouse on the TV and so knew Two-Bit was still out there, probably day drunk and doing the voices. The kiddish music of the cartoon echoed beneath Steve’s loud complaints about someone eating all the chocolate cake again. There was the clink of glass on wood, the slam of the fridge closing, Dallas shouting ‘Glory !’ when he didn’t find what he was looking for inside. Darry’s voice cut through now and then, low and measured, reigning them in just enough to keep the chaos from toppling into full anarchy.

It was the usual noise, the sound of home when they were all there. Wild but safe, loud but familiar. It made the quiet of the bedroom feel smaller by contrast, like they were paused while the world kept turning a few feet away. Soda watched Pony watch the door and tried to think of all the ways he’d been stifling him like he’d stifled Sandy.

He’d always been so scared of Pony getting hurt he’d tried to wrap him in layers of affection, like insulation against the world. Clinging so tight to the image he had in his head of his baby brother—soft-voiced, starry-eyed, always following behind—that he couldn’t see who Ponyboy actually was. Who he was becoming. It was no wonder the kid snapped and bitched all the time. No wonder he leaned toward Dallas. Dallas saw him. Soda only remembered him.

“I’m sorry,” the seventeen year old muttered again, voice hushed with shame as he wiped at his face. His head stayed low, but when he risked a glance sideways, Pony was scowling at him. Not angry, just annoyed in that way he got when he thought someone was being dumb. Still, the kid huffed, clearly not in the mood to argue about who deserved to feel worse today. Instead, he gave a firm nod and patted his brother’s knee like a tired adult settling a toddler.

“It’s alright,” he said again, the twist of his mouth dry and ironic just as the bedroom door creaked open. Both Curtis boys turned their heads in sync.

Dallas peaked into the room, face suspiciously blank. He took a long look, clocked Soda’s red-rimmed eyes and the closeness of their positions, but didn’t say a word about it. Sodapop shifted, about to turn away embarrassed, but Pony was faster. He stood smoothly and placed himself in front of his brother like a shield, squaring his shoulders in a move that made him look older.

“Yeah, Dal?” he asked, smooth as cream.

“Sun’s goin’ down,” the hood announced, tone just as smooth. “Movie’s gonna start.”

“I’m gonna stay in with Soda, actually,” the baby greaser responded, making the two older teens both blink with surprise. 

“Pone, you don’t gotta-”

The fourteen year old clucked his tongue; two sharp, short clicks that had Sodapop snapping his lips shut on instinct. His baby brother turned at the waist, reaching out to clamp a hand on the back of Soda’s neck steadingly. Green eyes met grey-green eyes. 

“I’m here,” Pony soothed before turning back to the eighteen year old in the doorway. “You can come round after right?”

“Sure thing, kid,” Dally said, stepping in just far enough to press a quick, noisy kiss to his cheek before backing out. “Take it easy, Sodapop.”

Soda raised a hand in a dazed little wave, though he still couldn’t see Dallas through the slight, stubborn figure of his brother. The door clicked shut behind them, and the distant rumble of the gang gathering up to head out filled the hall. When they heard the front door slam shut, probably yanked by Two-Bit, Ponyboy sat down again and cozied up to his brother. Sodapop watched him, shock and awe zipping through him as he looked at his little shadow who somehow felt taller than him now. The fourteen year old watched him right back. The kid still had a hand on his neck and he squeezed reassuringly, the gesture making his whole arm flex and Soda suddenly felt like he might cry again.

“I’m here,” Pony repeated and when Soda folded into him, arms tight and grateful around his thin shoulders, he let himself believe it.