#moving.

Warm yellow light is cast against the dry grass when the curtain is pushed aside. It comes down in streaks, like the kind you’d find bleeding in through the clouds on a sunny morning. It obviously isn’t a sunny morning in October of 1964 when the light cuts through the frosty air and shines across the young greaser’s face; cold blue eyes, white hair and all.

The boy watches from the safety of his bedroom, elbows already propped up on his windowsill and green-grey eyes wider than his open mouth. His hand-me-down t-shirt clings to his body, threadbare sleeves almost slipping off his shoulders. They stand there for a while, one boy digging his toes into his carpet while the other grinds his teeth. Then, finally, the boy forces his words into the evening air.

“You alright, Dally?” He asks, voice thick with sleep even if it’s barely past ten o’clock. “Don’t tell me the door’s locked or somethin’, I can get Dad to unlock it for you,” he mumbles and begins to push away from the window. Dally springs forward in an instant, chipped and dirt-stained nails curling around the thin plank of wood that separates the comfortable bedroom from the outside world.

He forces the words over his chapped lips before he can even think of what to say, completely distracted by the sudden twist in his stomach and the heat burning in his veins the closer he comes to the whipped white paint. “Don’t bother, kid,” he hisses, “I-I’m fine. Just lookin’ for your brother.”

Before Ponyboy can even ask which brother Dallas is looking for, he strolls back into the bedroom. He wears faded blue jeans and a plain lop-sided grin, though it only seems to spread when his eyes catch on the face outside his window.

His fists clench on instinct, a pitiful attempt to squash whatever awkward feeling is blossoming in his chest. Sodapop doesn’t seem to notice when he leans over his brother’s shoulder, however. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” He teases, giving Ponyboy a quick slap on the shoulder. “That’s what I was tryna do,” he fired back, “then he showed up.”

At that moment, Dallas didn’t care what Ponyboy said about him- no matter how snarky. Sodapop rolled his eyes and shoved his brother away from the window, pulling at his t-shirt until the sleeves didn’t threaten to fall off his shoulders anymore. “I don’t remember sayin’ you could sleep in my room,” he groans sarcastically.

Despite living in Tulsa for some time now, Sodapop’s voice has always held the kind of deep drawl that was almost too recognizable. Same with the way his sleeves bunched around his wrists, the pattern the freckles made on his skin, even the way his hair looked in the late night light. Finally, his voice drops the quiet drawl and turns to a sharp edge. “Just get outta my room, will you? Don’t make me tell Mom and Dad where you got that scar on your hand!”

Ponyboy scampers out of the room no sooner than the words leave his brother’s mouth and Dally is left to face the nerves curling in his stomach like a snake in the grass. Sodapop smiles at him now, taking the place his brother once stood as he leans over the windowsill and lets the wind move through his hair. “It’s good to see you,” he hums casually, “sorry you missed the party.”

It’s a nice night on October 8th of 1964. The birthday party has been all but forgotten as the Curtis house settles down for the night and Dallas Winston stands outside one of their windows, biting back the wolfish smile begging to be set free. “That’s what I’m here for,” he starts. “Figured you’d need somethin’ a little more exciting now that the little kids are asleep.”

Turning sixteen had turned Sodapop into someone different. He didn’t need the back-and-forth, the weighing of pros and cons. The second the idea registered in his mind, he fell hook, line, and sinker. “This is gonna be a fun story to tell my kids,” he chuckles as the house creaks, settling back into place now that it shelters one less person. Stars and dying street lights illuminate Tulsa’s streets as the two boys head towards the north side of town, hearts heavy with adrenaline and something else neither could identify. Word was going around the eastside about a drag race. They said Tim Shepard wasn’t willing to lose, either.

“You’ll have plenty of fun stories, Soda,” Dallas agreed, fists bunched in the shallow pockets of his leather jacket when Sodapop threw an arm around the back of his neck, “just make sure you don’t get caught. Can’t brag to your buddies if your dad kills you for sneakin’ out.”

Even when the excited roar of a crowd and rev of souped-up engines drew nearer, Sodapop never once made a move to pull his arm off Dally's shoulder. He didn’t pull away, either.