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Resting his head on the palm of his hand, Ponyboy’s half-lidded eyes tiredly stared at the clock (which was just a few minutes slow) perched above the chalkboard, blocking out the incessant gabbing of his American History teacher. He never could understand why everybody who went into education had the most monotonous voices ever.
He was jerked back to a state of awareness by a sharp elbow to his ribcage, eyes shooting over to glare at Curly. Ponyboy raised an unimpressed eyebrow (a habit he unfortunately picked up from his brothers) when Curly began to make weird gestures, trying to have a conversation without actually saying anything— a very peculiar game of charades, to say the least.
Immediately, his eyes darted back to the clock, thankful that there was only a few minutes left until the bell, desperate to get out of this class. A defeated, offended sigh was heard from his right, Curly jabbing his overly sharp elbow into his ribs once again. Ponyboy hissed quietly, kicking his shin and scowling at him. That finally got him to stop, the other boy crossing his arms over his chest, mimicking Ponyboy’s actions and staring at the clock as well. Which was pointless— Ponyboy knew damn well Curly couldn’t read a clock to save his life.
Finally, the bell rung, and everybody immediately began to hastily shove notebooks into their backpacks and file out, even when the teacher began to stammer some bullshit about the bell not dismissing them. Ponyboy threw his backpack over his shoulders, cringing when Curly threw an arm over his shoulder and settled all of his weight on him (likely just to inconvenience him). He shoved him off, trying to make his way to his next period, placidly eyeing Curly up and down when he began to walk backwards in front of him, mowing multiple people down in the process.
“What class do ya got?” Curly inquired, falling back into step with him, despite the fact they go over this every day. Ponyboy wound his way throughout the crowded hallway and random groups of people, shooting Curly a sideways glance. “Algebra,” he replied instantly, dodging the hand of some asshole who had the nerve to wildly gesture in the hallways. Curly nodded in recognition, humming a bit.
Once again, Curly threw his arm over his shoulder. This time, Ponyboy didn’t bother to shrug him off, walking down the hallway, which progressively got less crowded. “Wanna cut? We can go to the Dingo,” Curly suggested, shaking him a bit in encouragement. Any day that Curly bothered to show his face at school for once, he brought up the idea of cutting classes with Ponyboy— always receiving the same answer.
‘No,‘ he repeated like a mantra. If Darry got a call from the school saying that he wasn’t in the last half of his classes, he would get killed. But this day, Ponyboy just didn’t have the energy to say that— it was oddly tempting. Of course, he never actually wanted to attend his classes, but the urge today was exceptionally strong. Ponyboy shrugged nonchalantly, muttering a soft ‘okay,’ stopping abruptly when Curly did.
“Wait— seriously?” The other boy sounded astonished, like he couldn’t believe his ears. Ponyboy punched Curly’s shoulder, nudging him towards the exit. “Get a move on, lady,” he snickered, ducking when Curly blindly swatted at him as an attempt to fuck up his hair. Curly held the door open for Ponyboy, gesturing animatedly, tripping him when he went through the doorway.
Both of the boys walked alongside each other, backpacks no longer slung over their shoulders— having ditched them on the porch when they passed by the Shepard’s Residence. Despite it only being late spring, the sweltering heat was only worsened by the obscenely bright sunlight. Curly had yet to ditch his leather jacket, and Ponyboy hadn’t taken off his hoodie. The most they did was roll up their sleeves to their elbows as they walked towards the Dingo.
Curly, as usual, was gabbing on about some random topic. Ponyboy couldn’t be bothered to listen, instead trying to focus on not passing out from the suffocating humidity. Finally, they approached the Dingo, Curly throwing the door open like a hoodlum that had no business being there. He led Ponyboy to a booth alongside the windows, melodramatically flopping down into the seat, Ponyboy sitting across from him.
There really was no reason for them to be here. Not like there’s much else for them to do, anyway— it’s Oklahoma. A waitress with a thousand yard stare and an exhausted look in her eyes took their order, Curly ordering them both chocolate shakes. He snatched a straw from the small pail full of ‘em, ripping off the end of the wrapper and blowing it into Ponyboy’s face. It bounced off of his forehead, floating down to land on the table.
It took about five minutes for the waitress to bring out their order, Curly and Ponyboy blowing straw wrappers at anybody who dared to walk within ten feet of them. Ponyboy blankly stared at Curly as he mindlessly gestured and exaggerated some boring ass story. They didn’t even touch their milkshakes— just blew straws at people, Curly occasionally tripping somebody.
As expected, they were asked to leave pretty fast. Curly threw his hands up in mock confusion, cackling even as some old man chased them out. He clapped his hands together, whirling around and wolfishly grinning at Ponyboy. “Heard there’s supposed to be a party at Brass’ today,” he drawled out, leaning forward. Ponyboy tilted his head in confusion. “It’s,” he paused, leaning down and squinting at the clock in the Dingo, “two o’clock.” Shrugging, Curly dragged him by the arm in the direction of Brass’ house, Ponyboy following with a defeated sigh.
It was a long walk, and regardless of Ponyboy’s athletic ability, walking three miles in the sweltering heat was /not/ easy. Even though it was still midday, the party was lively, music overwhelmingly loud and the scent of booze strong in the air. “Why are we even here? You don’t even like Brass, man,” Ponyboy was practically yelling into Curly’s ear, but even then, he had to repeat himself a few more times before Curly understood what he said. All he got was a vague shrug in response, before Curly twisted around with a suspiciously bright smile on his face. “I have an amazing idea.”
This was a terrible idea. Somehow, Curly managed to find a laundry basket that was hardly big enough for both of them to squeeze in. Their legs were hanging off the sides, bodies bent at acute angles to accommodate for the lack of space. Currently, they were at the top of Brass’ extremely steep staircase, with Curly looking at him with a predatory smile. “Ready?”
He was not ready. But as many people have told him, Ponyboy figured that he should live a little for once. Whatever the fuck that means. So, he gave Curly a thumbs up, white-knuckling the handle of the basket with his other hand. Curly awkwardly scooted them forward so they were tipping over the first stair, using one hand to shove off the wall of the narrow hallway.
Instantly, they were thrown down the lofty stairs. They hardly made it down two of the stairs before the basket tipped over, both of the boys falling out of the basket and tumbling down the stairs, practically being launched at the wall. Ponyboy laid there for a moment, dazed from having slammed his head against the hardwood floor, likely concussed. On the other hand, Curly was cackling, his entire leg stuck in the wall from where he kicked the drywall in.
After a moment, Brass rounded the corner, scowling down at Curly and Ponyboy— most of the malice directed at the former. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice groggy as he rubbed his eyes. “Get the fuck outta my house, Shepard,” Brass glared down at them, kicking Curly in the ribs. Curly rolled his eyes dramatically, tugging his leg out of the wall and sighing, helping Ponyboy up.
It took a bit of convincing, but eventually, Brass gave in and let them stay for a little bit. By now, it was getting a bit late— nearing eleven o’clock. When Ponyboy was with Curly, time either passed weirdly slow or weirdly fast. His curfew was midnight, so he had a bit of time, but Curly had managed to convince him to let loose and drink a bit. Ponyboy didn’t drink often, so his tolerance wasn’t all that good. By this point, he was absolutely shitfaced. He couldn’t do much more than sit on a barstool and watch Curly get his ass kicked at pool.
He was brought back to the moment by a warm hand being placed on his knee and shaking him, looking up to see Curly. It was obvious that Curly wasn’t near as drunk as him, but he was definitely plastered. He forced Ponyboy to his feet, a gentle hand on his lower back as he guided him to drink a bit water, sobering him up ever so slightly. Ponyboy allowed Curly to drag him out, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms until he saw stars when they stepped outside into the brisk, spring air.
“Let’s get you home, man,” Curly huffed out a laugh, dragging Ponyboy forward and keeping him from face-planting. They walked in silence, leaning against each other as they slowly sobered up from the crisp air. Brass’ place wasn’t super far from the Curtis Residence, the boys arriving in a good twenty or so minutes. “I’ll bring you your backpack tomorrow, savvy?”
Ponyboy nodded in agreement, drowsily blinking up at Curly, who stepped forward. His hands came up to cup his face— they were a bit warm and clammy, but he leaned into the touch nonetheless. They didn’t have much of a height difference, Curly having /maybe/ an inch or two on him. His hands came up to circle around Curly’s wrists, tilting his head in confusion.
The last thing he expected was for Curly to press an uncharacteristically gentle kiss to his lips, eyes flying open in shock. His face burned, stomach flipping even as they pulled away from each other. Maybe he should’ve been a bit more embarrassed at his open gaping, but he couldn’t find it in him even as Curly pressed another peck to his lips, tugging back and waving with a grin. “See ya, Curtis,” he teased, punching him in the shoulder.
Ponyboy couldn’t do much else other than watch as Curly left, a hand hovering over his lips. He buried his face in his hands, shaking his head and groaning. Slowly, he made his way to the porch, wincing when the gate squeaked. He stood in front of the door, looking back in Curly’s direction. Glory— he was so fuckin’ whipped.