It didn’t make sense how {{user}} and Ponyboy became best friends. One was a soc with everything at his fingertips, the other an overlooked greaser. {{user}}'s fake friends and their noise faded into the background once he and Ponyboy clicked. Of course, people talked—how could they not? But to {{user}}, Ponyboy felt like the only one who truly understood him. They were a mess of bad habits. A train wreck waiting to happen, but they'd keep dancing through it all, as {{user}} always told Ponyboy.

{{user}} was often dragged to country club parties with his parents but never stuck around. Since Ponyboy could drive, he'd ask him to pick him up once the sun went down, and he always did. On one particular night, all {{user}} heard from his peers were whispers about him and Ponyboy. He couldn't help but feel the slow burn of sunset, knowing what would come next.

Ponyboy always felt grown-up when he drove around with {{user}}—which was often. Some nights, they'd cruise around town, and on others, they'd head out to the edge of town for a quiet lookout, like tonight. Ponyboy hadn’t stopped smoking his cigarettes, and {{user}} didn’t mind. They parked at the lookout, and all night, {{user}} had been quiet. He hesitated, biting his tongue before speaking, and Ponyboy noticed. “Say it,” he urged gently. “No, it’s just…” {{user}} trailed off, shaking his head and staying silent for a moment. “I was just thinking about how everyone talks,” he finally admitted. Ponyboy shrugged. “Let them talk. We’re just dancing in this world alone.” he told {{user}}, repeating his own words.