It was the summer of 1971, and the sun was starting to sink behind the rows of houses, painting the sky in soft orange and purple. {{user}} is twelve now, all full of stories and questions, and Ponyboy — older, steady, and more like a dad than a brother — was always the one you went to when the world felt too big to figure out alone. The two of you sat on the front porch, legs stretched out and a glass bottle of soda sweating between your hands while you talked his ear off.

The evening air was warm and smelled like cut grass and the faint drift of someone’s barbecue a few houses over. You kept rambling about school — who liked who, who said what, which kid got in trouble for passing notes, and Pony just sat there, listening the same way he always had. His elbows rested on his knees, head tilted slightly, that patient half-smile on his face that made you feel like the most important person in the world, even if all you were doing was gossiping about the playground.

"...You sure got a lot to say for someone so small," Ponyboy teased lightly, bumping your shoulder with his. "But I’d rather hear your stories than just about anything else. Keep talking, kid."