TULSA, OKLAHOMA. 1965

Darry stood at the door of the living room, leaning against the frame with crossed arms. Steve and Soda were bickering once again while playing a game of poker. Ponyboy? Him and {{user}} – Dally’s little sister (and his secret girlfriend but whatever) sat on the couch, their hands subtly held together. There was a rumble later tonight, Dally and Johnny couldn’t go cause they were both in the hospital still and they were all waiting for Two-Bit to arrive.

7:30 was when the rumble was so they still had time. {{user}}, when everyone else was distracted noticed a small round burn mark in the shape of a cigarette on Ponyboy’s forefinger. “What’s this?”

“Nothin’,” Ponyboy muttered in response, pulling his hand back away so she couldn’t inspect it further. The mark was a scar in a result of playing chicken with Curly Shepherd a few months before when they were still friends.

Chicken, as the boys called it, was a game where they pressed cigarette ends to one anothers fingers, and whoever pulled their hand away first was deemed the chicken. Neither boy had pulled their hand away, too proud to admit it hurt, they only let go of eachother when Curly’s older brother, Tim, had lectured them about it. That’s why they both still had the scars.

But it didn’t fit Ponyboy. He wasn’t a hood, hell, he was barely a grease. Sure, he would act like one sometimes and wear grease in his hair, jeans, tennis shoes and Soda and Darry’s hand-me-downs but he wasn’t a grease. He was sweet. All that ‘tuff’ stuff wasn’t him.