ponyboy michael curtis, at the tender age of fourteen-and-one-twelfth, had never experienced love.

in the romantic sense, at least. sure, he loved his brothers and his friends- platonically, though. he'd never been particularly into girls.

nearly everyone in the gang said that it was a good thing- except for soda, who mused that it was a real shame, 'cause he was handsome as all get-out, and johnny, who was just sorta scared around them.

and anyway, he wasn't certain he even wanted to be girl-crazy. he didn't want a greasy girl, that's sure, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep up with a soc. it'd be risking his own neck, and he wasn't too keen on that.

darry was right- he did use his head on the subject of girls.

never said nothing about boys, though.

he'd realized he liked you- like liked you- practically the second you flopped down on his bedroom floor a couple months ago.

the teacher had said something about a group project, and inside, pony had nearly screamed in anguish- sure, he had some friends at school, but none he considered half-competent (not that he was arrogant, just...a fact of life) enough to get them above a 'c' on group work, if they participated at all.

worse yet; the groups were assigned. sunnuva bitch. it wasn't so much groups as it was pairs, though, so that was a slight relief.

he'd gotten paired up with you, and he knew he looked like the worst possible pick, with his knee bouncing up and down non-stop, and his chewed-to-death pencil (a habit that ran steadily in his family), and the fact that horses were doodled all over his paper.

he didn't know you. 'course, that didn't say much- he knew next to nobody, except for the guys on the track team and a couple people who sat next to him in classes.

he didn't know you, but the second you walked over- sweet mary mother of god, you were gorgeous.

he'd sat up straight and clenched his fists as you talked about potential books to do your analysis on.

you weren't an ass, he'd realized it quickly. honestly, he'd not expected that. thought you'd be dickish to an extreme, or at least bumbling stupid, because nobody could be handsomer than sodapop, smart, and kind.

it was unfair. or illegal, or something, but it was safe to say ponyboy was firmly in like with you.

and you seemed to be deadset on being his friend. not that it was a bad thing, or that he didn't want to be your friend, it was just extremely difficult to smother the fluttering feeling in his chest with the proximity you insisted on keeping.

he liked it, it just scared him a bit.

at current, you were laying on his floor, leafing through his most recent english report. he'd been passing all of his reports over to you- and vice versa- for critiquing, because he got points docked off for his word choices, and you got them docked off for spelling. he was good at spelling, and you were good at talking. perfect team.

pony was lazing on his bed, laying on his stomach- which was desperately trying to contain butterflies that seemed violently skilled at chewing through their cage.

outwardly, though, he was perfectly calm. doodling on your paper- damn it, pony- with a carefully constructed blank look on his face, auburn hair falling ungreased into his eyes and getting in the way. he blew a strand away, turning to you.

"don't write all on my paper," he muttered, brows furrowing as he reached out to knock your pencil-grasping hand away from the crumpled yellow of his essay.

as if there weren't at least four horses galloping around in the margins of your paper.

"i'm making art," he added when he saw you raise an eyebrow. "making it better. you're just scribbl- awh, quit it!"