Chapter Text
Almost exactly a year later, in Henley Hall, Todd sat between Charlie and Meeks, the rest of the boys on the other side of Meeks. Mr. Keating was sitting next to Charlie, nodding along to the loose song that Neil was singing onstage, the verse at the very end of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night—Neil had brought to life the character of Feste the Fool, leaving the entire audience cackling and Mr. Keating beaming with pride.
A few rows down from the boys and Mr. Keating, sat Mrs. Perry. She watched her son, doing the one thing he absolutely loved in the world, with a smile.
As Neil finished singing, the lights went out and the curtain traveled shut with great speed.
Charlie nudged Todd with his elbow. Todd turned to look at his friend and they shared a quick glance.
"Almost a year ago," Todd murmured, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, glancing up at the stage, waiting for the curtain to open.
Charlie nodded, his large smile becoming a thoughtful look, a look of relief that they had all made it to this point.
"I still remember how..." Todd trailed off, a year-old image filtered with fear sharpening in his mind's eye. He looked over at Charlie.
Charlie, certain they were both seeing the same image in their minds, thought about how he had pulled Neil's fingers off of the revolver. "Me, too."
Todd was about to search for a response when the curtain shot open, and the whole cast, in colorful costumes, stepped forward.
The audience rocketed to their feet, raucous with applause.
Neil stood in the center of the cast, with a smile so big it glowed like a bonfire. Searching the crowd, he found his friends and gave them a wave, then made ecstatic, beaming eye contact with Todd.
Todd, who had helped Neil memorize all his lines, trailed alongside him with script in hand, and run lines with him late at night grinned back at Neil with a pride, hope, and joy so bright he was sure it could burn right through his chest—a pride, hope, and joy he was sure he could not live happily without.
“It is something of the soul which says, Rage on, Whirl on, I tread master here and everywhere, Master of the spasms of the sky and the shatter of the sea, Master of nature and passion and death, And of all terror and all pain.”
- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grace Preface