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It could be said that Charlie Dalton was a lover of the beautiful things in life. In fact, he had curated a list of his favourite things to look at. As it happened, Steven Meeks had come to hold places one through ten of said list.
If you asked him, Charlie could have told you about the wonders of morning light and why he, himself did not consider dandelions to be weeds. If anyone queried, he would have rambled for hours about the simple joys of the colour brown and how he thought it was crime people found it boring when it could present such comfort. It was a wonder to him that one could simply accept life as a blur, never stop and smell the flowers if you will.
Unfortunately, no one did ask, and this wealth of beauty was kept purely to himself. For quite some time he thought that was a shame, that perhaps someone with even a hint of artistic talent might like to know that emotion can be found in even a patch of moss. It had been a great point of regret that Charlie was not born an artistic prodigy, he felt that with the right skills he could have been a modern van Gogh. However, everything he had tried to produce previously had turned out more like the musings of a bored child who didn’t know how to hold a paintbrush.
So, when Professor Keating had started at Welton he found a kindred spirit in him. Keating spoke of poetry like Charlie dreamt of life, like it was the single most important thing in the world. He had watched in wonder as he recited Whitman and cracked a joke when he felt he was staring too long, he had a reputation to uphold after all.
It was when Keating asked, “What will your verse be?” that Charlie had thought poetry might actually be something he was quite good at. Perhaps painting just wasn’t his medium; but words, metaphors, they felt like something he already had, but hadn’t thought to explore.
Maybe not a van Gogh, but a Whitman instead.
The one thing he had issue with was that a beguiling poem might not fit so well with the joking nature he had crafted over the years. Perhaps that was one of the reasons no one had asked him what he thought of clouds and their ways. To Charlie, hilarity was just another beauty, laughter and excitement were something he could create and observe with such ease it felt a waste not to.
To an outsider though, collating Nuwanda and the part of him that was content to think about the late summer breeze for hours on end could have been beyond them; and he was okay with that a lot of the time, he hadn’t actually tried explaining beauty to anyone so for all he knew, he might just sound mad.
He had every intention of just writing a stupid poem for a joke and reading that aloud and just leave his floral words for his own eyes. Of course, the universe had other plans.
It must have been a Tuesday, Charlie cannot remember the exact date, but he knows they were in Latin, the absolute bane of his existence. At some point on their fifth repetition all the of servus, servi, servos, had started to blend into a background hum. Then his eyes had fallen on Meeks in the front row.
He was lit up in gold, the light filtering through the window falling across him like a goddamn miracle. For once in his life, Charlie had no way to describe it, no striking metaphor or synonym for perfection in his mind. No, he simply sat there watching the flutter of confidence across Steven’s face, something ever-present when he was on an intellectual pursuit. He was exquisite.
Now, attraction to men was nothing new to Charlie; to him, sexuality was something he had explored far more than art and he could tell you for definite that he didn’t care. A pretty face was a pretty face and that was all that mattered. He saw it another awful shame that no one else could see that they were greatly depriving themselves of people to stare at by excluding someone based on whether they had tits or not but, then again, there were a lot of things Charlie didn’t understand about the unimaginative person.
What was new to him was the feeling of missing something so beautiful as the sudden onset of wonder he was experiencing looking at his classmate now. He had quickly begun mentally kicking himself for missing it when it had surely been staring him in the face for years now.
From that moment onwards he became infatuated with observing the ethereal beauty of Steven Meeks and watched as he arose into the top spots on his list of favourite sights. Of course, it was not just him as whole occupying the places he did. No, it was the gentle bow of his lips, the warm tint of his freckles across his cheeks and the joyous mirth in his crinkled eyes when he was laughing.
Yes, it definitely could be said that Charlie Dalton was a lover of beautiful things, it just so happened that Steven Meeks was the most beautiful being he would ever encounter.
o
“Tell me Steven, why is it that you love Latin so much?” Charlie asked this question despite having asked it many, many times before. The answer was always the same, but it was how Steven spoke that caused Charlie to repeat it again and again.
“Dalton, did I not give you this same rant last time you were here?” They were in Steven’s room, Pitts was off doing something or other, so it was just them, something Charlie was enjoying very much as there was little else to stare at but Steven.
“Tell me again, it seems so have slipped my mind,” he said with a wide grin on his face, feigning innocence in his question.
“It all just makes sense to me,” a long finger rose to realign his glasses, “it’s all history, if you can understand why it was spoken in the first place and where it came from then it isn’t just a dead language. There may not be much use for it but so much of our language is influenced by Latin that it feels like a loss to forget it completely.”
Charlie was probably grinning like a fool, but he didn’t see reason to mask it when a rosy flush crept across the other boy’s cheeks, cradling his freckles and making him dip his head away from their eye contact.
“That’s why you’re so smart,” he lent back on his arms against the end of the bed and saw Steven’s eyebrows raise in question, “I know all of what you just said, and it still doesn’t make sense to me.”
Meeks turned his chair to face the bed and seemed to survey him for a second, “that’s because you have no passion for it.” He finally said.
“You got that right.” Charlie snorted.
“So, what are you passionate about?”
You.
For the first time he was actually being asked and he didn’t know what to say, well, something acceptable at least. He must have stayed silent too long because Meeks just shrugged and turned back to his translations.
“Life,” it was gentle and quiet, sounding like a shout in the near-silent room. Charlie waited for a response that didn’t come, but Meeks has stilled, his eyes no longer tracking across declensions but paused… go on, you’ve been dying for this I can tell.
“I am wholly and entirely passionate about being alive.”
There was silence, not oppressive but certainly not comfortable. Steven still hadn’t moved, not even a breath and Charlie was equally frozen in the philosophical atmosphere he had brought on. He was about to crack a joke, make it funny, make it normal when Meeks gave a shaking sigh and spoke.
“Which poet did you nick that from?” he asked, still quiet and contemplative.
“Must you underestimate me so Steven? If I wasn’t already so convinced of my own brilliance you could have just quashed the next best lyricist to grace the earth.”
He turned again and Charlie felt naked in his gaze, it was heavy and new and wonderful. He had accepted that whatever he held for Steven would remain one-sided and he had been okay with that. Until now.
The way Steven’s eyes were searching his own felt like the most intimate interrogation and he realised he couldn’t go through life without experiencing it again, he would have spilled all his secrets and given up everything he held dear just to hold his stare.
Only when Steven finally turned his eyes away did Charlie breath again, it was long and shuddering and felt almost like a confession somehow.
“I don’t think I have ever understood you, Dalton,” it was so quiet he hardly heard it, the softest rasp in his tone, Charlie could tell he was surpressing the need to clear his throat as if to preserve the atmosphere of the room.
I’ll show you, he thought, I will show you everything.
o
Charlie was delighted to see that in the coming weeks, he would often turn to find the eyes on him belonged to a certain bespectacled beauty. He hoped that since their anomalous conversation Steven was seeing him in a different light, a more understanding light.
Of course, it could be something else entirely, there was the whole issue of Steven probably being into women and further, that even if he liked men, he might not have any interest in Charlie at all. But he wasn’t a confident man for nothing, he held out hope that maybe an appreciation could dwindle into something more.
He wasn’t going to act on anything without certainty, he wouldn’t risk losing a friend like that. Because that was first and foremost what Meeks was, a friend he was quite probably in love with, but a friend, nonetheless.
The looks had only gotten heavier after the first meeting with the dead poet’s society, maybe it was the picture of the naked woman or something else, he might not ever know; but he did know that Steven seemed to be trying to figure something out and Charlie was more than happy to let him question.
“Oi Dalton!” it was Neil, who was currently circuiting their study group with an old book in his hands, “what are you writing about for your poem?”
Ah yes, the poem to be read aloud in front of the class. In truth, Charlie had finished his best poem to date just that morning, but god knows he had no intention of handing it in. It was entirely about a certain someone in the class and no matter how good it was, that was a risk he was unwilling to take. He was formulating a meaningless one to read in class, but he was actually planning to read his real one to just Keating.
“Arses.” He smirked, basking in the laughter of his classmates.
“Can’t you take anything seriously, Dalton?” it was Cameron of course, ever the kiss-ass.
“Shut up Cameron,” came a small chorus of voices around the room and Cameron just shook his head in annoyance.
Charlie was about to throw his head back and laugh when he caught Steven’s eye, he had one eyebrow raised and a look that he couldn’t quite understand on his face. They stared at each other for a minute, a conversation bouncing between them they neither really understood. And then it was over.
That night, he went over his poem again, trying to see it like a stranger would. It was lovely, he knew that, and he wanted Keating to know he truly did care about his subject, but it still felt glaringly obvious who the poem was about. He couldn’t tell if it was just because he had written it or whether it held such truth in it that it couldn’t be concealed by the lack of a name.
He hoped Keating wouldn’t figure it out, if only to preserve his dignity.
o
He sat down to a round of amused applause from the class and would have smiled had it not been for the look on Steven’s face, he looked disappointed, like he had expected something else. He almost regretted not reading his actual piece for the class, but he stuck with the fact that it would have been a bad idea. Even if his heart felt like it wasn’t beating properly at the shame he felt in disappointing him.
“Very interesting Mr Dalton, perhaps next time you might aim for something a little less crass?” the Professor was amused, but he clearly found nothing inspiring about the poem, Charlie didn’t take this to heart as the thing had barely taken him five minutes and he couldn’t be proud of it when ‘arse’ and ‘trousers’ didn’t rhyme even with the terrible British accent he has read it in.
Neil was shaking his head and still chuckling as he rose to deliver his work, hopefully much better than Charlie’s but he wouldn’t know because the sun chose that moment to fall from behind the clouds and light up the room. Warm light flowed over the boy with glasses in the front row and Charlie was immediately distracted.
That’s how the rest of the class went, everyone stood to read their poems, none were particularly extraordinary, but such were the ways of uninspired teenage boys.
“Mr Keating?” he called just as the man was disappearing into his office at the back of the room, he turned and tilted his head.
“Yes Mr Dalton?”
He checked the room behind him before he continued, the others had all filtered out by now, their shouts could be heard from the halls as they paraded off to lunch.
“I actually did write something,”
“Well, it definitely was something yes,” he was chuckling.
“No, I mean I wrote something proper, something good. I think” he finished lamely.
Mr Keating perked up, he smiled broadly and gestured Charlie to read it, taking a seat on his desk and waiting with clasped hands for him to begin.
It suddenly seemed rather daunting to say it out loud, but he mustered up his courage and took out the poem, He took a deep breath and began,
“I will gaze into the eyes of you, my dreamland lover,
Watch every emotion unfold on your face,
I hold them so dear I could never forget,
Yet the one I want to see so dearly escapes me.
I would tell you a million tales,
Smile a thousand smiles,
But I will not rest on my eternal conquest,
To know how love for me would look in your eyes.
So, I will dream about it,
Hold the thought in my mind,
Forever and always that one day,
I’ll be confident enough to cross that line.
Until then ill wonder on what it will feel like,
To know you as the sun does,
The stars and the moon,
I would give you everything,
If only you knew.”
He looks up with trepidation, hoping with all hope it wasn’t terrible, and meets his teacher’s eyes. They are glassy and gazing into space, but Charlie can tell he heard every word. There is a smile that shows no hint of humour but instead, joy.
“That was beautiful Mr Dalton, truly not what I was expecting. Why is it that you chose not to read this to everyone?” he asks so blatantly that Charlie finds himself unable to hold his gaze.
“I’m not sure sir,” he mumbles and Keating just nods.
“It was magnificent Charlie, I suggest you do something about whoever it is that poem is about before your chance slips away,” there is something in his eyes, a sadness, maybe regret that Charlie doesn’t ever want to feel himself, but there is also something conspiratorial, like he knows exactly who the muse was.
Before he can start stumbling through a cover-up Mr Keating reminds him of the time and he sighs in relief at the distraction. He thanks the strange teacher and turns, leaving the office. However, when he enters the classrooms, he sees a figure dart out the door, a tousle of sandy red hair that he recognises all too well. His stomach swoops.
What the hell am I meant to do now? This was exactly what he had been trying to prevent, why was he even in the classroom? Did he know it was about him? Christ, what a mess.
o
He somehow made it through the rest of the day, barely paying a second of attention in his remaining lessons and remaining uncharacteristically silent during meals. He hadn’t had the balls the look at Steven yet, maybe he never would again. That would really be a dreadful shame, but it might just have to be done.
He watched Neil lean over and whisper something in Todd’s ear and the shy boy blush at the action, Charlie really didn’t know what to make of that and quite frankly he did not have the brain capacity to think about it right now. Maybe he would unpack it some other time or maybe it made enough sense he wouldn’t need to. He really didn’t know.
By their evening study group, he was about ready to go insane. He wanted so badly to ask Steven if he knew, what he thought and if he felt the same, but it felt like this was the last time he would get before a swift let down and Steven telling him that he was flattered but not into guys.
There was no torture he could think of greater than what he was suffering right now, and the worst thing was, he had absolutely no idea how to end it.
Then, “Dalton?”
Charlie’s head shot up from where it had been buried in his hands and his eyes met Steven’s without a second to calculate. They were such wonderful eyes, the brown of a great oak flecked through with ambers and golds, so full of life you couldn’t help but get lost in them.
“Yes?” he was preparing himself for rejection, just hoping Steven would be a good sport about it and not tell anyone.
“You left your trig textbook in my room,” now he certainly hadn’t been expecting that, what was he meant to say? Oh, thanks Meeksie, so glad we are choosing not to mention the incredibly gay poem I wrote about you where I professed my undying love for you, I’ll come get that book- oh.
So that was it, he wanted to talk to him alone. Very subtle Steven, a little too subtle.
“Oh yeah, thanks, I’ll come get it then?” he wanted to be sure, this wasn’t a situation he felt he could be uncertain in.
He could feel someone’s eyes on the back of him head, he would bet it was Cameron. He would commit a heinous crime if the boy said anything about his trig book being on his bed. Luckily, Cameron chose that moment to shut up for the first time.
“Come on,” Steven muttered, and Charlie realised that the other boy was nervous too, there was an uncertainty in his step and his hands looked like they were shaking ever so slightly. Charlie really wasn’t sure if that was a good sign.
The walk from the common from up to Steven’s dorm seemed to take forever, steps seemed slower, and every breath was simultaneously too loud and too quiet. When they did eventually reach the room, Charlie leant against the closed door and waited for him to speak.
He looked ruffled, hair sticking up like he has ran his hands through the gentle curls too many times and his glasses were on askew, Charlie’s fingers ached to right them, comb through his hair and mess it up again all at the same time.
“Did you mean it?” was what he finally asked, so loud in the two feet between. It gave Charlie pause, so he knew it was about him; well, that cleared one thing up, he supposed. He also recognised that he could have backed out then, the question was phrased in such a way he could dispel it all and go back to the simple time when he was just pining alone for his beautiful friend, but he knew he couldn’t. No, Steven’s face was so open, a vulnerability that he had never seen before and he was searching again, that heavy stare that Charlie felt in his soul.
“Did I mean it? I- God Steven, of course I did,” Charlie was shaking his head in bewilderment because he would understand if he had asked whether it was him but, did he mean it? He hadn’t ever meant anything more. “Every single word of it,”
Then Steven was grabbing him by the face and pulling him down into a kiss. As it turned out, Charlie had been very wrong making his list because there could be nothing more beautiful than kissing Steven Meeks. It was everything he had thought it could be and more, so much more.
Warm, freckled hands cradling his jaw and soft hums of content. He took it all in, committing every feeling, thought and sensation to memory as if he may forget if he didn’t. He could hardly focus but his hands were in Steven’s hair and it was just as silken as he had imagined. The world could have ended then and he wouldn’t have cared an ounce.
They broke apart, breathing heavily and staring into each-other’s eyes, both trying to convey everything they felt in the look. Steven was smiling, something innocent and blissful, not just the half smile he normally gave but a broad, brilliant grin that took over his entire face and left Charlie’s mind utterly blank.
“I have wanted to do that for so long,” Steven said pushing his glasses up and blushing furiously, yet to Charlie’s delight, he did not try to hide it.
“You have?” He asked, wondering exactly how long they had been acting like idiots for.
“For longer than I’d care to admit,” he laughed, brimming with unabashed joy. Charlie felt a great swell of pride that he was partially responsible for that joy.
“Where do we go from here?” Charlie asks, because he really didn’t think there was a chance of this happening.
“I really don’t know,” Steven shrugged, “but, I quite like kissing you so I think we can figure the rest out later as long as we can keep doing that.”
Charlie kissed him again, “I think that is a wonderful idea,” he breathes.
It wouldn’t be easy they were under no illusion that it would, but they would make it through somehow because sometimes a feeling is too scared to throw away. Times would get tough, and Charlie knew his parents wanted him to get married after college, but it seemed too far away to matter right then.
They would have now any whatever came later was up to fate to decide, he just hoped it was as bright as it was now.
o
The next morning Charlie wrote a note, it was short and written on a piece of paper he tore out of his chemistry book. He wrote it and slipped it under the door of his favourite teacher before he could think twice.
Mr Keating,
Thank you for the advice, it turns out love looks very nice in his eyes.
C. Dalton.
Charlie Dalton was a lover of the beautiful things in life, and he came to learn in those precious moments that there was nothing more beautiful than love. It was earth- shattering and soul-destroying just like the most perfect things should always be.