Work Text:
Todd wrote letters to Keating. They were responded to only once, and it took months for any confirmation that he had received them. It made sense though. After losing Neil, and getting fired, never to teach again, who wouldn't try to get away from reminders.
After Neil- After that night, Todd refused to speak to the other poets for weeks, giving only simple one word responses to their questions.
When he did get that first letter though, he felt as though a tiny part of what he was missing had returned. He had sent Keating his poetry, letters full of praise for his teaching, attempts at commiserating, but none of it got a response until he asked Keating what he was supposed to do now.
The letter he got in return read as follows:
Todd Anderson,
I sorely wish I had the words to guide you, yet I cannot answer that question even for myself. I have appreciated your correspondence, and dearly regret not sending any missives before now.
I thank you for all your kind words, and your poetry reminds me how grateful I am to have had you as my pupil; however, I think it unwise to continue writing you. I have caused the death of one student already, and although I wish I could continue our communications, it is not worth the possibility of pushing another student in the wrong direction.
With admiration,
John Keating
Todd was livid. Could Keating not see that which was plainly evident? Neil's parents had caused this, not him. Never him. He did everything right, he had no right to blame himself for this.
Todd kept writing.
Every poem he wrote, every essay, all sent to his former mentor.
None were met with responses.
At times, Todd grew weary of this one sided correspondence, but he remained hopeful that his writing meant something to Keating, even if the man felt he could not respond in good conscience.
So he kept writing. He pushed his way through Hell-ton, remained politely amicable to the poets who reminded him so painfully of Neil, but he lived. He kept on breathing, out of spite, if nothing else.
When Todd got out, he also got away. He went to New York City, lived in a cheap, small, cockroach infested apartment alone. He was high over the world, pedestrians all tiny ants under his gaze. He worked night shifts at a gas station, and submitted poetry everywhere he could. He kept writing Keating.
Three weeks after Todd's birthday, he got a letter in the mail, with Keating listed as the sender.
He scrambled for his letter opener, slipping the blade under the seam of the envelope and slicing through the adhesive that separated him from a long awaited letter.
The letter read as follows:
Todd Anderson,
Your work and success delights me, and I am overjoyed to know that some small good came out of my teaching you. If you would ever like to meet up, to discuss my time, and yours, at Welton, my phone number will follow this message.
I do not think that I was at fault for what happened. I certainly exacerbated stressors though, and had I followed the rules more stringently, we would still have a poet among us. Now that you are solidly on your feet, I am confident that I can speak freely with you without fear I may cause unneeded strife.
Warmly,
John Keating
Todd stilled after finishing the letter.
He paced his room, bare feet cold on the floorboards. He wanted to see Keating again, of course, but he wasn't sure if he could handle the change. A more vibrant reminder of his former life with Neil would more than likely cause him to fall back into his grieving.
Todd kept writing Keating. Never failed to send a copy of his works. Without fail though, he did not see Keating's face again.