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When Neil recited Keats, his tongue strummed the words like strings on a lyre. Sweet music on a sweeter instrument. The flashlight beams tipped his hair like tinsel.
Todd hardly heard a word. He wasn’t thinking about recitation. He wasn’t thinking about poetry at all. He could only think of three truths, spinning about his mind in an endless loop.
Neil Perry breathed life into the mouths of dead poets.
Neil Perry shone brighter at night.
48 hours ago, Neil Perry kissed him.
Before
How do you talk about kissing your best friend? Where would you even start? In Todd’s mind, it began where everything did—English class.
That morning, whistling some old sea shanty, Mr. Keating dropped a stack of slim books on his desk. There had to be at least thirty. Without saying anything, he picked one up, and started to read. The boys were used to this – they never quite knew how Mr. Keating would start class. Neil glanced over to Todd, and shrugged. He stood up, walked to the front, and with a nod to Mr. Keating, picked one up.
“Mr. Perry takes the initiative,” Mr. Keating said, breaking his silence with a grin. “Well done, Mr. Perry. What are you waiting for, boys? Books don’t bite.”
The boys swarmed the desk like fruit flies. Upon further inspection, they weren’t books at all. They were little folders, each holding a pamphlet and a collection of art prints. Todd flipped through a booklet called Masterpieces of Van Gogh. He didn’t even bother to skim the pamphlet, just looked through the prints and let his eyes trace the dizzying swirls of The Starry Night. If he could manage to tune out the chatter (“What’s the point of looking at stupid pictures?” Hopkins whined about every other second), he could almost imagine himself walking through a museum. Not talking, not seizing the day. Just looking. Inch by inch, day by day, he felt his voice growing louder. But even now, he had no desire to sound his barbaric yawp every day.
Todd peeked over his shoulder at Neil. He'd been sucked deep into whatever masterpieces lurked in his packet. He flipped through the pages with a peaceful face, pausing now and then to readjust his massive glasses. He was doing the assignment, just like every other guy in class. But Todd couldn't look away. It was always fascinating to look at Neil when he thought no one was watching. Moments like these were rainbows in the mist. Neil was a natural performer, and the second eyes were on him, he lit up like the Fourth of July. But it was so much more electrifying to know Neil could look like this, so... soft wasn’t the right word. Poetic? Natural? Free?
Like a flash, Neil looked up. Todd jumped and guiltily turned back to his print. His focus was all but lost, but at least he hadn't - a tap on the shoulder. Todd turned to the desk behind him, and Stick gestured back at Neil before returning to his book. Neil waved, a mischievous smile brewing in the corner of his mouth. Busted. Neil lifted the print he'd been admiring, and turned it to Todd. It wasn't a painting, like Todd expected, but a blown up photograph of Michelangelo’s David. A surprised breath fled Todd's lips. Of course, of course, of all possible masterpieces, Neil was drawn to David. Good old David - Todd knew the statue like an old friend. When he was ten, his father took a business trip to Rome and brought home a cheap plaster miniature. His mother found the figurine “a bit crude,” so it found its home in the kitchen trash. Even then, Todd felt the pain of another unwanted thing. After dinner, he fished the figurine out from the bin and hid it in the back of his sock drawer. For years, he’d taken it out late at night to admire the fleshy curves and strong angles. Under the moonlight in his childhood bedroom, the beautiful body made his breath catch.
With the dignified air of an art critic, Neil ran his finger along David’s intricate stone curls. He circled the sling draped over his shoulder. And, solemnly, he tapped David’s minuscule pecker. He shook his head sadly, and Todd snorted a laugh through his nose. Neil grinned as if he'd just aced a quiz show and Todd felt head high.
“Hey Cameron!” Charlie suddenly shouted from the back of the room. “It’s you!” The boys looked over their shoulders to see Charlie standing on his chair, proudly displaying a print from his book. Todd strained his neck to see the picture, but couldn’t make out more than a blot of dull grays and browns.
Mr. Keating walked back to Charlie to inspect the print. Almost immediately, his eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers.
“Aha! An excellent find. Let’s take a look at this on the big screen, shall we?”
Charlie hopped out of his seat, and nudged Knox to help him grab the overhead projector from the backroom. Someone killed the lights. Todd stared at the projector in wonder, the dust particles in the light shimmering like fool's gold. Up on the chalkboard, tinted green by the painted slate, the art print was projected. “Take a moment." Mr. Keating said, voice low. "Breathe. Observe.”
“This is Caspar David Friedrich’s masterwork, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. Do you notice anything unusual? Aside from the uncanny likeness to Mr. Cameron, that is.”
Todd looked at Neil, who shrugged back. This was the start of a lesson, and probably an important one, but they sure had no idea where to start.
“Courage, men!" Mr. Keating drummed on his desk. "What do you see? I want words, words, words!”
“Powerful!” Charlie shouted from the back. And then another voice from across the room. Words shot around the classroom like spitballs, anything they could think of. Beautiful. Boring. Ugly. Mr. Keating swayed his fingers like a conductor, guiding the cacophony. Foggy. Dangerous.
“Dangerous, who said that?” Mr. Keating spun around suddenly. Neil raised his hand, a bit surprised that his word had been the one to stop the symphony. “What’s dangerous about it?” Mr. Keating asked.
Neil looked around hesitantly. “Well, he’s right on the edge. It looks like he could fall any moment, or jump even.”
“Very good, Neil.” Mr. Keating nodded. “You’ve hit on a fundamental aspect of this painting, the theory of the sublime. Can anyone define this term?”
A smattering of raised hands. Mr. Keating pointed to Knox. “Sublime means perfect, sir. And more beautiful than anything in the world,” Knox said dreamily. Todd smiled over his shoulder. No two guesses who Knox was thinking of.
“Halfway there. Mr. Overstreet is exactly right in his definition of sublime, the adjective. But I’d like us to focus on the noun – the sublime.” Mr. Keating wrote the two words on the board, underlining them with the hard scratch of white chalk. “Any other takers?”
No hands this time. “In art, the sublime isn't just a descriptor. It’s a feeling. The very feeling our wanderer is experiencing in the moment we’ve caught him. He’s at the edge of danger,” Mr. Keating pointed at Neil. “But there’s something perfect about the danger, more beautiful than anything in the world.” Mr. Keating pointed at Knox. “To feel the sublime is to feel awe and fear simultaneously.”
The room was silent. The only noise was the low hum of the projector. The only movement, the dancing dust.
“Art, nature, literature, poetry, love,” Mr. Keating said. “These are our doorways to the sublime. How many of you have the will to open that door?”
—
A stormy night. Soft snores through the hall, fat raindrops on the windowpane. Some floating hour between dreams and dawn.
Todd’s eyelids fluttered. He rustled, and pulled his blanket up against his cheek. He probably would have sunk right back into sleep, if he hadn’t heard muffled whispers from the other side of the room. He sat up to see Neil wrapped in his blanket, flipping through the pages of a familiar black book, his glasses pressed up his nose.
Todd yawned. Neil jumped.
“Did I wake you?” He whispered a bit too loud.
“Why are you still up?” Todd asked, rubbing his bleary eyes.
“I was thinking about Mr. Keating’s lesson today. About the sublime? He said one of the doorways is poetry. And, I was thinking, how incredible would it be if I found the perfect poem and we all felt it?”
“Is that even possible?”
“Who knows. But isn’t it worth a try?”
Todd laughed, and yawned again. Outside, the storm rumbled. “Did you find anything?”
“Not yet,” Neil admitted. “I mean, everything’s great but nothing’s… I dunno.”
“Sublime?”
“Exactly,” Neil laughed. “Get over here and help me.” He pulled back the blanket. Without a second thought, Todd abandoned his bed for Neil's. They always did this during reading week, knees pressed together under the blanket, working through impossibly intricate Trig formulas. Todd never minded when finals came around. Poem by poem, they flipped through the onionskin pages of Five Centuries of Verse. Neil whispered verses under his breath, rustled the pages. Outside the storm whistled and wailed like a spurned lover. But inside, there was just the sound of Neil's voice, and the soft wool of Neil's blanket, and the smell of standard issue shampoo on Neil's hair.
A warm voice at his ear, and Todd jolted awake.
“Todd, I found a good one.” Todd's cheek was pressed against Neil’s shoulder. He shifted away until their bodies didn't touch at all, and rubbed his cheek self-consciously.
“Sorry.”
“That’s alright.” Neil smiled wickedly. “Could’ve done without the snoring though.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Are you kidding? You’re a 6.0 on the Richter.”
Todd rolled his eyes, “Just show me the poem.”
Neil closed the space between them so the book balanced on their knees. Todd’s weary eyes could barely make out the tiny letters, but he could read the title at the top: Bright Star by John Keats. Without Todd even having to ask, Neil began to read.
“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–”
It was a sound Todd was familiar with by now. The music of Neil reading a poem. And yet it always seemed new. The moving waters at their priestlike task of pure ablution round earth's human shores. The lilt of his voice followed the sensual swell of the poem like the waves it described. Todd would never read aloud at a club meeting. No. He just wanted to listen. Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. Happiness was listening to Neil revive Keats, creating melody where it hadn't existed before.
“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”
Neil spoke the final words, and they stayed there, hanging in the air. The only sounds were the shush of raindrops on ancient brick walls, and the grumble of the radiator. The moon shone silver through the window, painting everything in a pearly glow. Beside him, Neil shut the book, and took off his glasses with a sigh. In the faint light, Neil's lips trembled. Todd stared, before looking up to Neil's eyes. And it just kind of happened.
It was gentle. It was moth wings, or a trembling leaf. Awake for ever in a sweet unrest.
Todd barely remembered his first kiss. It happened with a girl from Sunday school with a dress like lemon meringue and a name straight from the Old Testament. As her lips hit his with a dry smack, he’d thought, “Why would anyone do this on purpose?”
Todd parted his lips slightly, breathless as Neil cupped his cheek and deepened the kiss. Warmth pooled through his veins like ichor. Todd felt the poem reverberating through his body like an echo in a cave, guiding his tongue, his lips, his nervous hands. Fingers braided in chestnut hair; hands caressed cotton; limbs ran loose. And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
The sound of rumbling thunder ripped through the room like wildfire. For a moment he just stared at Neil. His hair stood up sideways and his eyes fluttered sleepily open. He might have just been waking up from a dream, if it weren’t for the swollen puff of his lips. Todd could still taste him on his tongue.
Todd pulled back so fast he almost fell off the bed, tripping over himself to escape back to the sanctuary of his twin bed. The sheets were cold. Without another word, he turned to face the wall and yanked the green blanket back up over his head. He was breathing as heavily as if he’d just finished a soccer match.
Stupid. Stupid. How quickly you could ruin your own life. Todd had clung to easy smiles and touching knees, pretended they meant nothing to make them last. But you could only pretend so long before the truth spilled out like a sonnet.
After
“Are you alright, Todd?”
“...”
“I picked up your homework. Hagar’s got it out for us, the Trig assignment is brutal.”
“...”
“You want me to smuggle you something from the caf?”
“...”
“Night, Todd.”
—
When Todd woke up, he was alone. The moonlight reached through the window with silver fingers, brushing his cheek. Neil was probably studying with the others. Todd sat up to look at the clock. On his desk there was an apple, some rolls, and a sheet with answers for the mathematics homework.
—
If Todd had known it would end like this, he would’ve bombed his Welton entrance exam on purpose. He couldn’t risk another sick day, or he was sure Mr. Keating would come and check on him. And he never figured out how to lie to Mr. Keating, just like he never figured out how to lie to Neil. Neil. He’d been in and out of sleep all day, sweating and squirming through ghoulish dreams of Neil. Neil avoiding Todd as he walked down the hallway. Neil telling Nolan his perverted roommate had put the moves on him. Neil looking at him with disgust. Todd could handle a lot, but he couldn’t handle that. So he did what anyone would – avoided Neil like the plague.
So far, he’d been successful. The Latin and Trigonometry lessons were so confusing that he hadn’t even had to come up with an excuse. He couldn’t have looked away from the board if he’d wanted to. Chemistry was a bit trickier, since Neil was his lab partner. But again, dumb luck – a pop quiz ate up the entire class period. And now, the final Herculean trial – English. It should have been a breezy afternoon, listening to original poems inspired by art masterpieces. But Todd barely heard a word. Keating was always a wild card, and Todd desperately didn’t want to be part of any lesson today.
Todd squeezed his eyes so tight he saw stars. Please don’t call on me, please don’t call on Neil, please don’t ca–
“Mr. Anderson, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mr. Keating asked. Todd opened his eyes, with a jump. He dared a quick look around the classroom. Empty. Had he fallen asleep and missed the bell? Jesus, he was falling fast. Todd sunk miserably into his seat.
“Ye-yes sir,” Todd stammered, staring guiltily at his desk. “I didn’t mean to–”
“Don’t worry Todd, you were only out for five minutes. Although those are five minutes of excellent teaching I’m afraid you won’t get back." Todd glanced up and saw that Mr. Keating was somehow smiling. "I was sorry to hear you’d fallen ill. Did you manage to complete yesterday’s creative poem assignment?”
Todd picked at the pages in his binder, still not able to look his teacher in the eye. “Not yet. But, um, I can bring it in tomorrow?”
“No need, I have a new exercise for you.”
Todd’s head snapped up just as quickly as his heart sank. Finally, his luck had run out. Knowing Mr. Keating, the exercise would be just as painful as it was helpful. Mr. Keating laughed pleasantly at the face Todd pulled. Todd's shoulders relaxed in spite of himself.
“Do you remember our discussion of the sublime on Wednesday?”
Todd nodded reluctantly. He didn't want to think about the sublime. Because then he'd think about Keats. And then he'd think about Neil. And then he'd think about kissing Neil.
“There’s an awful loveliness to standing toe to toe with fear. This weekend, I’d like you to find something that frightens you, and face it head on. Face it, and survive it.”
Todd stared at his hands, twisting his pencil round and round between his thumbs.
“Couldn’t I just do the poem assignment?” He mumbled.
Mr. Keating smiled kindly and squeezed him on the shoulder. “No.”
With that, he grabbed his briefcase. When he reached the door, he popped his head back in.
“Oh and Todd – a small favor? Whatever happened between you and Neil, could you try to sort it out by Monday? I’m afraid he isn’t getting much work done staring at the back of your head.” He winked and was gone.
—
Neil was sitting on the walkway, right where the world's first unmanned flying deskset had taken off last semester.
“Hey,” Neil said, jumping to his feet and scooping up his textbooks.
“Hey.” Todd looked down at his shoes. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“We’re going to the same place.”
Todd nodded at the ground, and without saying anything else or even looking at Neil, he started to walk in the direction of the room. He felt warmth radiating off of Neil as he kept pace by his side.
“Are you feeling any better?” Neil asked casually, just like Charlie and Knox and Meeks and Pitts and Cameron and every goddamn guy in this school had all day. But Neil of course knew what none of the others did. Todd just nodded, reshuffling his books under his arm.
“Great,” Neil said, “You’re coming to the meeting then.” It wasn’t a question, so Todd didn't answer.
“Great.” Neil repeated slowly. Then, with a nervous laugh, he said, “I think I’m going to read the Keats poem. What do you think?”
Todd tried to shrug when he felt a hand reach out to nudge his arm. Todd flinched away like he'd been scalded by a hot iron, and Neil puffed out an exasperated breath.
“Jesus, Todd! Is this your plan? To avoid me for the rest of the year?”
“I’m not.”
“You are!" Neil said. He took a deep breath. "Look. Can we just talk about what happened?”
Todd suddenly spun to face him. Frustration burned his cheeks red. “Nothing happened, Neil. An-and even if something did happen, I wouldn’t want to talk about it with you. Alright?”
Neil stared at him for a second, eyes wide with hurt. And then, that face. Desperation and fury and pain waging a bloody war across his skin. Before today, Neil only ever looked like that when talking about his father. What agony, to have that broken look fixed on him. “Fine. See you tonight.” Neil spat.
—
A stormy night. A terrible night for a meeting. Todd and Neil avoided eye contact as they watched the ticking clock. Ignoring Neil in class had been bad. Pretending he didn’t exist while they sat alone in their room was torture. And of course, the silence was going both ways now. When the clock struck midnight, Neil grabbed Five Centuries of Verse and his school coat, and crept out of the room. He didn’t whisper a joke to Todd or even wait for him. Good. Todd thought. This is how it should’ve been from the start. So why did it feel like he'd smashed something delicate with his bare hands?
Downstairs, the dead poets waited. Meeks gave them a friendly wave and walked up to Neil. “It looks like the weather’s getting worse,” he said in a hushed voice. “Pitts and I could barely get the news on the radio, let alone Buddy Holly. Are you sure the meeting can’t wait until tomorrow?”
Neil nodded fiercely. “Yeah. There’s something I wanna read. We’ll beat the rain to the cave if we get going now. ”
They ran across campus, shades in the night. Over the hill, whipping past ancient oaks and boulders. And finally, there it was - their cave. They shot in through the opening and as if on cue the sky erupted. Rain poured through the cave skylight.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Cameron grumbled, as water splashed from the rocks and soaked his pant leg. “Why do I let you talk me into this stuff?”
“We can’t do anything about it now, can we?” Charlie laughed, trying and failing to light a wet pipe.
“We’ll wait it out.” Neil said. "As soon as it slows down we'll head back." The rest of the guys nodded, settling into the driest patches they could find as Neil read the opening statements from the book. When he finished he looked around, pointing the flashlight one by one at each poet. "Anyone want to read?" Silence. Dark shadows flickered against the walls wherever Neil pointed his light. When the beam hit Todd, he looked away sharply.
“Goddamn, you guys need to lighten up. It’s just a little rain!” Charlie said, snatching the book from Neil. He flipped until he came to a folded page near the back. He cleared his throat. Then, with a smirk, he read out a poem so unflinchingly bawdy, it was hard to believe it was from the 17th century. The boys whooped and hollered and it was like a curse had been broken. The air seemed lighter, the lights seemed brighter, and the cave even seemed a bit drier. They took turns flipping through the old pages, slightly damp with rainwater, hunting for the dirtiest poems they could find. At one point, Pitts laughed so hard, the beer they smuggled spritzed out of his nose, making them all laugh even harder. It was a night at the cave like any other. They laughed, cheered, and passed the book.
After several poems, Todd found his eyes drifting back towards Neil. To his surprise, Neil smiled at him. Todd smiled back and for just a second things felt normal. Like everything was going to be okay.
And then Meeks nudged Neil. “Wasn't there one you wanted to read?”
Neil broke his eye contact with Todd and shrugged. “Nah, I’ll read it another time.” The rest of the boys booed and clucked and heckled him until eventually Neil gave in.
“Alright, alright—listen. I think there’s something strange about this one. I’m not responsible for anything you do when you hear it,” he said.
He took a deep breath. Todd took one too.
“Bright star… ” Neil began.
Todd's breath caught and his eyes widened as he watched. But this time, he wasn't focused on the poem, not at all.
Neil Perry breathed life into the mouths of dead poets.
Neil Perry shone brighter at night.
48 hours ago, Neil Perry kissed him.
Todd fought the thought that came next, the inevitable. The reason he'd been hiding and pulling away, the reason he couldn't talk about what happened. The truth.
48 hours ago, Neil Perry kissed him. And Todd wanted to kiss him again.
And suddenly, it was over. Neil stood frozen as if willing something to happen. Todd waited too. He waited for someone to faint, or throw a punch, or burst into song. For someone else to kiss Neil. But the boys just laughed, cheered, and passed the book. Like it was any other poem, like it was any other night.
Pitts grabbed the book and found a call and response poem to volley back and forth with Meeks. Neil kept smiling, but with every line, he seemed to sink further and further into himself.
-
The rain stopped at last. It faded first to a trickle, then a mist, and then nothing at all. At last, it was time to head home. One by one, they grabbed their flashlights and filed out of the cave’s mouth, chatter interrupted only by the occasional yawn.
Todd started to follow the others, but held back when he saw Neil hadn't moved. He stared at the book, forehead furrowed, as if searching for something he'd just misplaced. Todd sat beside him. For a moment, silence.
“It’s just a poem,” Neil said, quietly. “I mean, it's great. But it’s just a poem.”
And Todd knew exactly what he meant. “It felt different the other night.” Todd agreed.
“So you’re talking to me again?” Neil asked sarcastically.
Todd’s face must have fallen, because Neil’s sharp look softened. Neil sighed and set the book aside, rubbing his eyes. “All week, I figured I’d bring in the poem tonight, and then everyone would feel ‘sublime’ and do something stupid. And then we’d all laugh about it. And then you wouldn't feel… but it wasn't the poem.”
Todd felt his heart race. He took a deep breath. “What do you think it was?”
“I dunno, a freak hallucination?” Neil said, burying his head in his knees. “You were right. Let’s just forget it.”
“No.”
Neil looked at him. This was out of character. But maybe in the moment they’d kissed, a bit of Neil's confidence had transferred over to Todd. He wanted to tell Neil. He wanted to ask for what he wanted, for once in his life. Even if it was terrifying, even if it killed him. What had Mr. Keating said? Face it, and survive it. The words spilled out.
“It wasn’t a freak hallucination. I wanted to.”
Neil stared at him. Todd felt his insides boil and then freeze. But at least now he knew, as awful as it was. Todd spoke again, pushing through the pain in his chest. “It’s okay if you want to change roommates. I just thought I –”
Neil kissed him. It was mist as far as the eye could see. It was standing at the peak of a mountain, inches from the edge. Todd wrapped his arms around Neil and kissed him too. It was surviving.
Todd couldn’t quite explain the look on Neil’s face when he pulled back. He was smiling, but his eyebrows were knit. The hand on Todd’s back trembled slightly. But Neil’s eyes sparkled with something like wonder. Fear and awe. And it wasn’t because of a great masterpiece of art, or a perfect poem. It was just him.
“Look at that!” Pitts yelped from somewhere in the distance. They both bolted up. They looked at each other and then toward the voice. If quiet Pitts was calling out, it had to be something important. Without another word they left the cave, sprinting toward the noise. They slid through the mud as they raced, laughing at each near miss and quick save.
Another voice from afar. “Keep it down, we’re gonna get caugh–holy crap!” Cameron squawked. Neil and Todd looked at each other and laughed aloud, quickening their pace.
Finally, they reached a clearing, where they could see their friends. Every single member of the club gaped up at the sky. Todd looked up. The sky that had been cloudy all week was the deep black blue of velvet. All you could see were stars. Stars! For miles and miles, going on forever. He felt so small, thinking of all the people who must have stood right in this clearing at one time in the past million years, looking up at the exact same stars. And one day, just like all those people, he’d be dead and gone. They’d all be. But for now, how wonderful to be exactly where he was.
“It’s incredible!” Charlie shouted.
Yeah. Todd looked to Neil, and his breath caught when he saw brown eyes already gazing back. Neil smiled a goofy, too big smile. It really is.