Chapter Text
Bedrooms were a bit like shoeboxes; if you thought hard enough about it — or perhaps if the lack of sleep due to studying for Latin had finally caught up to you. At least, that’s what carriage Todd had managed to find himself in on his train of thoughts as he sat on the uncomfortable, unavoidably creaky mattress of Welton’s ever cramped beds. It was the start of his second year at the all boy’s preparatory school — he was unsure how he had even managed to survive the first — and it was embarrassing to admit he was relieved to be back in the ‘safety’ of the school’s cramped walls; definitely a one-eighty compared to how he had felt when he had first set foot on the school’s grounds. He still felt like breaking into the gardening supplies, grabbing himself a shovel, and digging a hole in the floor to crawl into — but this time it was for different reasons.
Todd didn’t know what had come over him during the summer (he did.), but he had not contacted the poets very much at all. Maybe a few replies to some of their letters at the start of summer; empty promises of ‘oh yes, we’ll certainly go on a trip to the lake at some point in these next few weeks’ or half-arsed plans to meet with Neil at a midpoint town between their respective homes and go see a movie together; Neil had been trying to make an effort, Todd had not — the closest they had gotten was a meet up time and location to go see some movie about a plant shop, but Todd had gotten sick a few days prior and Neil had assured him it was okay and he should rest. Neil had been excited for that movie, Todd thought. He hoped he at least got to go see it, even if it were with Charlie or Ginny or anyone else; anyone other than himself, who couldn’t even find the energy to lift his pen and reply to the poet’s letters or answer Neil's phone calls half the time. Despite his sheer laziness (as his mother would put it), Neil never gave up or made any comments on it: ever kind, ever understanding, ever loving Neil.
Maybe he was embarrassed to see them after the months of ignorance on his end, maybe that’s why he had been staring at the shoebox on his lap for the past ten minutes now. The shoebox certainly did not go hand in hand with its contents; a fancy shoebox, black and sleek and well taken care of — stored in a neat place where it would not get damaged or even dirtied — yet inside it held Todd’s old beaten up, off-brand white sneakers. Currently, Todd was wearing what it should’ve contained: his older brother’s hand me down dress shoes. God he hated them. Despite his brother apparently having worn them everyday in his senior year for class the leather was still tight and uncomfortable — sure to cause blisters no matter how many pairs of socks he wore. They still shone like brand new, inner labels still intact like brand new. The only sign of wear in the shoes was the fading rubber soles at the bottom, which were going lighter in colour from the friction between the shoe and most likely Welton’s firmly polished wooden floors.
He knew he should have probably tried to wear them out a little before the new school year began; maybe then he could have avoided the blisters. Though he’d be lying if he said he did anything productive that summer other than laying in his bed, sleeping all day, staying up reading all night and occasionally writing poems or moping about how he should call Neil or mail a letter to the poets (he never would). It was his own fault in the end, always was. He was the cause and catalyst of his own actions and consequences, he had no right to complain about them in the end. He had every chance under the sun to rise from his pit of deflated pillows, itchy blankets and bobbly jumpers, yet he never had.
Had he even changed his clothes that much during the summer? He must’ve gone out a total of five times — most of which were for convenience store or takeout runs when his parents had forgotten he was in the house and hadn’t left him any dinner. His parents frequently did that. Todd sometimes hoped it was on purpose; at least then he could be absolutely certain his parents had given up on him and disliked him. He knew his parents didn’t love him, that was plain to see, but he was still unsure if they were simply neutral about him or hated his guts, he was still deciding. For now, perhaps his father hated him; five-ninety-eight, quite a clear sign of that, the nickname was still occasionally used as a ‘joke’, but Todd could clearly pick up on the aggression under all the ‘jokes’. He was dense at times sure, but he was not that dense and his father knew it. He knew what he was doing and he certainly took enjoyment in it.
It could be worse; I could have Neil’s dad. A thought that often came to Todd’s head. Sure his dad was an asshole, sure he had received his fair shares of the belt and being locked out of the house as punishment (hadn’t everyone though?), but at least his parents’ wish to act as if he never existed meant he was free to dream his own dreams and pursue what he wished — on his own of course, but that’s how it usually was, he had grown used to it by now — unlike Neil’s father who had tried to control every aspect of his life until his roommate simply just couldn’t take it anymore. December fifteenth was a date engraved in Todd’s mind, he was sure it would be forever. Neil had performed, he was good — he was really good — unfortunately, his father hadn’t thought the same. Todd had tried to put himself in Neil’s shoes many many times, but he was certain he’d never get it completely right. He knew something of it; knew of shitty parents; knew of the suffocating feeling in his lungs; knew of the ideals to end the suffocation, cut the ropes and be free. But he would never know fully — Todd’s father cared too little, Neil’s father ‘cared’ too much. Cared was certainly not the right word for it. Controlled. That began with C too, didn’t it? Maybe the two words had more similarities than just letters though.
Just as Todd was about to swallow himself further into his impending doom of thoughts and probably stare a hole into his brothers shoebox, he was interrupted by the sound of the doorknob turning, the sound of clicking and the light creak of the door opening (someone should put oil on that latch), then a breathy voice, almost a hint of disbelief and relief in it.
”Todd.”