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The nights are long and cold in Vermont.
Neil had developed a sort of promise that impulsively escapes his lips whenever he is questioned about the motives behind his irregular disappearances during the night.
''The cold crushed my bones last night,''
He'd say. And every vowel would play her consonant as if it were the most sonorous of instruments. Like the words had been carried out by the wind for centuries, echoing on the tongue of every dreamer.
Consequently, he'd smile so hard at Charlie's confused face, every corner wrinkled up with wonder. But then he'd grow so exhausted by the lecture on how dull the study group came about without him. Or he'd punch Knox unnecessarily hard on the shoulder as a reaction to his indifferent ''You're a freak dude,'' that is almost regularly followed by a ''I've seen Chris last Thursday, god she..'', a habit which Neil decided to think of as Knox's own little promise, one that swells in the same desperation on his tongue. Keeping him company, and sane.
But Neil's means of enduring insanity, as the boys grew to understand, are distant from the vows everyone else dangled from their lips, dreams and lovers and carillons of gold.
He breathes the night in, allowing the frost to penetrate his lungs, granting the tragedy girdling the dim sky entrance to his pupils, to fill and to overflow. He had considered during one of these getaways, somewhat of a comparison uniting the night and ocean; for hours he had balanced each's might on a side of his brain, had mused about the conception. If the ocean occurs as the natural force which we arrive bare before, the night never ceases to bring forth more agony we'll carry to the first cracks of dawn. Yet, curiously, he learned he couldn't endure separation, always rebounding, always throwing himself whole into the numb, never-ending northeastern sky. He imagined what would Mr. Keating say regarding the destructive nature of this dynamic. The symbols he would weave out of the scene and the metaphors and figures of speech he would come up with; Perhaps he'd speak of the way Neil is similar in his irrational yearning to Apollo, powerless before Daphne's abandonment, her hands cold and her vision paralyzed by a sickening sense of revulsion. Perhaps he'd assume that the night has always been brutal, that it'll always be. And then, he'd smile the way he does when he comprehends. Like he just figured out why mortality has been gifted sleep. He'd speak and speak, long enough to create verse, gently enough to create poetry.
Neil ambles further into the wood, the lonely virtue of the night he thought through endlessly already appearing on his face. He does not walk with a landing place in mind, despite the notion within him that constantly hums of somewhere he belongs to. Instead, he wanders around, spotting the Robin's nest he can't remember seeing before, the acknowledgment initiating a sudden awareness; since when did he know anything about birds ?
He kneels, his hands instinctively engage in picking flowers. Two or three that tolerated the weather well enough to live and see the insides of his overcoat's pocket, his dorm, and given that he'd recall, to be pressed and dried between the pages of Thoreau. He distinguishes the native Red Oaks and Maples, staring at every trunk long enough to be able to recognize it's silhouette when his eyes are closed. He makes out Orion's belt the way Meeks does, his fingertips straying in the sky, longing to trace the rest of the hunter. He thinks of all the ways he could create, a purpose that whenever raised from the bottomless void in his mind, brings forth gruesome images of unspeakable acts he would carry out; scenes of his chest ripped open, bleeding out every droplet of the suppressed ache he choked on for so long. It pours out of him breathlessly, his body a wineglass drained and chattered, all in hopes of creating something that sounds of the Atlantic, something that looks most beautiful under the sun.
Thereafter, Neil is mindless.
He races up and down the frozen stream and scurries along the lined up pines, stumbling between each tipsy step. His knees are terrible and his throat is quivering. He sounds several ailing cries, of harvesting the current and freedom, of beauty and liberation and the changing days. And when they cease to form, he lets out illegible shouts that frighten a myriad birds off the trees. The fluttering chimes of their frail wings moving away weaken his failing legs, and the thought of the solitude they'd leave him in clouds the edges of his vision, creating an ache in the back of his mind.
The Katydids and Cicadas' choir grew deafening since Neil's boots ceased hollowing out the thick surface of snow, a purity veil that's been forming since late November. He sinks into his scarf, his lips slightly brushing the red and purple stitches on the hem where they turn up flawless.Todd's scarf. He buries his nose profoundly in the yarn at the sound of the name ringing in his head. Todd, Todd, Todd. Melodic, is almost the word. But when he tastes every syllable, he feels certain he must stop. Before the desire that aches to call it sweet-sounding and delicate overpowers him. The motley webs of yarn smell of fountain pen ink and coffee, and he can't help but picture the way Todd might've selected the materials and carried out the assembling, can't help but wonder if it still smells of his hands. Neil's favorite Christmas present, his most treasured belonging.
He presses his back against a decaying tree trunk, the headache he foresaw just moments ago is now enraged and all over. He sweeps his fringe out of his eyes to grasp the scenery with every last bit of force kept in him; the pale snowfield that seems to be driving him into a corner, and looks oddly familiar where it disperses. The sharp wind that roughens the edges of his face, and the distant echoes that somehow, although scribbled and hazy, turned up from Welton. He holds his palms out before his face and forces a few blinks, squeezing his eyelids together in an attempt to make out the outlines of his hands, to dispose of the rootless sensation that deteriorates his perception of the frame; his fingers melting and evaporating.
He closes his eyes, surrendering to a sudden drowsiness weighing his head down, a heat so eager to take over.
And when he opens his eyes once again, he's in his dorm.
What in the world.
His senses delay, arriving one at a time like raindrops of a blithe late summer drizzle. First, he is met with mellow intermittent flares that scatter clumsily before his sight, surpassing what he perceives until he can feel them warm on his chest and forehead. He only understands that it's the spoiled lightbulb when his wakefulness is suddenly submerged in a compound of scents; Nutmegs and candle wax and Cloves. He wonders if he had slept through to mid-fall.
He regards Todd utterly when he notices him, his face polished in unalloyed bewilderment. The room appears wider than usual from his angle. The out of sorts yellow walls seem to spread out perpetually, and the little furnishings inhale the entirety of ease left in the space.
''Neil..'' Todd's skin convulses and turns ungiving as drought season at the sight of Neil sitting up and altering the blanket at his legs. His face is dreadfully pale. It's been looking like that for a while now. Todd thinks, his assumptions tense and rushing like the furious waters of Deerfield. The only way he can think. The only way he knows how to think. He slowly places the alarm clock he's been trying to regulate since the first semester on his desk.
''It smells so good.'' Neil finally speaks, sparing Todd of more apprehensive contemplations, and ensuring his auditory senses are still running. He doesn't know what is it exactly that smells so good, yet he's so certain it prospers everywhere, including himself. Todd's skin burn up at the words.
''Holy Basil and Cloves, Charlie sneaked into the kitchen.'' He speaks in a hurry, hastily, as if to explain himself. His knuckles twist and intertwine as he stiltedly tries to wend his way to the edge of the mattress. ''Cameron brought a pot of honey he had for some reason-''
''Ugh, Cameron.'' Neil smiles.
''Yeah.'' Something flickers within him. Neil's prettier when he smiles. His eyes soften and descend into fluorescence as they catch light, and his dimples appear and further sweeten the sculpture. Yet he thrives beyond any sculpture, passionate and warm and blossoming. ''And then Pitts made it. He said it's his mom's recipe, soothes the throat and treats fever.'' He attempts to unwind his limbs where they rest. He sits almost too carefully, across from Neil. Close enough. Far enough.
''Fever ?'' Neil catches sight of the wet washcloth and blue ceramic bowl on the nightstand. ''Shit, Todd. I'm so sorry.'' He rubs his chin, feeling every bit of guilt piling up on his shoulders. ''You didn't have to-... I don't-'' He hesitates, his aim undecided. ''I trouble you so much.''
Todd looks down at the mess of knots he made out of his fingers. His lips part, yet he halts before forming any coherent sound. And when Neil plucks up the courage to look again, he sees him unfolding, gentle and mild where he sits, ahead of the slithering moonlight. For all that evident worry, he's still so beautiful. Fair-haired and delicate as a Peony, Shakespeare's Helena reawakened. He must know of all the ways he gives sentience to beauty in Neil's mind, of every sonnet and every composition. Of how much Neil hankers practicing verses of a never-ending play with him. He wants him to know. Of every creation that sounds of the Atlantic. Of everything worth to be seen under the sun.
And as if Todd overhears the reflection, he looks away and rises.
''You're so exasperating,'' He compresses the washcloth, uncertain of how he must sound. Unsure of what he even means. He moves towards the bed once again, regarding Neil briskly before placing the moistened cloth on his forehead. Neil utters a trembling swear.
''You keep undertaking this-... madness.'' Todd blurts out, fighting internally to collect his nerves and let out what he had his heart set on for ever so long. He settles by Neil's leg, carefully petting his forehead with the fabric. ''When they'd brought you in, you looked so weak. Your hands were so cold.'' He breathes out. ''I thought you were going to die. I thought you'd already gone.'' He mumbles, his eyes settled on his socks, a strategy he approaches whenever he's tense. Neil notices and sits up, yet Todd proceeds before apologies slip from between his teeth. ''No, Neil. Stop.'' He sputters, trying hard to dispose of the lump forming in his throat. ''You don't trouble me. You-''
''Todd-''
''I want you to talk to me. Instead of...'' His voice ruptures. He looks at Neil, his glance remarkably unusual. ''Instead of running away.'' He pauses, weighing his soon-to-be deliverance. And goodness isn't burdensome. ''I'd listen, because i want to, if you'd want me t-''
''I want you to.'' Neil whispers, his little finger extending to reach Todd's, where it rests on his lap. He goes around it soothingly. And whilst the shift is slight and inconspicuous, Todd's skin splinters and smoulders at it, bringing his feet to shuffle and his lips to briefly purse. Neil's other hand removes the damp cloth from his forehead and sets it aside. His thumb dreams and cruises on Todd's hand, stirring it to unfold. And when his palm is in view, his forefinger goes over it and maps every line and crease. He smiles. ''And you say my hands are cold.''
''Neil.'' Todd whispers softly, afraid to shatter a silence so delicate that's been shaped between their agitated sighs. One that securely envelops them and every little fragment that makes up the old dorm they came to consider home. He sounds the name faithfully, every letter conjuring images of a boy he knows, pictures dainty as dew drops before daylight. Neil, grinning as poetry blurs in the mist it formed. His pulse clear in his eyes. Neil, exhausted against the sheets, his leg sleepily dangling from the bed. I'm gonna act, he shouted. And every doubt was over.
And now, they're both here. Shielded from every expectation, from every parent and every principal. Nothing in sight but the other.
Neil's hand reaches for Todd's face, stroking the strands of hair that had grown too long to land up at his temple. At first, he is lost. Struck by every shade tinting up Todd's skin. But then he is befuddled and wasted, dizzy at the rising and falling of his chest, weak by the gold of his hair.You look so pretty. He repeats in the sweet stillness of the moment. So so pretty. A spell performed amid the inviting distance between their limbs.
''First thought, best thought.'' He breathes against Todd's lips, a justification for the peck he places at their corner, sweet and mild. He draws back slowly, his gaze fervant and infatuated with Todd, whose eyelids are fluttering with intimidation. Neil's hand moves to repose in the vacant spot under Todd's rib, at once feeling his skin's warmth emerging through his shirt, whilst his other hand stands idle still on his cheek, stroking the hue that floods it in Orchids. Todd trembles at the beginning, his flesh withdrawn in tenseness, timid about how he must be looking, afraid that his pounding chest is blaring and evident. Yet he strays in every curve in Neil's features, incapable of defiance. He loses his way in the mellow tint of his cheeks, roaming in the swaying of his collarbones, muddled by the snug scent of his neck.
''I'm going to get you sick.'' Neil grins between every drowsy kiss, tremendously lost in the smell that lingers on him as well by now. Todd nods, his lips caressing the whispers that slither out of Neil. Therefore, he wraps his arms tighter around Todd's waist, giving way to more somnolent kisses. Todd smiles, heavy-eyed and dozy, his fingers entangled like hooks in Neil's hair. ''I'm not sure this is what i meant by talk to me.''
⋆｡°✩
Todd rests against a dozen blankets, loathing every thread of sunlight that slips in through the window. His body is flaring, every Atom uneasily burning up. Neil laughs, squeezing a wet cloth on top of a wooden basin.
''I told you so, dummy.''