Chapter Text
The chapel smelled like wax and wilt.
White lilies lined the altar in orderly vases, their petals slightly bruised at the edges—already beginning to curl. The scent was overwhelming, thick in the throat, as if grief had a perfume. It clung to the black wool of Todd’s jacket, to the hush of the room, to the backs of his eyes. Beeswax candles flickered in brass holders, their flames too steady, too artificial, like everything else in this place.
He sat stiffly in the third pew, hands folded in his lap the way he’d been taught as a child. Left thumb over right. Back straight. Chin neutral. Obedient even in mourning.
He hadn’t cried. He couldn’t. Not here.
The minister with a face like wet paper spoke in smooth, rounded syllables. Nice, soft words like light , purpose , obedience . Words Todd had heard his whole life, hollow as the echo off chapel walls. The man’s voice was practiced, folding grief into palatable scripture. He never said the word suicide . He didn’t say gun . He didn’t say love . Never said Neil’s name with anything close to weight.
“...and now he is at peace, in eternal light...”
Todd’s fingers clenched in his lap.
He kept his eyes fixed forward, on the simple wooden cross at the front of the chapel. He didn’t look at Neil’s father, who sat in the front row with his hands folded just like Todd’s, face carved from something colder than grief. Not a twitch of pain crossed his expression. Grief held like a briefcase: firm, efficient, zipped shut.
Todd hated him.
He didn’t look at Neil’s mother, who dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief so pristine it looked untouched. And he didn’t look at the casket.
Couldn’t.
He hated the silence. The way everyone pretended this was normal. That the boy they buried had merely “passed on” instead of being pushed, slowly, by expectation, until there was nowhere left to stand.
He imagined opening his mouth and screaming. “Sounding his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world,” as Mr. Keating would quote. Just once. Just loud enough to shatter the stained glass behind the pulpit—Mary and the angel in a mosaic of cold colors, frozen in their celestial peace. He wanted them all to hear what they weren’t saying.
That Neil had died because he couldn’t be what they wanted.
Because they made a world too small for someone like him.
Because obedience wasn’t the same as love.
But instead, Todd stayed silent.
A breeze moved through the chapel when someone opened a door at the back, and the candle flames flickered, one bowing low like it might go out. He stared at it, willing it to die. Just one light. One less lie.
The minister’s voice softened. “And now, Neil’s father would like to say a few words.”
There was a shuffle. A pause. Mr. Perry rose with the slow, deliberate dignity of someone used to being watched. He adjusted his cufflinks and stepped up to the lectern like it was a podium in a boardroom.
His voice was calm. Controlled. Dry.
“Neil was a dedicated young man,” he began. “He worked hard at everything he did—school, extracurriculars, even household responsibilities. He was a boy who made plans and followed through. He wanted to succeed. And he was well on his way.”
Todd’s stomach twisted.
“He was disciplined,” Mr. Perry continued, “and he understood the value of structure and preparation. He had goals for his future—a good college, a respectable career. He understood that the real world is not always easy, but it rewards those who strive.”
He cleared his throat, just once.
“We were proud of him,” he said. “He brought us pride. And I want to remember him not for the tragedy of what happened, but for the years of promise, and of dedication, and of... potential.”
He looked down for a moment. Then back up.
“We thank you for being here. And we thank God for the time we had with him.”
Was. Had. Were.
Was.
Had.
Were.
That was it.
Mr. Perry stepped away.
Todd couldn’t breathe. His ribs felt like they were closing in, bone against bone.
Not a single mention of what Neil loved. Not acting. Not Shakespeare
Not even a memory. A smile. A spark.
Just… potential.
Todd wanted to be sick.
The minister picked up the thread. “Let us stand now for a final blessing…”
Todd’s body moved on instinct. His mind stayed frozen.
White lies.
White lilies.
White noise.
White hands gripping his father’s pistol, eyes looking out the window towards the white, white snow.
A candle flickered again, lower this time.
And suddenly, he was somewhere else.
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The cave was lit by candles too, but theirs were stolen from the kitchen or smuggled in coat pockets—stubby and dripping with mischief. The air had been sharp with pine and boyish laughter. Neil had stood at the center, flushed from the hike, dark locks wild with sweat and wind.
He was reading Shakespeare with such theatrical flair that even Pitts, usually so quiet, laughed out loud.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Neil grinned, pacing in exaggerated circles. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate!”
There were claps and wolf whistles. The words echoed off the stone walls like spells.
Todd had been sitting against the back wall, his knees pulled to his chest, pretending not to watch. But he had. Every second.
Neil’s voice had softened on the final couplet.
“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
A pause.
Todd looked up.
Their eyes met—just for a breath, a flicker, a moment—and Todd had felt it like being seen in the dark. Like being named. He looked down at his notebook, heart pounding like he'd done something wrong just for feeling it.
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Back in the chapel, Todd’s chest ached with the force of memory. His jaw locked to hold something in—grief, rage, love. Something dangerous.
The service ended in droning benedictions. People filed out, quiet as ghosts, offering awkward condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Perry, who nodded like they were accepting apologies at a cocktail party.
Todd waited until most of them were gone.
He didn’t want to go back to Welton. Not yet. Not to the dorm room where Neil’s bed was already stripped clean, the mattress sterile and cold like a wound sewn shut too quickly.
But eventually, he was standing there. Alone.
The room was quieter than it had ever been.
No rustling papers. No humming from Neil’s side. No smell of ink or soap. Just Todd. And the absence.
He sat on his bed and let the silence swallow him.
It was hours later—maybe more—when he finally turned toward Neil’s side. Not to invade, not really. Just… to feel something. He moved like he was underwater.
When he lifted the pillow, he didn’t expect to find anything.
But there it was.
A folder, soft with use. The script from A Midsummer Night’s Dream , the edges worn from being flipped and crumpled, annotated with Neil’s hurried, looping handwriting.
Todd’s breath caught.
Inside the cover, there was a folded scrap of paper. Lined. Tucked neatly, almost deliberately, like it had been left for someone to find. For him.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
You were brilliant today. Don’t forget it. —T.
Todd stared at his own handwriting.
He remembered now—writing it quickly after rehearsal, not knowing if he’d ever have the courage to say it aloud. Neil had taken the note, smiled, and tucked it into the script without comment.
He’d kept it.
Todd pressed the note to his chest like it could stop the ache. Like maybe, if he held it tightly enough, he could go back. Say more. Do more.
The silence returned, thick and smothering. No footsteps. No laughter. No voice reciting poetry like it mattered.
He whispered, barely audible: “I’m sorry.”
His tears were silent.
Not loud. Not cinematic.
Just slow and steady, falling onto the script like ink.
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He lit a candle that night in their dorm room.
Not out of faith. Not for God.
For Neil.
It sat on the windowsill, its flame small but alive. Todd watched it burn until his eyes ached and his vision blurred.
The script stayed under his pillow.
Like maybe dreams could take him back to that cave.
To a boy who quoted sonnets like they were secrets.
To laughter that felt like sunlight.
To love that was never named, but lived in every silence between lines.