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Chapter Text

Todd returned to Welton on Sunday; the bitter January airs a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of his childhood home. The semester break had been exactly what he expected, two weeks of polite, strained silence under the shadow of his brother's framed photo with the whole experience of a masterclass feeling like an interruption.

He set his meager suitcase down and the room itself was a rigid box of twin desks and iron-frame beds, smelling faintly of old disinfectant and institutional polish. But it felt alien right now, sterile and half-finished, because Neil wasn't here yet. Todd looked across the room at Neil’s half. The bed was made military-tight, the desk bare, reflecting the meticulous organization Neil employed to keep the rigid demands of Welton—and his father. Neil's usual side, which typically looked like a controlled explosion of scripts, book lists, and bold, impossible plans, was jarringly empty

Todd was used to the noise, the sheer volume of Neil’s presence, the absence of it made the air heavy. He was accustomed to Neil’s orbit already spilling over onto his own side, a comfortable, welcome encroachment.

He smoothed the fabric on his mattress, thinking of how six months ago he’d dreaded this room, expecting a cold, silent roommate. Instead, he’d found Neil. The poets had collectively adopted him. Todd knelt by his scuffed leather suitcase, unzipping the latch. He pulled out a stack of neatly folded shirts, then paused, his fingers brushing against something wrapped in soft brown paper at the bottom.

It was a copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, a new printing, the cover worn smooth from nervous handling. He’d intended it for Neil. He’d planned to leave it on Neil's desk with a simple card, something noncommittal. But the words had died in his throat every time he tried to think of what to write, and the shame of the gift had made him pack it again.

A blush crept up the back of Todd’s neck. He quickly nudged the book back under a sweater, zipping the suitcase shut with unnecessary force.

He wasn’t a gift giver. He didn't know how to express value, how to risk offering a piece of himself. He lifted the book, taking a shallow breath, and glanced at the empty expanse of Neil's desk.

Flat, waiting, expectant. Now or never. He imagined Neil finding it, holding it, perhaps asking where it came from. The thought made his stomach knot.

It’s too much.

A frantic, uneven rhythm of steps echoed down the hall—Neil. Todd’s entire body unlocked, the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding instantly dissolving. He shoved the last piece of clothing over the hidden book and slammed the suitcase shut just as the door burst open, predictably unannounced. Neil was standing there, the personification of disruption. He wore a ridiculously large, green wool sweater emblazoned with a leaping stag worn with ironic pride and clutched two steaming mugs. His energy flooded the small space, pushing back the shadows.

“Anderson! There you are brooding. I swear, you’re trying to sink into the floorboards again,” Neil announced, his voice bright but edged with a genuine. He crossed the room in three quick strides, placing a chipped mug that smelled strongly of spice and molasses firmly on Todd’s desk.

“Hot cider. Knox’s mother sent a batch. Perfect cure for existential January dread,” he declared, before flopping onto his own, now violently crumpled, bed. He immediately began peeling a small orange, the sharp citrus smell cutting through the stale air.

“Thanks, Neil,” he mumbled, trying to meet Neil’s eyes but looking instead at the leaping stag on the sweater. He looked from his own closed suitcase to Neil’s side of the room, still unnervingly tidy. Neil followed Todd’s gaze, understanding instantly. He waved a dismissive hand, the gesture grand even when sitting down.

“Oh, right. Don’t mind my impeccable sense of order. I dropped my luggage at the main door. My trunks are still making their way up, courtesy of a particularly slow freshman who owes Charlie a favor or thinks he does, anyway.” He paused, his bright expression dimming just a fraction as he looked at Todd.

Neil didn't need words to read him. Todd’s posture was too straight and his grip on the mug spoke volumes. Neil always knew. It was the same look he had in September. That look of a rabbit caught in the moonlight, desperate to bolt but too fascinated by the light to move. Except now, fascination was replacing fear, slowly, awkwardly. Neil took a long, necessary sip of his cider. He wouldn't let him retreat. “Say, I meant to ask,” Neil began again, his voice dropping slightly, “Did you manage to get home for Christmas, after all?”

Todd investigated the swirling brown liquid. “Yeah,” he said simply. He did not elaborate on the sterile perfection of the house or the strained compliments on his report card. “It was… quiet.” Neil’s gaze deepened. His posture shifting, immediately understanding. “Oh. Right. Well. The old man kept me pinned until this morning. Made me review the entire first semester’s organic chemistry. Thrilling.”

He then brightened, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, shifting the focus away from his own anxiety. "Well, forget chemistry. Did you make out like a bandit, at least? What glorious new contraption did your parents bestow upon the esteemed Mr. Anderson for his academic excellence?"

Todd hunched his shoulders slightly, clutching the warm mug tighter. The honest answer felt small and ridiculous next to Neil’s unrestrained energy. "Oh. Just... you know. A new dictionary. And a desk set. Pen, pencil, letter opener. All brass." He paused, feeling the need to validate the boring nature of the gift. "It's... functional."

Neil pulled a dramatic face of pity. "A desk set. How very Welton of them. They couldn't spring for a decent set of bongos or a lifetime subscription to the New Yorker?" He shook his head, then gave a reassuring, lopsided smile. "You deserve a better gift, Anderson." The casual sincerity of the compliment made Todd's face heat up again.

The casual sincerity of the compliment made Todd's face heat up again. Suddenly, Neil unfolded himself from the bed and started toward the door, not with his usual theatrical burst, but a fast, focused stride.

Todd blinked, utterly confused. “Neil? Where are you-”

“Hold that thought, Anderson! Urgent poetry errand, I’ll be right back,” Neil called over his shoulder, already out the door. Todd stared at the empty doorway. An urgent poetry errand? Neil didn't even have his main luggage yet.

Todd felt the familiar anxiety rise, was he supposed to follow? Did Neil need him? He hated being left alone when he didn't understand the assignment. Just as the confusion peaked, the door swung open again and Neil stepped back in, his expression conspiratorial and his hands held behind his back.

He brought his hands out, revealing a perfectly ordinary, deep blue fountain pen, tipped with silver. It wasn’t extravagant, but it looked heavy.

He held it out. “Happy Late Christmas, Anderson.”

Todd stared at the pen, then at Neil’s open, genuine face. His heart gave a startled, almost painful thump against his ribs. It wasn’t just a pen; the cap had been engraved: T.A. “I know, I know,” Neil rushed on, anticipating the awkward silence. “I made an emergency trip down to the station shop. I had them rush the carving. It’s supposed to be better than a desk set.” He grinned, a quick, dazzling flash of warmth.

“Well, technically you do have a pen now, but you should probably just throw the brass one into the lake, because this one’s much cooler. You should write better poetry with it.”

Todd's hand trembled as he reached for it. He took the pen, the metal cool and solid against his palm.

T.A. His initials. Not Jeffrey Anderson’s little brother. Just him. Todd Anderson.

It was the first gift in his life that felt like it was truly for him and not for the expectations placed upon him. A wave of dizzying warmth washed over him. He thought of me. He thought of me while he was stuck at home. He rushed to give this to me.

He managed to look up, holding the pen like it was delicate glass. “Neil… thank you. I—”

Neil waved his hand, already turning away to pick up his orange. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, a poet needs his tools.” Just then, a loud, heavy thump-scrape echoed from the doorway as two large, matching leather trunks were shoved unceremoniously across the threshold. The slow freshman who owed Charlie a favor gave a pained nod and scurried away.

“Great! My stuff’s here.” Neil said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction and hopped off his bed to immediately unpack. Todd watched him, still clutching the new, engraved pen. He noticed the speed with which Neil worked, shoving ties, books, and shirts into the drawers. It was all the same clothing, the same meticulous stacks of textbooks, and the same worn copy of Shakespeare. Neil always came back from break with a fresh burst of energy, but usually, there was a new gadget, a book on acting, or some small, exciting proof of his ambition.

Todd saw none of it.

Without thinking, the question slipped past the gate of his usual reserve. “Did-did you get anything new for Christmas?” Neil paused, lifting the enormous, leaping stag sweater off his bed and folding it neatly, which was highly uncharacteristic. He turned, holding the sweater like evidence.

“This,” he said, nodding toward the absurd garment. “This, from my mother. And… that’s it, really. She thinks it brings out my enthusiasm.” He grinned, but the smile was a practiced mask, not reaching his eyes.

Todd stared at the sweater. He knew Neil’s father had strict ideas about gifts being "frivolous" or "distracting." That’s it? Todd felt the sting of Mr. Perry’s cold indifference toward the boy who had just survived another grueling semester at Welton. Neil had come home with nothing new, no token of support, not even the promise of a future that included his own dreams.

Todd felt a sudden surge of anger and focused on the empty-handed father. The man could not give him a single thing: no book, no trip, no album—only a demanding look across a sterile dinner table. Neil had risked a trip to the station shop and an extra expense to buy Todd a tool for poetry, while his own father offered nothing but a lecture on organic chemistry.

His grip tightened on the engraved pen. He couldn’t give Neil the Whitman, but he could hold onto the silent knowledge that at least he got him something. “Well,” Todd finally managed, pushing the outrage down and finding a neutral voice. “It’s a good sweater.” Neil’s grin immediately became more genuine. “It is, isn’t it? It’s completely ridiculous, which is precisely why I love it.” He tossed it onto the pillow.

Neil picked up the two empty mugs. “I should probably return these cups to Knox. Are you finished with yours?” Todd quickly drained the last sweet sip and nodded, handing his chipped mug back.

“The air down here is too thin for poetry, anyway,” Neil said, his voice dropping slightly as he balanced the mugs. “The others are probably filtering into the attic now.”

He was leaving. They were moving on.

Clarity seized him. If he waited until the Society meeting, or until tomorrow, the fear would win again. Whitman would stay buried at the bottom of the scuffed suitcase forever, an unmade offering, an unexpressed word. He looked at the closed suitcase, then at the bright, moving back of the boy who had seen him.

“Neil, wait!”

The word was louder than he intended that made Neil freeze with his hand on the doorknob and the mugs rattling softly. Todd felt his face instantly drained of color. He was breathing too fast, the air seizing in his lungs. He didn't look at Neil, he just dropped the pen onto the desk and lunged for his suitcase, fumbling desperately with the latch.

“Anderson? What is it? Did you forget something?” Todd ignored him, tearing open the case, his fingers scrabbling under the stack of clothes until they caught the familiar, soft brown paper.

He yanked it out, nearly upending the suitcase in the process. He straightened up, holding the wrapped book like it was evidence of a terrible crime. He couldn’t form a sentence. He simply held it out, his arm stiff with awkwardness, his eyes somewhere else. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him to retract the offering. Neil turned fully, setting the mugs on the nearest desk with uncharacteristic quiet. He stepped closer, carefully taking the book.

“Todd…” he breathed, holding the soft, paper-wrapped block. His gaze flicked to the item, then back to Todd, whose throat was constricted, leaving him mute.

Slowly and carefully, Neil peeled back the paper. When he saw the title, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass—he looked up, and his eyes, usually so full of movement and planning, were utterly still. “Whitman,” Neil murmured, running a thumb over the new cover. “You… you got me Whitman.” Then, without a single preamble, Neil Perry hugged him.

It wasn't a casual, half-hearted pat on the back, or the boisterous shove that Neil sometimes gave. This was a full, firm embrace. Neil’s arms wrapped tightly around Todd’s shoulders, pulling him close, pressing the Whitman between their chests.

Todd was the slightly shorter one well not by much, but enough that his chin naturally rested against the solid curve of Neil’s collarbone, and Neil’s head rested easily atop his own. He was completely enveloped beneath the generous pressure. He could feel the warmth of Neil’s body through the thick wool of the ridiculous stag sweater. He could smell a clean scent of soap, the faint citrus of the orange, and something else, uniquely Neil.

His ear was pressed against Neil’s shoulder, and he could hear the steady thrum of Neil’s heart, surprisingly calm.

For an exhilarating second, Todd didn’t know how to respond. His own arms felt like dead weights, hovering uselessly at his sides. His cheeks were blazing a blush than any embarrassment had ever caused. Slowly, and carefully, Todd raised his own arms until his hands rested on Neil’s back. He squeezed, just slightly, letting the gesture speak the words his throat still refused to form.

Neil held him for another long moment, a shared breath, before finally pulling back. “Seriously. Thank you. This means a lot,” Neil repeated, his voice low, almost a whisper. Just as Todd was finally opening his mouth to try and form a full sentence of reply, the door didn't just open, it was kicked wide by a flamboyant heel.

“Perry! Anderson! You two are dragging your academic, dead feet!” Charlie swaggered into the room, his tweed jacket unbuttoned and his hair already looking creatively disheveled. He was holding a large, rolled-up sheet of paper that looked suspiciously like a banned poster. “Knox is already agonizing over his love life, Pitts and Meeks are arguing about the correct metric translation of some Latin phrase, and I, I am facing a poetic crisis!” Charlie pointed dramatically at Neil. “I need a fresh pair of brains for a rhyming couplet that is going to revolutionize the school paper! You look like you’ve been doing something secret. Spill.”

Neil chuckled, tucking the Whitman carefully beneath his arm.

“We were just discussing the merits of quiet study, Charlie. Something you should try,” Neil replied, scooping up the mugs. “And your poetic crisis can wait. We’ll solve the great ‘agate’ mystery later. We have a meeting to start.”

“Fine, fine. But bring the cider cups, you lazy lackeys,” Charlie muttered, already turning back toward the hall. “I’m seizing the day, I just need a proper audience for the seizing!” Neil grinned at Todd, the warmth from the hug still lingering, but his focus was now entirely external, pulled by the demands of his self-appointed Society leadership. “Come on, Anderson. Let’s go.”

The next morning, the air in the third-floor classroom was thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. The holiday break felt entirely undone by the return to the grind of rote lessons and stiff chairs. Keating stood on his desk, of course. He had started the class perching there, watching the boys ease reluctantly back into their usual postures of quiet dread.

He didn't speak a quote from Shakespeare or Thoreau.

“‘Look stranger, on this island now, the leaping light for you must burn.’”

He paused, letting the unexpected words settle. Cameron frowned, searching his mind for the meter. Neil leaned forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. Todd froze, he knew that line. It wasn't one of the standard anthologized greats. the quiet Englishman whose reputation even tucked away on a Welton library shelf that carried the weight of a brilliant openly gay poet.

It was from W. H. Auden, the quiet Englishman whose poetry often turned on the desperate need for authenticity, even in isolation. Todd had only found it because the library catalog misfiled Auden's collections.

A sudden, fierce blush spread across the back of Todd's neck, hot and undeniable. Why did he know that poem? Was it so obvious? Did the fluency with Auden's quiet, coded longing mean that he was the only one in the room... the only one who truly understood what a life lived in secret felt like?

Keating met Todd’s eyes from across the room, offering a quick, subtle nod that contained an entire, unspoken conversation.

You know this one, Anderson.

You see what I mean.

Todd quickly averted his gaze, his heart hammering against his ribs, and instinctively looked at Neil who was chewing on the end of his pencil.

His brow furrowed in concentration, clearly trying to place the author. Did Neil know? Neil, with his passionate intensity and his refusal to be contained, did his radical freedom extend to that kind of hidden life? Was that part of the tacit bond, too? Todd watched Neil shake his head slightly, frustrated at not recognizing the line. Probably not, Todd concluded, the brief, dizzying hope immediately stifled.

“Gentlemen, you have enjoyed your brief foray into the world outside these walls,” Keating said, hopping down from the desk, his shoes hitting the floor with a decisive thump. “But now, the clock starts again. You are not statues. You have energy. You have the capacity for flight. But what are you doing with it?”

He walked to the blackboard and, instead of writing an assignment, he drew a single, heavy line across the width of the slate.

“For this semester, we shall not just be reading. We shall be creating. We shall be confronting the terrible truth of the blank page,” Keating announced, his voice dropping to an almost reverent tone. “Your first assignment is simple, terrifying, and due at the end of this week.”

He turned back to the class, his eyes sparkling with a familiar challenge. “You will write a letter. A full, honest, unflinching, deeply personal letter to the one person who you believe holds the greatest influence over your life. The person whose expectations you carry like a second spine.”

A hand shot up instantly, not with a question about meter or deadline, but with a brazen, mischievous curl of the lip. “Excuse me, sir,” Charlie drawled, leaning back in his chair. “But if we’re writing to the person whose expectations we carry… do we have to address the envelope to ‘Mr. Keating’ or do we just leave it blank and hope the post office figures it out?”

A scattered wave of nervous laughter rippled through the classroom. Keating only smiled, a slow, knowing pull of his lips.

“A thoughtful question, Mr. Dalton,” Keating replied, his tone dry. “But I assure you, your fathers possess spines significantly more rigid than mine. And unlike me, they have the power to influence your entire financial future. For now, choose the expectation that causes the deepest dread. That is the necessary point of confrontation.” Charlie subsided with a sigh, tapping his pen on the desk, his mind already churning with rebellious ideas.

The bell rang and the room erupted in the controlled bustle of Welton boys. Neil didn’t even wait for Keating to dismiss them. He grabbed his books and immediately darted around the corner of the desk to where Todd was already trying to gather his things and become invisible.

“Anderson! What was that line?” Neil demanded, leaning in close, his intensity bypassing Todd’s need for space entirely. “The one Keating opened with. I swear I've read him, but I couldn’t place the damn thing. Auden, right? He was looking straight at you when he said it.” The directness of the question made Todd’s nerves instantly fray.

“I—I don’t know,” Todd stammered, pulling his notebook close to his chest. “I think... I might have seen it. In an old magazine, maybe. It’s not one of his famous ones.” He felt his cheeks grow hot, the defensive lie already sounding weak and flimsy.

Neil just chuckled, a deep, easy sound that cut through Todd’s panic. He clapped him firmly on the back. “A magazine, sure. You’re terrible at lying, Anderson. But it’s fine. You’re good at poetry, so you must know a good line when you hear one. That’s why I asked.” Todd just stared at him, the compliment delivered with such casualness that it disarmed his defensiveness completely.

“Aha! Todd is blushing!” Charlie suddenly appeared at Todd’s elbow, “Look at him, Perry! That’s the blush of a man who’s been caught with illicit knowledge! Did you and Keating have a secret little poetry date over the Christmas break, Anderson? Was the Auden quote your secret handshake?” “Shut up, Charlie,” Neil said automatically, but his smile was amusing. He grabbed Todd's arm and pulled him toward the door.

The dining room was a loud, steaming, miserable spectacle, but the poets always claimed the same battered corner table. Knox was already there, looking unusually focused and not entirely miserable, usually a good sign. Meeks and Pitts were leaning over a textbook. Neil slammed his tray down. “Gather ‘round, gentlemen! We have a crisis of conscience, courtesy of Mr. Keating.”

Knox, however, barely glanced up from his lukewarm beef stew. “I tried to call Chris this morning,” Knox announced. “Her father answered the phone.”

“I think he recognized me. I could hear the sheer, cold contempt in his voice, even through the receiver.”

“It’s January, Knox, just try again next month,” Meeks advised dryly, not looking up from his calculations.

“No, Meeks! That’s not the point! I need to do something audacious,” Knox insisted, stabbing a piece of potato. “This letter assignment… I should write the letter to her father. An honest, unflinching declaration of my pure, true intentions for his daughter.” Charlie let out a bark of laughter. “You write that, Knox, and the next expectation you carry will be a shotgun pellet in your spine! The letter is for confrontation, not martyrdom.”

As the poets devolved into a chaotic argument over the merits of wooing Chris versus confronting her father, watched them.

Todd carefully arranged the contents of his own tray, making his space neat and controlled. Knox was complaining about a girl, his face twisted in open anguish. The problem was external, visible, and could be poured out onto the table for advice, mockery, and shared sympathy. Even Charlie’s reckless pursuit of notoriety was something the group could rally around.

It must be easy, Todd thought, the cold, bitter kernel of envy forming in his chest. To live a life where the most terrifying truth you have is that you like a girl who is unobtainable.

They were all terrified of disappointing their fathers, of getting expelled, of failing in geometry. But they weren't terrified of who they fundamentally were. Knox could stand up, declare his love for a girl, and be met with a threat of violence or a laugh but never complete, total erasure.

Todd couldn't risk the Auden quote, much less the letter. He already carried the weight of Jeffrey Anderson’s legacy, the suffocating expectation to measure up to his genius brother. That alone was enough to make him silent but beneath that lay a far greater.

He was gay.

His existence wasn't a choice of career or a risk of poetry. it was a total contradiction to the world he was expected to inhabit. If he wrote the 'honest, unflinching letter,' it wouldn't be about college or his brother's ghost. It would be about being gay, about being alone. That truth wouldn't earn him a stern letter or a consequence but it would earn him exile.

He was silent not out of shyness, but out of necessity. It was a hardship that couldn't be shared over beef stew and loud jokes. Neil, catching Todd’s distant look, nudged him gently with his elbow. “Don’t let them drag you into the mire, Anderson. What do you think of the letter? What’s your angle?” Todd looked at Neil, whose eyes were full of encouraging mischief. The question was an invitation, but Todd only offered a safe answer.

“I… I think,” Todd began, his voice barely audible over the din of the dining hall, “We should probably address it to our parents, Neil. Like Keating said.” Neil smiled knowingly. “Right. The practical approach. Always the safe path, Anderson. But we’re poets, aren’t we? We’re supposed to step off the path.”

“Safe?” Charlie Dalton interjected, leaning forward and lowering his voice conspiratorially, though it was still loud enough to carry over the din. He skewered a piece of meat and pointed it at Neil. “Neil, you writing an honest letter to your old man is about as safe as juggling dynamite while riding a unicycle off the Welton clock tower. You know what he wants you to write—Organic Chemistry, Sir, Signed, Your Obedient Son. Anything else, and it’s open war.” Charlie had a point. The others—Meeks, Pitts, and even Knox, whose father was a stern surgeon could write a passionate plea for their dreams, and the worst consequence would be a summer job. For Neil, it could be the complete, irreversible end of his freedom.

Todd felt a cold spike of fear on Neil's behalf. He looked at Neil, expecting him to snap back at Charlie or offer a clever deflection. Instead, Neil simply took a large bite of his sandwich, his gaze holding Charlie's steady. “It’s not safe,” Neil admitted quietly. “It’s necessary.” He looked directly at Todd, his eyes shining with clarity. “The letter is a declaration of independence, Todd. We can’t Carpe Diem if we’re still lying to the very people who built our cage.” He glanced around the table, taking in the worried faces of his friends. “We’re not going to fail this assignment by writing timid letters that say nothing. We’re going to write the truth. And we’re going to deliver them.”

Todd leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Neil, if you’re going to write the truth… does that mean you’re going to tell him about the play? The one you were eyeing to audition for this spring?” Neil’s resolute expression wavered, but only for a fraction of a second. His fingers tightened around his fork.

“Yes,” he said the single word firm. “If I don’t put it in the letter, I’ll never do it. The letter is the commitment, Todd.” Neil slammed his hand down on the table that startled the poets into silence. “We’ll meet tonight, eight o’clock, in the cave. Everyone comes with a draft. We’ll read them aloud. We’ll make sure they’re honest, unflinching, and worth the risk. Understood?” The collective energy shifted from anxiety to rebellion.

Todd, however, said nothing. He stared at the half-eaten beef stew on his plate. Neil had just raised the stakes impossibly high, turning a difficult assignment into a group commitment. Now, Todd was bound to write a truth he could not even articulate in his own head, much less commit to paper for his parents.

The letter to the Anderson family home, he thought miserably. The lie is already written.

By 5:47 PM, the late afternoon light was thin and gray, casting long, stark shadows in Dorm 304. Neil was in the shower, using the shared bathroom before the supper rush. Todd sat at his desk, his history textbook lay open to a random page, an unconvincing prop for anyone who might walk in.

The last hour of the dining hall debate replayed relentlessly in his mind. Todd knew Neil was writing to his father about the play.

Neil had looked at him, inviting him to match the courage. But what was his equivalent? He picked up the pen, his hands steady, though his heart felt like a trapped bird beating against his ribs.

The person whose expectations you carry like a second spine.

He closed his eyes. The letter had two obvious, devastating recipients.

Firstly, his parents. He could confront the decades of expectation they had draped over him. The silent comparison to Jeffrey Anderson, the assumption that Todd was merely the stable understudy for his brilliant older brother, meant only for a career in law and a life without risk. That letter alone would require a bravery he wasn't sure he possessed, ripping open the polite facade of the Anderson family home.

Or, he could write the letter that would destroy everything. The truth that defined the reason he felt such a panicked, proprietary warmth when he thought of Neil. But that was impossible. That letter couldn't be written, much less delivered. He opened his eyes and forced himself to begin. He decided on the "safe" lie, the confrontation about his brother's ghost.

He carefully dated the top right corner: January 7, 1959.

He dipped the pen and began to write, his hand already tight and formal, like his father's script.

Dear Father and Mother,

He paused. The words felt immediately hollow, inadequate. He tried again.

I am writing to you because Mr. Keating has assigned a letter of honest confrontation. I feel compelled to inform you that I do not intend to pursue a degree in law, nor do I intend to spend my life in my brother's shadow.

He stared at the ink. It was the truth, but it was only a fraction of the truth, and already it felt too exposed. It felt like an insult to Jeffrey, a direct act of defiance against the only future he’d ever been offered and it still said nothing about the truth of himself. He slammed the heel of his hand down on the page, smudging the ink. The paper was ruined. He crumpled the sheet and threw it toward the wastebasket, missing by a foot.

I can't do this, he thought, I can't even write the safe lie, much less the truth.

The dorm room door opened with a decisive click.

Neil stepped in, a cloud of steam following him from the hallway. He was wrapped in a towel low around his waist, his chest and arms bare, his hair dark and slick with water, which he was vigorously drying with a second towel. Todd’s breath hitched. He wasn't unfamiliar with Neil in various states of undress this was a boarding school, after all, but the two weeks of Christmas break seemed to have accentuated Neil's height and broadened his shoulders. The lines of his torso were more defined, and the ease with which he moved, casually exposed, was dizzying.

Todd’s cheeks instantly blazed with heat. Idiot, he silently cursed himself, gripping the edge of his desk. Stop staring. It’s Neil. You see him every day.

Neil, focused entirely on his hair, didn't notice Todd's silent, panicked observation. He tossed the wet hair towel onto his bed. “Well, you look appropriately miserable,” Neil said, his voice casual. He walked over to his dresser, rummaging for a shirt.

“Have you figured out the unlucky recipient of your unflinching honesty yet, Anderson? You going with the parents, or are you pulling a Knox and writing to a girl’s disapproving uncle?” Neil turned back, pulling a clean white t-shirt over his head in one swift motion, Todd stammered still reeling from the visual whiplash.

“I—I don’t know. I was just... thinking.” He gestured vaguely at his desk, carefully avoiding looking at the crumpled paper on the floor. Neil grabbed a pair of trousers and sat on his bed to pull them on, his eyes sharp now. “Well, you have about two hours before we’re due in the cave. We need an angle, Todd. And you need to commit. You can’t seize the day if you’re still trying to hide what you want to say.” Todd swallowed hard as he felt utterly lacked.

“I know,” Todd whispered, looking down at his desk. “I just... it's hard.”

Neil paused, the belt to his trousers half-fastened. The playful challenge in his eyes softened, replaced by a genuine, focused concern.

“I know it is,” Neil said simply. He stood up and took a step toward Todd’s desk. “Tell me about it.” Neil stood close, leaning over the desk to better see the blank page and the crumpled, rejected drafts scattered nearby. Todd was sitting, shrinking beneath the sudden, intense proximity. The heat from Neil’s freshly showered skin, the scent of his hair and soap, it all made Todd’s heart thump so loud he was sure Neil could hear it.

Neil placed one hand firmly on the back of Todd’s wooden chair and rested the other on the desk near the ruined paper. He glanced at the crumpled failure on the floor, then at the half-written draft on the desk. He read the exposed words silently: ...I do not intend to pursue a degree in law, nor do I intend to spend my life in my brother's shadow.

“See, this is a start, Todd,” Neil murmured, his voice low and serious. “But you stopped. And this” he tapped the word on the clean paper “this sounds like a formal rebuttal, not an unflinching letter.” He paused, his gaze catching the crumpled paper nearest the wastebasket. “What’s on this one? Did you try the truth?”

As Neil spoke, a bead of water, still clinging to the dark, damp curve of his hair, finally dripped. It landed squarely on the center of the clean sheet, blooming outward and instantly dissolving the faint, private notes Todd had jotted down in the margin notes about the Auden quote, notes about being seen.

The water stain was a strange, sudden signal bleeding onto the safe lie. Todd swallowed hard, the warmth of Neil's presence overwhelming his ability to breathe. He couldn't lie, not when Neil was this close, this focused. But he couldn't tell the whole truth either. He had to give him the acceptable sacrifice.

“It’s about Jeffrey,” Todd finally managed, his voice a painful rasp. “The expectations... they’re not just my parents’. They think I’m supposed to be him. I’m supposed to be brilliant, Neil. And I’m not. I can’t write a letter that says I’m not the son they want, because then... what am I?”

He looked up at Neil, his eyes pleading for understanding. It was the hardest truth he could admit, the only honest fear he could name without inviting total devastation. Neil’s focused intensity didn't break. He moved his hand from the back of the chair and rested it gently on Todd’s shoulder, a direct, comforting weight.

“You’re Todd Anderson,” Neil said, his voice quiet but absolute. “You’re the one who wrote your barbaric yawp on the front page of the world. And you’re the one who got me Whitman for Christmas.”

Chapter Text

At eight o’clock, the attic room with a single oil lantern threw shadows and made the faces of the six boys look drawn and serious.

They were all there Knox, Meeks, Pitts, and Charlie huddled on makeshift seats with a collection of stolen cushions and broken trunks. Neil sat cross-legged on the floor, Todd sat nearest to the rough brick wall, his back pressed against the cold.

After the usual ritual, Neil wasted no time.

“Gentlemen,” Neil announced, his voice firm, cutting through the silence. “”Who goes first?” Charlie raised his hand. He pulled a sheet of stationery from his pocket. His letter wasn't to his parents, but to the Board of Directors of Welton. It was audacious, demanding the immediate inclusion of female students and a complete revision of the English curriculum, signed ‘Nuwanda.’ The poets laughed, but knowing Charlie it had a little seriousness to it.

Next was Knox. He stood and read his letter, which was addressed to Chris’s father. It was not a plea for permission, but a verbose declaration of his love, borrowing heavily from Lord Byron.

It was ridiculous but heartbreakingly earnest and earned a roar of supportive laughter.

Meeks and Pitts read their letters next, both argued treatises to their respective fathers detailing why their passion for engineering or radio repair was more valuable than a safe career in medicine. The energy in the cave grew taut.

They were actually doing this.

Then, the focus swung to Neil. He took a deep breath, unfolded a sheet of paper, and began to read, his voice firm despite the obvious cost. He addressed his father directly, listing the facts of his life.

His grades, his achievements before pivoting with the truth hidden the constraints of his expectations.

“But Father, I cannot spend my life waiting to start living.

I will be auditioning for the local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This is not a distraction; this is my truth.

If you cannot accept the man I must become, then I regret that I cannot be the son you wish for.”

The cave was completely silent when he finished. Neil folded the letter slowly, his hands trembling only slightly. He looked at Todd. “Todd?” Neil prompted gently. “Your turn.”

Todd felt the blood drain from his face, all he had was the memory of Neil's damp, warm shoulder and the Auden quote dripping onto the page. He stood up, his legs were unsteady as the poets watched him.

“I… I didn’t write one,” Todd whispered, the words barely escaping his throat. It was the easiest, safest way out. The reaction was immediate disappointment.

“Toddsie, come on,” Charlie muttered. “You’ve got to commit.”

Neil stepped closer, his voice urgent, and focused only on Todd. “You can’t back out, Todd. You said you knew who you needed to write to. You can write it now. You have to write it now.” The pressure was suffocating.

Write the lie and betray the group.

Write the truth and destroy his entire life.

Todd shook his head, looking down at the bare dirt “I can’t. I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

Neil didn't move. He reached out and placed a firm, warm hand on Todd’s arm, ignoring the chill of the room. “Yes, you do, Todd. You already know.”

He didn't need to draft. The words had been stored, polished by years of repressed anguish.

The shame of being second, the frustration of being measured.

The candle flickered, and the only sounds were the quiet shifting of the other poets and the frantic scratch of Todd’s pen. He wrote the date, the formal salutation, and then he poured the years of resentment onto the page.

...You expect me to be Jeffrey, but I am not him. I am not the brilliant one, I am the one who struggles for every word.

Every time you mention his grades, his accomplishments, his future is a sentence passed on mine.

I will not study law. I will not live a life of perfect mediocrity pretending to be a fraction of the genius you lost.

The silence you have given me is a mirror of your disappointment, and I will not take responsibility for it.

It wasn't the deepest truth, but it was honest. When he finished, his hand was trembling, and he lowered the paper to glance at the audience.

No one laughed, no one dared to say a single word. Then, Neil started clapping and stepped forward.

"That's it, Todd," Neil whispered, his voice full of pride. He gently took the letter from Todd’s shaking hand, folded it once, then twice, and pressed the crease down firmly.

"That was your barbaric yawp, Anderson. Loud and clear." Charlie leaned forward, his usual mockery replaced by sincere admiration.

“Damn, Anderson. You really meant it. You're not that stiff kid who did nothing but read the minutes of the meeting anymore."

"He's right," Knox chimed in, nodding earnestly. "It took more courage than writing a letter to Chris’ father. That's a letter that could actually get you cut off.”

"You heard them. Now you know what you sound like when you stop apologizing for the space you take up."

The fear was still there massive and real but beneath it he had found his voice. "The letters are written," Neil announced, turning to the group, his command instantly restoring order.

"We'll hold onto them for now. The point was to write the truth, not necessarily incite a riot before morning. We'll decide how to proceed tomorrow."

The candle was extinguished, and the boys quickly dispersed, pulling collars up against the cold as they slipped out of the attic, back toward the deceptive safety of their dorms.

Todd walked straight to his desk. His letter felt warm in his hand. It wasn't the complete truth, no, but it was the first time he had ever named the weight of his brother’s shadow aloud for an audience that mattered.

Neil was already peeling off his clothes, preparing for bed with his usual easy speed. He stopped, holding a sock, and turned to Todd. He didn't smile, and all trace of the meeting’s leader was gone. “Todd,” Neil said softly, “That was… brave. It took more nerve than all of us combined.” Todd focused on pulling his own shirt over his head, trying to hide the immediate flush of heat that rushed into his face.

He knew the praise was entirely deserved but accepting it felt dangerously exposed. “I had to,” he mumbled into the wool. He managed to add, “You made me.”

Neil chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Good. That’s what poets are for. To make you do things you wouldn’t dare do alone.” Todd hesitated, then took a chance, leaning casually against the footboard of his bed.

“Hey, Neil,” Todd began, his voice surprisingly steady. “That quote Keating used this morning. The one about the stranger on the island and the leaping light.”

Neil, who was now pulling his blankets down, looked up, still frowning in concentration. “Auden. I still can’t place the exact poem, but I remember looking it up once. Why?”

Todd shrugged, pushing the words out before his fear could censor them. “I just remember reading that he wasn’t talking about a stranger at all. I mean, he was, but… he was talking about how sometimes the light you need to see, the true light, is something you have to hide.”

Neil stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Todd’s face. He didn't understand the specific subtext. He didn't know that Auden was gay, or why that single fact made the poem a silent confession of Todd's own existence.

Todd’s heart twisted, a sickening heartache settled in his chest.

Neil didn't get it. He saw the metaphor, the Carpe Diem application, the shared rebellion against fathers. He didn't see the specific loneliness of knowing that he was gay and alone in this school with that knowledge.

“Right. The truth you must hide,” Neil repeated, nodding slowly. “Well, you found the leaping light tonight, Todd. You just have to let it burn, even if it’s hidden for now.” 

“Good night, Anderson. Don’t worry about the letters yet.”

Keating walked to the window, his back to the class. "We all live double lives. The life we live for ourselves, and the life we live for others. The disciplined student, the dutiful son, the aspiring doctor. And then there is the hidden life: the poet, the lover, the actor." He turned, his voice hardening.

"The space between those two lives is often the birthplace of great poetry, yes. But it is also the source of great exhaustion. You must decide which life you will feed. If your secret life, your hidden truth demands too much energy, it will consume the life that is visible to the world."

Keating dropped the hymnal on the desk with a sharp thud.

"My challenge to you today is this: Do not let your secret truth paralyze your visible life. Let it be the fuel. If you are a poet, write. If you are an actor, perform. The only real failure is failing to act on the fire you finally found the courage to light."

Todd broke out in a sudden, cold sweat. His hands were damp, and the collar of his tweed jacket felt like a noose.

Does he know? The thought was a raw, terrified scream in his mind.

Does Keating know the real, secret truth I wrote the letter for?

The terror was immense because it was specific.

Keating had quoted Auden again.

How does he know? The question twisted in Todd's gut. He was meticulous in his silence, a master of the invisible life. He never lingered in the library's unsanctioned sections. His knowledge of Auden was an accident, a fluke of library misfiling.

Was the simple fact of knowing the wrong poet enough to be damned?

He ran a damp hand across his face. Even if Keating had somehow glimpsed the quiet desperation in his eyes, there was no proof. Knowing a poem wasn't proof of being gay. It couldn't be.

Todd had spent his life perfecting the art of pretending. Yet, Keating's gaze had pierced that veneer with unnerving ease, targeting the exact source of his paralyzing fear.

It was the impossible arithmetic of existence—one known poet, one flash of recognition, equaling the risk of total ruin.

He desperately wanted to believe Keating was simply an astute teacher using a powerful metaphor, but the memory of that brief, knowing nod in class felt too intimate, too direct to be a coincidence.

After class, the poets dispersed quickly, but Neil grabbed Todd’s sleeve with quiet urgency.

Is this it? he thought, his stomach dropping.

Did Keating tell him? Is Neil finally going to confront me about the truth I couldn't write down?

If Neil knew, would he be disgusted? Would he be angry that Todd had been looking at him that way? The thought of losing Neil was far worse than any parental letter. Neil leaned in, his eyes burning with intense energy, and Todd braced for the inevitable, crushing word.

"He's right," Neil muttered, his voice taut. "If I wait, I'll talk myself out of it. The letter wasn't enough. I have to act." Neil’s focused intensity cut straight through Todd's panic, revealing that the fear consuming Neil was entirely about the play, not Todd's hidden sexuality.

The brief, agonizing fear that Neil would reject him for being gay was at once replaced by relief.

"The auditions are tomorrow evening," Neil continued, his voice dropping to conspiratorial whisper. He sat rigid at his desk, watching Neil retrieve the script and begin the focused run-through. Neil was completely immersed in the character of Puck.

Neil paced, his voice taking on the mischievous, intoxicating lilt of the sprite. He stopped suddenly, leaning against the post of Todd’s bed, his expression direct, his large, earnest eyes fixed entirely on Todd.

He wasn't acting in the theater yet then, Neil delivered his lines, as though every word was meant for the person standing right in front of him. He looked directly at Todd, his expression wide and innocent.

“And I serve the Fairy Queen, / To dew her orbs upon the green. / The king doth keep his revels here; / Take heed the Queen come not near.”

Neil’s voice dropped, becoming soft and confessional. The words, plucked from a comedy about mistaken identity and forbidden love, hit Todd with the force of hammering against his ribs. For a terrifying second, he allowed the delusion to take hold.

This is what it feels like, a raw, desperate voice whispered inside him.

This is what it feels like to be confessed to by Neil, with his big, innocent eyes.

The reality snapped back into place instantly, Neil wasn’t seeing Todd Anderson. He was practicing the emotional vulnerability he would soon give to some lucky actor, to some lucky girl who would stand opposite him on a stage.

A sharp, familiar pang of heartache pierced Todd. He saw not the threat of Neil's father, but the threat of a future where Neil would share that bright, open passion with someone who could receive it normally.

And what if it works? A new, dark thought occurred. What if Neil’s performance is so brilliant, so leaping light, that even his father sees it?

What if Neil’s father sees the raw, undeniable chemistry between his son and the lead actress and realizes, not that Neil should be a doctor, but that he should be acting?

The ultimate sacrifice, the true Carpe Diem act, would then be confirmed by the very authority Neil was defying. Todd instantly felt a wave of crushing anger at himself for the thought. He was supposed to be supporting Neil’s pursuit of happiness, not bitterly calculating the heterosexual paths to Neil’s potential approval.

Stop it, Anderson, he commanded himself, seizing his history book, needing a barrier. His father’s approval has nothing to do with you.

Neil broke the intensity with a satisfied sigh, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane he had just created. “How was that? Did the rhyme hold?”

“It was perfect,” Todd managed, his voice a little too rough. “You’ll get the part, Neil.”

Neil, completely unaware of the turmoil he had caused, beamed. “Right. You’re right my poet; I’ll claim this part.”

It was the closest he would ever get to a confession. The yearning was so intense it felt like a pair of dumbbells dropped onto his chest.

He wanted desperately to reciprocate, to claim Neil in return.

He wanted to look up from his desk when Neil finally slipped back through the window and whisper, "My actor."

My actor.

The thought of him actually saying it loud felt thrilling. But if he said it, he wouldn't be confirming Neil's talent; he would be betraying his own intentions. Calling Neil "my actor" would be his own coded Auden line, a declaration that said,

You are the center of the stage, and I am the one who built the scaffolding for you to stand on.

You are mine to watch, mine to protect, mine to dream about.

The phrase was a direct claim, too exposed. Neil would see through it instantly, or, worse, he wouldn't. He would accept it as a term of camaraderie, blind to the affection behind it, which would only amplify Todd’s heartache. Todd dropped his head onto his folded arms on the desk, the chill of the wood pressing against his forehead.

He was contented being Neil's poet, because that was a role he could play without losing the only closeness he would ever have with his roommate.

Chapter Text

The late hour granted the shower room a sacrosanct silence.

It was well past the usual Welton scramble, and the tile-lined space was blessedly empty. Todd stood beneath the shower, the steam coiling around him like a thick, private curtain. The long, tense day had left him overstimulated.

The blonde leaned his forehead against the cool, slick tile, the shame of the act instantly mixing with the lingering intensity of the relief. He was a teenager with needs. It felt illegal to reduce Neil to this function, but he couldn't deny the physical evidence. His body simply refused to respond to anything else.

Todd gripped himself tightly, his focus narrowed to the heat and the intense pressure he was creating. "Neil..." he moaned, the sound ragged and low, swallowed by the water. He repeated it, letting the intense, raw sound escape, feeling the deep clench in his abdomen as he brought the image of Neil, stripped bare and wanting, back into his mind.

He walked down the dim hall, every step a painful reminder of the shame he carried. When he reached the door, he paused, taking a deep breath. He pushed the door expecting to find the room dark and silent.

Instead, the light over Neil's desk was on.

Neil was sitting on the edge of his bed with a heavily annotated script open in his lap. He was running lines, softly his focus absolute, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was fully dressed, wearing a pair of old corduroys and his favorite sweater, completely immersed in his script. Todd felt a fresh wave of mortification crash over him.

There was Neil. Innocent, hardworking, and real and there was Todd, smelling faintly of soap and carrying the heavy stench of his own filthy fantasy.

Neil didn't look up immediately, lost in the lines, but his peripheral vision must have caught the movement.

"Hey," Neil murmured, still focused on the script. "Didn't realize you were out so late. You okay?"

"Fine. Just... studying," Todd lied, his voice thin. He walked quickly to his own side of the room, climbing onto his bed and pulling the blankets up to his chin. His pajamas and hair were still damp from the hasty shower, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He was trying to disappear when he heard a thump as Neil dropped his script onto the bed.

Neil's footsteps crossed the small space, and Todd felt the dip of the mattress right beside him. "Todd," Neil said, his voice quiet, carrying that gentleness that always melted Todd’s resistance. Before Neil could say anything else, Todd reacted with a reflex of self-preservation, his voice muffled by the blanket. "Butt off, Perry." Todd muttered, the phrase an automatic defense.

Instead of retreating, Neil chuckled, a low, warm sound. He pulled the blanket down slightly, exposing Todd's face and the damp crown of his hair. Neil was kneeling beside his bed, holding a folded, rough towel.

"No." Neil said, sweetly and stubbornly.

He immediately draped the towel over Todd's head and began to gently rub his hair.

Todd froze completely, taken aback by the immediate, overwhelming proximity. Neil’s hands were right there, inches from his face, working the towel firmly but tenderly into his scalp. His cheeks were blazing.

"You know, my father," Neil murmured, his voice softening into a narrative tone as he worked the towel, "he used to watch me like a hawk after I showered. If I let my shirt stay wet for more than thirty seconds, he'd be on me, 'You'll get sick, Neil! You'll miss school!” He pulled the towel away, then ruffled Todd's damp hair one last time.

"Your parents might be fine with you freezing," Neil said, his eyes locking with Todd's, "But I'm not and I’m certainly not scolding you. I'm just making sure you're warm." Todd stared at him, unable to speak.

His own parents offered polite neglect, while Neil, whose own life was dictated by rules.

Neil pulled the towel away, satisfied, and set it on the desk. He didn't immediately stand up. Instead, he lingered on his knees beside the bed, his face still close, his expression suddenly shifting into those big puppy eyes that Todd falls for every goddamn time.

"Hey, Todd," Neil murmured, his voice dropping low, making it sound less like a request and more like a necessary confidence. "Don't go to sleep yet. Could you listen to this line for me one more time?"

"I—I guess," Todd managed, his voice barely a breath. Neil immediately relaxed, relieved by the tacit agreement. He picked up his script and found the spot, leaning in slightly toward Todd's bed.

"It is the simplest line." Neil began, his voice taking on the demanding cadence of his character, Demetrius. His eyes were wide and focused, but they were looking past Todd, fixed on a dramatic point on the wall. "Behold! Yonder comes the mistress of my soul!" Neil delivered the line. He paused, frowning instantly.

He shook his head, running a hand through his own hair in frustration. "See? It's flat. It's supposed to be a realization, a desperate conviction, but it sounds like a weather report."

He put down his script and looked directly at Todd, "I just... I don't feel the weight of it. I don't know what it feels like to have something so important, so utterly essential, suddenly materialize before your eyes." Neil, just admitted to an emotional disconnect, the inability to grasp the feeling of something essential finally being acknowledged.

Todd felt the shame recede and he wanted to tell Neil,

It feels like finding a copy of Whitman when you thought you were alone.

It feels like getting a pen with your own initials on it.

It feels like you drying my hair.

He wanted to reach out, take Neil's hand, and show him exactly what the weight of an essential, sudden realization felt like. Neil sighed again, a deep, genuine sound of defeat. "It's no good. It's too late. I'm too keyed up."

The sight of Neil's defeat was intolerable. You do not get to be defeated, not after everything you risked. I’ll show you. He threw the blanket back, the movement loud and definitive, and swung his legs off the bed..

"Todd?” Neil asked, turning, his eyes questioning the sudden movement.

He took two steps to stand at the foot of Neil's bed, looking down at his friend. The light from the lamp illuminated the fierce desperation in his face, the intensity stripping away his usual mask of quiet reserve. "The weight," Todd said, his voice quiet but sharp. He wasn't speaking to Neil, he was speaking to the essence of the line. "You're thinking about the words. You need to think about what happens when the thing you need to survive is suddenly, finally there."

Todd lifted his hand, placing it flat over his own pounding chest, and began to speak.

 He wasn't acting. He wasn't performing. He was confessing.

He channeled the entire truth, and his voice was no longer thin, it was trembling with emotion. Todd looked directly into Neil’s wide, astonished eyes and delivered the line

"Behold! Yonder comes... the mistress... of my soul!"

The declaration was delivered on a ragged breath, sounding less like a cheer and more like a desperate plea. Todd stood there, his hand still pressed over his heart, breathing heavily. Neil was frozen and stared back at Todd, he didn't speak, didn't move, the script forgotten on his lap. He only saw Todd, standing in the cold, dim light.

The silence stretched filled only by the rush of Todd’s blood in his ears. The moment he had finished the line, the courage had vanished, replaced by an overwhelming wave of embarrassment. He felt his cheeks flush fiercely. He wanted to turn, run, and bury himself under the floorboards. Then, Neil leaned forward with unadulterated awe.

"Todd," Neil breathed out, the name a reverent whisper. "My God. That was... electric."

He scrambled off the bed, crossing the short distance between them in two strides. He didn't touch Todd, but he stood close. "Where did that come from” Neil demanded, his voice low with intensity. "The pain in that line! The sheer weight of it! You didn't even sound happy to see her, you sounded like you were seeing a ghost you couldn't live without. How did you do that, Todd? I've been trying to get that conviction for weeks."

Todd felt a violent, internal conflict seize him.

Relief because Neil hadn't seen the truth. He saw only a spectacular performance of acting that solved a the older’s delivery issues.

Disappointment because he had just poured the entirety of his hidden self into that one declaration, and Neil had only recognized its dramatic potential. It was a perfect camouflage.

The second feeling was the sharper, more immediate pain. But the first feeling won the battle for survival. Todd dropped his hand from his chest and immediately hunched his shoulders, retracting into his customary reserve.

"I—I don't know," Todd mumbled, the lie was instant, reflexively protecting his core. "I was just... trying to remember a quote from a book. That's all. I heard it once, and I just... tried it." He reached up and rubbed his temple, hoping Neil would attribute the tremor in his hands to nerves.

Neil didn't buy it, but his enthusiasm was too genuine to let the moment die. He clapped Todd firmly on the shoulder.  "Well, whatever you found, write it down. That's the feeling, Todd. You found the key. The weight is the fear of finally having what you desperately need." Neil practically vibrated as he turned back to his bed, snatching up his script. He was suddenly galvanized, already practicing the feeling Todd had given him.

"You're a lifesaver, Anderson! A lifesaver!"

Todd watched him, his heart still thundering, now less from fear of discovery and more from agony of Neil's unseeing appreciation.

The next morning, Todd walked beside Neil toward the dining room, but he felt miles away. He hadn't slept. His hair, dried haphazardly by Neil's kind hands, was sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes felt gritty, rimmed with dark circles.

As they approached the corner table, Charlie took one look at Todd and stopped mid-sentence. "My God, Todd," Charlie announced loudly, skewering a sausage and pointing it at him. "You look like absolute shit. Your hair looks like a startled sparrow." Todd only rolled his eyes and mumbled a dismissal, trying to slink into the corner booth.

"Leave him alone, Charlie," Neil cut in sharply, sliding onto the bench next to Todd. "He couldn't get enough sleep because of me, since I was running Demetrius's lines until nearly three. You know, trying to get that weight right. I was probably too loud, but honestly, Todd, it worked. The line finally has some conviction." Todd stared at his plate, the small, innocent lie stabbing him torment.

Neil was completely blind, so painfully, frustratingly straight that the entire confession had been repurposed as a theatrical coaching session.

It wasn't your performance that kept me awake, Neil.

"Neil tell us," Knox demanded, leaning forward. "When's the audition?" Neil, who had been completely absorbed in buttering a piece of toast finally looked up, his face lighting with that familiar, infectious excitement. "This afternoon," Neil announced, his voice carrying just a little louder than necessary. "Right after Chemistry. It's for the role of Puck."

"Puck?" Charlie scoffed. "Perry, you're a leading man. You should be Lysander, the romantic lead. Puck is a mischievous sprite, a bit actor."

"Puck is the lifeblood of the play, Charlie, the chaotic force of nature!" Neil retorted, dismissing the criticism with a wave of his hand. "Besides, I don't need a lead role. I need a role. Something that proves I can do this and that my focus is on the stage, not just my pre-med textbooks." Meeks leaned in, his usual intellectual detachment softening with genuine concern.

"Are you going to send the letter before the audition, Neil? If your father finds out about the audition first—"

Neil's jaw tightened slightly. "The letter goes out after. The audition is the commitment, the letter is the documentation of the commitment. I can't send the declaration until I have the proof. That's why I was running Demetrius's line. I need the director to see I can understand absolute conviction. Puck needs that underlying passion, too."

He looked directly at Todd, his eyes glossy with longing for affirmation.

"You'll get it, Neil," Todd managed, the words low and sincere, meaning far more than just the part in the play.

You will get the part and you will be the most essential thing in that play, just as you are the essential thing in this room.

Chapter Text

The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and night-blooming jasmine. He was wearing clothes that felt thin and strange like a costume, perhaps Helena's gown and his heart was hammering with a sudden, bewildering joy.

He wasn't alone. Neil was standing before him, dressed as Puck. The usual Welton clothes were replaced by earthy fabrics, and Neil's hair looked mussed with leaves, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Todd," Neil breathed, using his own voice, not the character's, his hands resting lightly on Todd’s shoulders. "You're lost here, aren't you?" Todd couldn't speak, completely mesmerized by the sight of the other boy before him. Neil smiled in a way that wiped away all the fear from the Demetrius performance.

"Fear not, I am thy guide."

He reached up and gently pushed Todd's hair back from his forehead, his thumb lingering on his temple. The touch was achingly tender, dissolving the tension in Todd's body. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the entire world," Neil whispered.

He took Todd's hand, and his fingers wrapped around the wrist, as he guided Todd's hand to his own chest, right over the stag sweater, which Neil was magically wearing beneath his costume.

"The weight is only heavy if you carry it alone." Neil murmured. He leaned in, and the movement was slow, deliberate. The kiss was sweet and not demanding nor consuming.

Neil rested his forehead against Todd's, his breath warm and familiar.

"Behold," Neil whispered, "Yonder comes the mistress of my soul. And you are here. Now, you are safe."

Todd shot upright in bed, heart striking against his ribs, his breath ragged and cold.

His eyes immediately darted to Neil’s side.

The desk was still clean, the trunk still tidy. No Neil. He was trembling, but the lingering sensation on his temple and wrist was one of comforting warmth, not cold rejection. Todd slowly lifted a trembling hand to his lips, his thumb tracing the shape, trying desperately to remember the specific, gentle pressure of Neil's kiss.

For a few disoriented seconds, he was dumbfounded. The warmth of Neil’s mouth, the scent of the sweater and the wet earth. It had been so utterly, perfectly real. The disappointment that he was alone, that he had woken up from the single moment of perfect peace he'd ever known, hit him with brutal force.

He looked at the clock on the desk: 7:55 PM.

Todd arrived at the cave ten minutes late, breathless and disheveled. He squeezed through the small opening and stumbled into the familiar space. The sight was chaotic, but not for the reason he expected. Knox, Charlie, Meeks, and Pitts were all there, but the usual mood of rebellious excitement had curdled into tense, fidgety anxiety.

"Anderson! Where the hell have you been?" Charlie snapped, clearly agitated with genuine worry. "And where's Perry?"

"I—I was asleep," Todd stammered, pulling his notebook close to his chest. "I just woke up. Is Neil not here yet?" Meeks looked up, his brow furrowed with concern. "No. The audition was supposed to be over an hour ago. He said he’d meet us here straight from the theater."

"He said he was sending the letter out after the audition," Pitts muttered darkly. "If he got the part, he needed to get here immediately so we could celebrate before the mail went out. Something's wrong."

Todd was appalled by the thought of their leader was missing.

Neil, the one who carried the essential confrontation on his shoulders, was late. Without another word, Todd turned and scrambled toward the narrow mouth of the cave.

"Anderson! Where the hell are you going?" Charlie demanded, already halfway to his feet. Todd didn't slow down, his voice catching in his throat as he pushed through the opening. "Neil." he choked out, the name a desperate, singular focus. He burst out of the cave and into the deep. He didn't know which path led to the theater, but his feet started moving instantly, driven by urgency.

He was running, and it felt like he wasn't in control of his own legs. It was the same blind feeling he'd channeled into the line about the 'mistress of his soul,' but magnified.

He didn't notice the darkness swallowing the few faint stars, but Todd only saw the stage lights, the blinding, dangerous hope that Neil was chasing. He didn't feel the sharp snap of twigs beneath his borrowed shoes or the cold, bitter air rushing into his lungs.

All he thought about, all that mattered, was getting to Neil.

I have to find him. I have to know.

Todd didn't run into an empty, silent parking lot. He ran directly into the devastating sight of Neil and his father. They were standing perhaps thirty feet away, illuminated by glow of a single overhead lamp post. Neil was fully visible, still wearing his Welton uniform jacket, but the usual restless energy was gone. He was standing with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Facing him was Mr. Perry.

Neil’s father was a monolith of expensive wool and uncompromising posture. He didn't have to yell to dominate the space. Todd froze, instantly retreating into the deepest shadow the shed offered. He was a breath away from the confrontation. "—Did you think this was going to end, Neil?" Mr. Perry's disappointment cut through the thin air.

"Did you think I wouldn't hear about this absurd little performance?"

"It wasn't absurd, Father," Neil insisted, his voice tight with a brittle defiance. 

"I don't care if it was for the King of England!" Mr. Perry snapped, the anger finally breaking through the control. "You were supposed to be studying. You were supposed to be at the library! You took it upon yourself to lie to me and waste time on this frivolous nonsense!" Neil’s entire body seemed to deflate slightly under the weight of the accusation. "I got the part, Father," he whispered, a quiet, desperate offering. "I got Puck."

Mr. Perry didn't even look impressed. "You will not be playing any part, Neil," Mr. Perry stated, his voice now dangerously calm. "You will go back to the dorm, you will write the letter to your counselor explaining your focus on medicine, and you will call the director first thing tomorrow morning and quit the play."

"But, Father, I can do both! I was just trying to show you—"

"You showed me that you cannot be trusted, Neil," Mr. Perry finished, he stepped back, a perfect, physical image of rejection. "You will not defy me again. I will not have my son throwing away his future on some adolescent fancy." Mr. Perry turned and walked briskly to his waiting car, his back ramrod straight, leaving Neil standing alone in the circle of brutal yellow light.

Todd remained frozen behind the maintenance shed, his body pressed against the cold metal. He didn't dare breathe until the receding whine of the motor finally faded into the silence of the woods. When the last trace of the father’s presence was gone, the paralysis broke. The thought that Neil was standing there alone ignited a frantic, visceral response in Todd.

Todd exploded from the shadow, his legs carrying him across the gravel. He ran twenty feet straight toward the motionless figure in the light. Neil was still standing in the exact spot his father had left him, his shoulders slightly slumped, his face pale and slack with shock. He looked like a statue carved from ice. He didn't move until Todd was right upon him.

"Neil!" Todd gasped, his voice raw, his eyes wide with desperate concern.

Neil turned his head slowly, his eyes registering Todd's presence with a stunned, delayed confusion. Todd didn't think twice, he reached out and pulled Neil into a hug.

Todd wrapped his arms tightly around Neil’s stiff body, pressing his face into the rough wool of Neil's coat. The latter remained stiff for only a second before the dam finally broke. He collapsed into the embrace, his arms rising slowly to grip the back of Todd's jacket with shocking strength.

A low, choking sound escaped his throat, and Todd felt the hot rush of Neil's tears against his neck. Neil buried his face into Todd's shoulder, his entire body trembling.

"I was good, Todd! I was really good!" Neil repeated the phrase, over and over, his voice cracked with a devastating, childlike grief. "I got Puck. I was good. He wouldn't even look at me. I was good!"

Todd held him tighter, rocking slightly, murmuring wordless sounds into Neil's ear.

He let Neil cling to him.

They stood there for a long time. Neil's tears eventually slowed to shuddering breaths, his grip on Todd's jacket never loosening. Unseen by them, on the edge of the woods, Charlie finally arrived. He had grown tired of waiting and had followed Todd's frantic path. He spotted the two figures huddled beneath the sickly yellow light and stopped dead in his tracks. His usual bravado evaporated instantly.

He knew exactly what he was seeing.

Charlie slowly backed away, sinking silently back into the dark mouth of the woods. He didn't need to ask. He would let them have their space, let Todd be the anchor, and he would ask about the news of the audition another time.

For now, the only thing that mattered was that someone was holding Neil, and that someone was Todd.

When Neil finally pulled back, he didn't pull far. He leaned his forehead against Todd's shoulder, his breathing ragged. "The play's gone," Neil whispered, the words thin and flat. "It's all gone. I have to call him tomorrow. I have to quit."

"No," Todd murmured instantly, the word fierce and low. But he knew it was futile. Neil was broken.

"Yes. It's over," Neil sighed, pushing off Todd. "Come on. Let's go."

They walked back to the dorm room in silence.

Neil went straight to his bed and sat down, not on the edge, but leaning against the headboard, his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. He was staring blindly at the opposing wall. The energy, that usually crackled around Neil Perry was gone, leaving only defeat.

Todd quietly turned on the desk lamp, casting a small, sterile pool of yellow light. He shed his jacket, and the chill immediately bit into his skin. He sat on his own bed, facing Neil across the narrow divide, wanting to speak, but knowing words especially the ones he desperately wanted to say would fail.

He just sat, a silent vigil.

After perhaps ten minutes, Neil finally stirred, turning his head slowly toward Todd. His eyes, usually so sharp, looked sunken and desolate. "Todd," he said, his voice barely audible. He swallowed hard.

"Can you... can you sleep with me tonight?"

The request hit Todd like a physical shock. His heart leaped into a wild, frantic rhythm, and every single gay nerve in his body screamed in protest. On any other night, his fear would have won. He would have thrown up his shield, retreating with a mumbled, "Butt off, Neil." to protect his secret and maintain the fragile safety of their distance.

But he looked at Neil, seeing not the confident leader, but the utterly crushed boy who had just lost his essential self. The boy who had cried into his coat and whose tears had been the only honest words spoken all night.  Todd pushed the deafening sound of his own desire aside. He made a conscious, painful choice to set aside his feelings and simply be the friend Neil needed.

"Yeah, Neil," Todd said, his voice quiet and steady. He got off his bed. "Yeah, I will."

He walked over to Neil's side, climbed onto the bed, and slid beneath the covers. He stayed on the outer edge, giving Neil all the space in the middle. Neil immediately shifted, pressing his back against Todd's chest. The closeness was burning Todd. He was hyper-aware of every single point of contact. Todd's right arm lay stiffly by his side, the arm that had held Neil so desperately minutes ago.

He debated fiercely. Should he put his arm around him again? It was what Neil needed, what Todd desperately wanted. He kept his arm still, paralyzed by shyness and the terrifying risk of misinterpretation.

Then, Neil stirred.

He reached back, blindly, his cold fingers finding Todd’s forearm. He found Todd’s wrist, right where the pulse jumped, and rubbed it gently for a few seconds. The touch was so small, so innocent, yet so devastatingly intimate. It was a silent, unprompted reassurance from the one person who needed reassurance the most. Before Todd could move, Neil took Todd's hand, guided his arm around his waist, and wrapped it tightly around himself.

"Just—just stay there." Neil mumbled into the pillow, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I'm sorry. I just... I need to know someone's real."

Todd woke with a sharp, cold jolt, his consciousness snapping back to the reality of the Welton room. His first sensation was the complete absence of warmth behind his back. His eyes flew open. He was alone in bed. Todd immediately scrambled upright, his heart leaping into a panicked rhythm.

Todd threw the covers back and was halfway off the bed when the door to the room creaked open.

Neil was standing there, freshly showered. He was wearing clean clothes and carrying his damp towel, the sight of him healthy and whole flooding Todd with immediate relief. Neil stopped in his tracks, his eyes immediately catching Todd’s wide, frantic gaze. He noticed the speed and panic of Todd’s reaction.

A small, understanding half-smile touched Neil's lips. "Hey," Neil said, his voice quiet but steady. "Relax, Anderson. I just went to shower. I'm still here." Todd sank back onto the edge of the bed as he felt a deep, embarrassing flush creep up his neck. He had completely betrayed his fear, allowing Neil to see just how dependent he had been on his presence. Neil walked over to his side of the room, throwing his towel onto the desk.

"You didn't sleep much either," Neil observed, his voice completely lacking judgment. He then gestured to the iron-frame bed Todd had just vacated. "Thank you for finding me last night, Todd." The gratitude was almost harder to bear than the terror. Todd nodded mutely, unable to form a coherent word.

The immediate, unavoidable issue was now staring them both in the face, The play was gone and the letters were due.

Neil finally turned and opened his trunk. His shoulders stiffened as he reached inside and pulled out a clean sheet of stationary and an envelope. "Keating's class is first today," Neil said, his voice flat with finality. "I have to write the letter now. I have to make it sound believable." Todd pushed himself fully off the bed, the sudden, cold return to reality tightening his chest. He watched Neil walk the few steps to his desk, the movement slow, a stark contrast to the energy Neil usually radiated.

Neil sat down, placing the blank sheet of paper squarely in the light, a condemned man facing his final document. "Neil," Todd started, his voice a low, husky sound of disbelief. He walked to the side of Neil's chair, looming over him, unable to accept the surrender. "You can't. You can't write that letter."

"I have to, Todd," Neil mumbled, picking up his pen. "You heard him. If I don't send this, he'll be on the phone to the school, the director. He'll yank me out. It's over." Todd planted his hands on Neil's desk, leaning down until their faces were inches apart. The words rushed out of him, jagged and desperate.

"B-but you got the part! You got Puck!" Todd pleaded.

"You were so good, Neil. You were amazing! You were essential!"

He paused, lowering his voice, an urgent, silent begging pouring into the small space between them. "You're still going to continue the play, right? Just... tell him you quit, but you'll do it anyway. He won't know until too late. Please, Neil."

Todd looked into Neil's eyes, trying to force the light of defiance back into them. He was begging Neil to be the courageous, fearless person Todd loved and desperately needed him to be.

Neil closed his eyes for a long moment, suppressing his own fight physically visible. He felt the intensity of Todd's belief, a conviction he couldn't muster for himself. He opened his eyes, and the flat despair was still there.

He looked at Todd, who was leaning over him, eyes wide and desperate, a living mirror of the character conviction Neil had been searching for. "Todd, you don't understand the consequence," Neil whispered, his voice trembling. "If I continue, he will pull me out of Welton. I'll lose everything."

He looked at the pen in his hand, then at the blank paper, and finally back at Todd's face.

Todd refused to let the argument stand. He pulled back slightly, standing straight, and delivered the one thing he had that belonged entirely to the stage, the one thing that had moved Neil before, but this time, he delivered it not as an actor, but as the source of the feeling. He channeled the desperation of his own love, the fear of losing Neil, into the voice of Demetrius, the only way he knew how to fight.

Todd looked directly into Neil's eyes and repeated the line he'd performed in the dark, his voice husky with conviction:

"Behold! Yonder comes... the mistress... of my soul!"

He lowered his voice back to a gasp. "That's how you felt on that stage, Neil. You felt essential! Don't let him erase it! If you write that letter, you erase the real you!" A visible tremor ran through Neil's body. The line, delivered with that raw, devastating intensity, struck him with the force of a hammer.

He looked up at Todd, and the despair was finally gone, replaced by a deep, blazing resentment that solidified into ferocious conviction. "You're right, Anderson," Neil stated, his voice ringing with a sudden, absolute determination. He crumpled the clean stationery in his fist and threw it onto the floor.

"I will do the play. I'll tell him I quit, but I'll do it anyway. I'll hide it. I’ll make the whole thing a magnificent, magnificent secret."

Neil leaned back in his chair, a sudden, explosive grin spreading across his face. "And pardon my language, Todd," Neil said, his voice a low, defiant declaration of war, "but fuck what my father thinks." Neil's sudden, explicit use of profanity was so kind of cute, so wholly Neil.

Todd swallowed hard, the word catching in his throat, his face flushing crimson. He knew the risk, but the feeling was too strong to contain. It felt like the essential truth finally demanding a word. "That's," Todd breathed out,

"That's my actor." He immediately shrank in on himself waiting for the shame, the confusion, or the awkward recoil. He had crossed the line. But Neil didn't recoil. He didn't even question it.

Neil's bright, defiant smile didn't waver; in fact, became bigger.

"I need to tell them! I need to tell the poets!" Neil grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door and burst into the hallway, leaving Todd in his wake. The triumphant cry echoed down the corridor, "Charlie! Charlie, I got the part! I'm Puck! I'm doing the play!"

Neil's happiness was overwhelming, but his recklessness was terrifying. He quickly followed Neil, grabbing his own books, and caught up with the frantic celebration just outside the staircase. Neil was already surrounded by the other poets who had clearly been heading to Keating's class.

"The old man tried to kill it," Neil was saying, his voice buzzing with barely contained triumph. "He told me to quit! But I'm not! I'm calling the director and telling him I quit for Father, but I'm doing the play anyway! It's a magnificent secret!"

Charlie, despite his genuine excitement, quickly backed away from the chaos. While Neil was busy fielding handshakes and enthusiastic slaps on the back, Charlie slipped over to Todd, his usual cocky expression replaced by a rare gravity. He leaned in close, his voice a low murmur that only Todd could hear. "He's so different this morning, Todd. I mean, even more... lit up."

Todd felt a sudden, crippling wave of cold sweat break out on his skin. "W-what do you mean?" Todd stammered, his mind racing. Charlie looked him dead in the eye, his expression soft but knowing. "I saw you two last night, Anderson. In the parking lot. I followed you from the cave. I watched him break, and I watched you put him back together."

Todd's blood ran cold.

He saw us. He saw the hug.

Todd’s mind screamed What if Charlie knows I’m gay? What if he saw more than a hug? What if he knows I love Neil? What if he’s not okay with it?

Charlie was unpredictable, reckless, and his tolerance for anything unconventional had a severe limit when he felt his own position was threatened. Charlie just gave Todd a slow, almost gentle nod, his usual flippancy nowhere to be found. "I just wanted to say... I let you have your space. You're a good friend, Todd. He needed that."

Todd followed Neil and the rest of the excited poets into Keating's class. The energy from Neil’s announcement. He was still reeling from Charlie's silent, knowing confirmation in the hall. Mr. Keating, perched on his desk, surveyed the room, his eyes twinkling. He bypassed the letter assignment entirely.

"I see some of you have found your conviction this morning," Keating observed, his voice dry. "I see rebellion written on certain faces, and I see Mr. Anderson the quiet, terrified burden of witness. Good."

He tapped a piece of chalk against a small, empty desk he had placed at the front of the room.

"Today, we are moving past words. Words are easy to hide. Actions are harder," Keating announced. "The essence of poetry is not just feeling, but communication making the essential truth visible to an indifferent world. Some of you have chosen the difficult path of the magnificent secret. To survive that path, you must be a master of composure." Keating stepped down, his gaze challenging Todd.

"The final task of this chapter is simple: The mask of composure."

He walked to the back of the room and brought out a large, heavy, antique bell, the kind used to signal the end of a school day a century ago. It was mounted on a wooden stand. "You will each come up to this desk," Keating instructed, gesturing to the small, empty desk at the front. "You will place your hands on the desk and maintain absolute, perfect composure. Your task is to simply stand there, perfectly still, while your peers attempt to break your composure."

Keating’s eyes gleamed. "The one who breaks first who flinches will have his letter read aloud to the class. The magnificent secret requires magnificent control, gentlemen. Let's see who has it." The stakes were terrifying.

Neil immediately squared his shoulders, accepting the challenge with a gambler's confidence. Todd, however, felt a wave of familiar, paralyzing fear wash over him. He knew that under any pressure, his carefully constructed composure would shatter. He was next to last in the row. He was trapped.

"Mr. Anderson," Keating said, his voice quiet but inexorable. "You first."

Todd’s blood ran cold. Me? He moved to the front of the room like a robot, placing his hands on the smooth wood of the desk. He focused on the knot in the wood grain, trying to erase his mind.

"Gentlemen, begin," Keating prompted.

Knox started, clearing his throat loudly. Meeks began reciting the most complex Latin declension possible, trying to confuse him. Charlie, however, stood on his desk and performed a dramatic pantomime of a statue attempting to hold a sneeze while simultaneously juggling invisible bowling pins. Todd held fast for five excruciating seconds. But what finally broke him wasn't the noise or the taunts.

It was Neil.

Neil, sitting only a few feet away, leaned forward, his eyes locked on Todd's. He didn't speak a word, he just raised one hand to his own temple and precisely traced the exact spot where his lips had touched Todd's forehead in the dream.

The memory still so fresh shattered Todd's composure. The shock, the terror that Neil had somehow sensed the dream made his breath catch. Todd violently yanked his hands from the desk, his entire body convulsing in a silent, desperate failure. He staggered back, defeated.

"I—I can't," Todd choked out, his eyes wide and frantic.

Keating simply looked at him, his face unreadable. "Todd Anderson," he said, using the full name, "You have failed to demonstrate the necessary mask of composure." Keating slowly turned to the class, tapping the chalk against the board. 

The class went silent. Todd, trembling, knew he had no letter, only the blank pages of a thousand unspeakable truths. He looked desperately at Neil, who looked a bit guilty as he realized his silent gesture had been the trigger.

The moment the bell rang, signaling the end of the class, Neil shot out of his seat. He didn't wait for the other poets; he dodged students and went straight to Todd, who was still standing by the vacated desk, hunched and shaking.

"Todd, I am so sorry," Neil said immediately, his voice laced with genuine distress. He grabbed Todd's arm, pulling him out of the main thoroughfare and toward the back corner of the room. Neil tightened his grip on Todd's arm, his voice dropping further. "I know I was the trigger, but I don't get it. I just touched my head. What did I do that made you panic like that?"

Todd couldn't meet his gaze. His mind was a frantic scramble of denials. He couldn't tell Neil that the gesture had confirmed his worst, most beautiful fear that Neil had somehow, someway, sensed the intimacy of Todd's dream. He certainly couldn't confess that the image of Neil's lips had been the exact moment Todd surrendered his own composure.

"I—I don't have a letter," Todd managed to choke out, the lie the only shield he could offer. "I'm not ready. And Keating said he's reading it next week. I just panicked." Neil looked skeptical but accepted the redirection. "We can write a letter, Todd! We'll write the biggest, most aggressive lie! But you have to be able to hold a simple façade. What's wrong?"

Todd remained silent, unable to articulate the true, essential truth: that the magnificent secret Neil was so excitedly constructing was the very thing that was terrifying Todd, because it put Neil in danger and it made the truth of Todd's heart the ultimate liability. He had to guard the secret now, even from Neil.

"Nothing," Todd finally whispered, shaking his head. "I just... I failed. Now we have to figure out the letter."

The subject was dropped, but the question Why did you break? remained.

Later that afternoon, Neil cornered Charlie in the hallway near the mailboxes. He approached with urgency, pulling Charlie aside before their next class. "Charlie, listen," Neil began, his voice low. "Todd completely froze in class. Keating's going to read his letter next week. You were watching... What do you think happened? Did my thing throw him off?" Charlie shrugged, pulling his backpack higher. "Your 'thing' was harmless, Neil. Just goofy."

Neil persisted, his brow furrowed. "I know, but he collapsed. He looked shattered. I just touched my head. Do you think... maybe I messed up the gesture somehow?" Charlie looked at Neil. He knew Todd’s reaction wasn't about the letter but he of course would not expose Todd.

"Look, Neil," Charlie said, his tone turning sincere. "Todd’s a mess of nerves, you know that. He was already stressed about the letter, and then Keating put him on the spot. He just had him in his head. He panicked over the public reading. It's anxiety, man. Don't worry about the gesture. It was nothing."

Charlie put a hand on Neil's shoulder. "Go run your lines." Relief washed over Neil. He accepted Charlie's simple, logical explanation for Todd’s anxiety. "Right. Okay. Thanks, Charlie."

Later that evening, Neil found a quiet spot by the school's old boat dock to practice his lines. The air was cool, carrying the sharp scent of pine and water. He moved through Puck's monologue, his voice low but clear, filling the empty space with mischief and defiance. Todd, unable to concentrate on the lie he'd written, left the dorm. He found a hiding place behind a cluster of trees near the water and watched Neil. Todd just needed to see Neil whole, running his lines, asserting his freedom. It was necessary validation.

A few minutes passed before a voice cut through the quiet behind him.

"You're the world's most dramatic voyeur aren't you, Anderson?"

Todd jumped, whipping around. Charlie stood there, leaning against a tree trunk, a casual smirk on his face. "Charlie," Todd managed, his throat tight. He glanced quickly back at the dock. Neil was still focused, pacing his lines. "I was just... uh..."

"Watching your actor," Charlie finished, pushing off the tree. He walked up to stand beside Todd, nodding toward Neil. "He's good. Almost makes me want to watch a play." Todd forced the question out, his voice barely a whisper. "Did Neil ask you anything earlier? About me breaking composure?"

Charlie looked back at him, his smirk fading into a steady gaze. "Yeah. He thinks he confused you with the gesture. He thinks your anxiety went nuclear because of the letter." Todd let out a silent, shaky breath of relief. "Good. That's what happened."

Charlie paused, letting the silence hang. He watched Neil leap onto a boat deck as Puck, embodying the lightness of the role. "Look, Todd," Charlie began, his voice surprisingly soft, moving closer. "I see a lot of things. I see the hug last night. I see the way you look at him."

He paused, then lowered his voice further, his gaze fixed on Neil. "I've been friends with Neil longer than anyone here. I've known him since the fourth form. I've seen him mad, I've seen him cheat on Latin, I've seen him convince Keating to let us skip half a class. I've seen every form of that guy."

Charlie turned back to Todd, his eyes serious. "But even seeing him through all those years, through every mood and every dumb scheme, I never looked at Neil with those eyes, Anderson. Meanwhile, Neil could just be breathing, and you look at him like he saved the planet in a past life or wrote the Declaration of Independence on a napkin."

He leaned in, his voice confidential. "I don't think you panicked about the letter, man. I think you panicked because you've got feelings. Big ones.”

Todd’s world crashed. The cold realization—Charlie knew he was gay, and worse, he knew the subject of his desire was his own best friend sent a wave of sickening dread through him. He was exposed and utterly fucked. Todd looked visibly stressed, his posture slumping like a kicked puppy. He braced himself, waiting for the expected punch or the shouted slur.

Charlie noticed the shift in Todd's body, the sudden, terrible fear in his eyes.  "Hey," Charlie murmured, his voice gentle, for once devoid of any mockery. He stepped back slightly. "Relax, Todd. I'm not that guy. I'm not going to start a fight or rat you out. I just see it."

Charlie gave a small, genuine shrug. "It changes nothing for me. But you're a terrible liar, and you've got the worst poker face I've ever seen. Just know that someone else knows your secret. You don't have to talk about it. But if you're going to keep this magnificent deception going, you need to practice your mask."

Charlie clapped Todd lightly on the shoulder. He turned and walked away, leaving Todd alone with the full, cold weight of his secret, now shared and confirmed, but surprisingly, safe. The truth was out, but the world had not ended.

Todd took a shaky breath, then, acting on pure impulse, he called out.

"Charlie! Wait."

Charlie stopped instantly and turned back, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He waited patiently for Todd to speak.

Todd walked quickly toward him, closing the distance. He stopped a few feet away, his arms crossing over his chest, a gesture of self-protection. He still couldn't look Charlie directly in the eye.

"You... you really won't say anything?" Todd asked, the question small and raw.

"To who, Anderson? Neil? What would I say? 'Hey, Neil, guess what? Todd looks at you like you invented gravity'? He wouldn't get it, and I'd sound like an idiot," Charlie replied, his voice flat. "I'm not going to tell anyone. It's not my business."

Todd managed a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you."

Charlie pushed off the tree. "Don't thank me. Just figure out how to be a better friend to him without breaking every time he moves. If you're going to back his play, you need to be rock solid. That means you stop looking like a kicked puppy every time I talk to you."

Chapter Text

Knox burst into the dorm room after lunch with excitement. "Neil! You will not believe this," Knox announced, tossing his books onto his bed. "I was at the theater looking at the casting sheet again checking the lead names and I saw her name." Neil, who was secretly reviewing his Puck lines under the guise of reading a textbook on biology, looked up, annoyed. "Saw who, Knox? If this is about Chris, I swear to God—"

"No, not Chris," Knox interrupted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though his excitement was clearly visible. "Ginny Danburry. She's in the play! She's playing Hermia!"

Neil frowned. "Ginny Danburry? Who is she?" Knox stared at Neil as if he had just admitted to failing English. "She's one of Chris Noel's friends! She's in her social circle! She's cute! I spoke to her for five minutes once at the house party! This is huge, Neil, this is major exposure! You're doing the play with a friend of Chris!"

Knox immediately started pacing the room, rubbing his hands together. "This changes everything! You can talk about the play, you can talk about the set design, you can get information! This is your in, Neil!"

Neil slumped back against his pillows. The revelation had nothing to do with him. He tried to brush it off. "Knox, I'm playing Puck. I'm busy. I'm focusing on my lines. I don't care about Chris's social life." Knox stopped pacing and shot Neil a teasing, knowing look. He nudged Todd, who was meticulously reviewing his history notes.

"Oh, come on, Perry. Don't tell me you haven't considered the possibility of a little stage romance," Knox teased. "You're a star now, Neil! You'll be spending every night in the dark with Miss Danburry and the rest of the cast. Maybe that's why you're so excited to keep this secret, you're too busy rehearsing your flirting with the co-star!" Knox winked heavily at Neil, completely oblivious to the tight feeling that had just settled in Todd's chest.

That is not Neil. Todd knew Neil's focus. Neil was not hiding this secret for some trivial romance. He was risking his future for joy of the stage, for the essential need to play Puck. Neil was intensely professional and driven by the work itself. To suggest Neil was prioritizing cheap felt like a misunderstanding of his worth.

A second, darker feeling churned in Todd—jealousy. He didn't know why he felt such possessive anger, as if he were the one being accused of prioritizing the wrong thing. Neil, however, took the teasing in stride, using it as a distraction. He forced a broad grin. "Yeah, Knox. That's exactly it. My secret life is now a whirlwind of romantic intrigue. Happy?"

Neil glanced quickly at Todd, expecting his usual supportive quietness. Todd slammed his history book shut. The sound was sharp and abrupt in the small room. He stood up without looking at Neil.

"I can't focus in here," Todd stated, his voice flat. "Knox is too… loud. I'm going to Meeks and Pitts' room for study hour." He grabbed his notebook and headed toward the door.

Neil blinked, genuinely surprised by the coldness of the move. He hadn't seen Todd this withdrawn since the very start of the semester. "Todd? Wait," Neil said, his voice laced with confusion. He opened the door and walked out, leaving Neil standing alone in the room, baffled by the sudden exit of Todd.

Todd walked down the hall, the heat of his jealousy driving him forward. He knew he was being unfair, punishing Neil for Knox's stupid suggestion and for the closeness of a girl he didn't even know. He reached Meeks and Pitts' room and knocked firmly. He entered, nodding quickly at the two boys. Meeks and Pitts, deeply immersed in their calculus homework, barely looked up.

They didn't question Todd’s sudden appearance or his need for silence. They simply let him settle at their spare desk.

Todd pulled out his notes, but the words swam on the page. The anger that had fueled his exit quickly curdled into guilt. Neil was risking everything for the play. Neil had poured out his grief and terror into Todd’s arms just two nights ago.

Yet, Todd had treated him with dismissal all because of a pang of irrational jealousy over a hypothetical co-star and a feeling he couldn't control.

He's putting his life on the line for his dream, Todd thought, staring blankly at the ink. And I walked out on him over pure, stupid jealousy.

The realization that his own feelings were now the greatest threat to Neil hit him hard. He had to be rock solid, as Charlie had warned, not an emotional wreck.

Todd pushed back his chair. He was returning to the room, ready to apologize and offer the support Neil deserved, regardless of his internal conflict. He walked quickly down the hall, reaching his dorm door.

He paused, lifting his hand to knock, preparing his apology but before he could knock, the door opened with Neil standing there.

He looked sheepish, his hands tucked awkwardly into his pockets. "Hey, Anderson," Neil said quietly. He glanced back into their room. "Knox left about five minutes ago. It's totally quiet now. You know, if you wanted to come back and study here. No more distractions."

Neil had not only forgiven Todd's abrupt exit, but had come to fetch him, giving him an excuse to return. The guilt multiplied tenfold in Todd's chest. He had treated Neil with distance, and the older still had followed him, waiting for the noise to subside, then coming to him with an invitation. "I... yeah," Todd stammered, stepping into the room. "Yeah, that's better. Thanks."

"No problem," Neil said, relief easing his expression. He turned toward his desk. "I was just about to come get you." Neil paused, turning back to Todd. His manner shifted from strategic to apologetic. "Look, Anderson, I'm sorry about the noise earlier. Knox is an idiot. I shouldn't have been goofing off when you were trying to study." Neil shuffled his feet slightly. "I know how important quiet is for you."

Todd nodded quickly, the admission of Neil's sensitivity adding yet another layer to his guilt. He’s apologizing for a noise level, and I was mad about hypothetical flirting. The issue wasn't the noise or Knox; the issue was Todd's own uncontrollable jealousy. He couldn't voice the real reason for his coldness.

"It's fine, Neil," Todd managed, forcing his mask into a position of calm acceptance. "Just a long day. I'm focused now."

Neil accepted the brief reassurance, his own mind quickly shifting back to his immediate risk. He retrieved his script, trying to refocus on Puck's lines. The room settled into a tense quiet, broken only by the scratch of Neil's pencil as he underlined lines that needed improvement.

Todd sat at his desk, his history notes spread out. He tried to read but after several minutes, Todd couldn't stand the pretense any longer. He kept his eyes locked on his open notebook, addressing the words to the wood grain of his desk.

"Is Ginny… Ginny Danburry... a good actor?" Todd asked, his voice low and carefully devoid of inflection.

Neil stopped underlining, surprised by the abrupt shift in topic.

"What?" Neil turned in his chair. "I don't know, Todd. I haven't seen her act. She seems fine. Why?"

Todd tried to nonchalantly flip a page in his history book without registering the text. "Knox was just loud about her. Said she was going to be an 'in' for him to Chris. It just sounded distracting." Neil acted indifferent, shrugging dismissively.

“She's fine," he repeated. "She plays Hermia. She's serious about the work, which is all that matters. I'm not worried about her." He picked up his script, clearly trying to signal the end of the conversation.

Todd couldn't let it go.

The feeling was a self-inflicted wound he kept picking at. He tried to turn the jealousy into a joke, mimicking Keating’s dramatic tone. "Well, maybe you could swoon her with a poem." Todd suggested, forcing a light tone. Neil looked up from his text, his forehead furrowed.

He seemed genuinely confused by Todd’s persistent questions and strange humor. "Swoon her? Todd, what are you talking about?”

"It’s just... we're at an all-boys school, Neil," Todd said, shrugging again, aiming for casual boredom.

"You're spending every night with girls now. You're the one playing the star. I just figured after all this time, maybe you'd crave a girlfriend or something. A proper romance."

He hated himself for asking, for forcing the topic, for exposing himself through insincere curiosity.

 Why am I doing this? he thought, yet he couldn't stop seeking the reassurance that Neil was focused only on the play, and not on anyone else. Neil stared at him, then leaned back in his chair, suddenly grasping the apparent logic behind Todd's anxiety.

Neil sighed, softening his tone immediately. He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low, playful tease. "Don’t worry about the girlfriend thing. Even if I found one, I wouldn't leave you alone to deal with Knox." The casual promise—I wouldn't leave you alone struck Todd with the force of an actual confession.

"That's—that's not the point, Neil!" Todd stammered, his voice sharp with defense. He tapped his chin playfully, looking at Todd with a mischievous glint in his eye. "But you know, Anderson, you're the one who needs to relax. Maybe I need to find you a girlfriend. You're too tense. Maybe Ginny has a nice friend who is just as quiet as you are." Todd's eyes went wide and his face went instantly pale, the forced composure shattering.

"I don't care about girls!" Todd blurted out, the words escaping before his mind could filter them. He slapped his hands down on the desk, instantly regretting the volume and the raw honesty of the statement.

Todd immediately tried to backtrack, stumbling over his words. "I mean... I don't care about girls right now. I ha-have to focus on my academics, and my grades… You know." He lowered his voice, forcing it back into his neutral register.

Neil stared at him for a beat and watched Todd's frantic struggle to regain his composure. Instead of pressing the point, a small, genuine smile touched Neil's lips. He found Todd's flustered state strangely endearing.

"I get it.. I get it," Neil murmured, his voice gentle. He reached out and tapped Todd's knee lightly, a gesture of camaraderie.

 "Relax. I don't care about girls right now either. I have a play to worry about."

Neil paused, his smile widening into a mischievous grin. "So maybe you should butt off, Anderson." The reference to Todd's own frequent, quiet dismissals thrown at Neil was delivered with affection. It was an inside joke. Todd felt a wave of dizzying relief. Neil had accepted the flimsy lie and returned the familiar banter.

"Okay," Todd confirmed, his voice solid. "Go. Be Puck."

It was Saturday. The dead poets society, excluding Neil, gathered outside Keating's office. Keating, dressed in a sharp tweed suit, looked like a proud, slightly nervous father.

"Gentlemen," Keating announced quietly, surveying the boys Todd, Charlie, Knox, Meeks, and Pitts. "We are attending the performance tonight. This is not for grades, but for the soul."

As they approached Henley Hall, the local community theater, Keating parked the car. The crowd filtering into the building was lively, unlike the stuffy formality of Welton.

"Todd, grab the programs," Keating instructed.

Todd and Charlie fell behind the others as they walked toward the entrance. Todd held the programs, his hands damp with sudden sweat. He was terrified for Neil, consumed by the fear that Mr. Perry would somehow discover the betrayal tonight.

Charlie leaned close, his voice a low, teasing whisper meant only for Todd.

"Alright, Anderson maybe try not to drool when he hits the stage. You look like you're about to faint from admiration." Charlie teased as he elbowed him.

"Shut up, Charlie," Todd hissed, his voice tight with embarrassment. He swung his hand, giving Charlie a swift, hard smack on the shoulder. Charlie only laughed softly, accepting the blow with good humor. "See? Terrible composure. Just try to breathe, man. He's good. He deserves your noble admiration."

The play began, the opening scenes establishing the court and the young lovers. Todd barely registered the dialogue. He was simply waiting, his entire body tight with anticipation and fear.

Then, he appeared.

Neil, as Puck, entered the stage, spinning out of the shadows. He looked completely different. The Welton uniform was replaced by earthy tones and a crown of twigs. When he delivered his first major line, the air in the theater seemed to compress. As the scene progressed, Neil moved with confidence and grace Todd had never witnessed, even in their secret cave.

The stage was Neil's natural habitat.

The footlights made his skin glow, giving him a beautiful, ephemeral quality, like something sacred and newly discovered.

An overwhelming, physical wave of emotion crashed over Todd.

The man he loved, who was systematically deprived of passion and praise by his father, was now standing under spotlights, receiving validation from hundreds of strangers.

Todd felt a sudden, desperate urge to run down the aisle, leap onto the stage, and grab Neil. He wanted to kiss him hard, right there in front of everyone, then shout all the compliments Mr. Perry had starved him of.

His hands gripped the arms of the seat, his knuckles white. The forbidden longing was so acute it felt like a physical ache in his chest. Beautiful, he thought, the word echoing silently in his mind.

He is so beautiful right now.

Todd had never wanted anyone so badly.

The play's final scene arrived. Puck delivered his famous closing speech, "If we shadows have offended..." Neil's voice rang through the hall, a perfect blend of apology and impudence. As Neil finished the last couplet, the stage lights focused entirely on him. The audience exploded in applause.

The Dead Poets were on their feet instantly, creating a cacophony that drowned out the rest of the hall. Charlie let out a wild, long whistle and screamed, "Carpe Diem, Perry! Carpe Diem!" Knox cheered as loudly as he could while Meeks and Pitts pounded their hands together, red-faced with excitement.

Mr. Keating stood, smiling broadly, a look of paternal pride on his face.

Todd joined the standing ovation, his throat tight, unable to produce a sound.

The curtain fell, and the house lights came up. The theater buzzed with chatter.

The boys immediately descended on him. Charlie grabbed Neil's shoulders and shouted, "You were a lunatic, Perry! Absolutely magnificent!"

Meeks and Pitts offered quiet, sincere praise for his technical skill. Neil laughed, soaking in the genuine approval. He accepted the praise, but his gaze kept searching. He pushed past the crowd and stopped in front of Todd, who was standing slightly apart, his chest still heaving from the silent ovation.

Neil’s eyes were bright, his smile huge and real. He was asking for one specific validation.

"How did I do, my poet?" Neil asked, his voice low, a conspiratorial plea for truth meant only for Todd.

Todd felt the heat rise instantly. "You—you heard Charlie," Todd stammered, deflecting the question entirely. "Everyone... the whole theater loved it. You can see they did. C'mon now, Neil."

Neil leaned closer, his voice dropping further. "Look, remember when I was practicing that final audition line? The one about 'the mistress of my soul'? I was failing. It was dead on the page until you... until you gave it back to me. That conviction, Anderson, it's still in the line. I landed this role because of that moment. So yeah, it means something different if it comes from you."

Neil was referring to the moment Todd had performed the line in their room, the force of his plea translating into Neil’s breakthrough. "You were great, Neil. Really great." Todd said with awe. Neil's smile didn't fade, he had asked for Todd's whole heart, and Todd had given him a perfect word.

"I'll... I'll buy you a proper meal when we get back to the dorm while we study for uh-tonight." Todd blurted out, the need to express his gratitude overriding his control. "Pizza, maybe. My treat." Neil grinned, pleased by the gesture. "Deal, Anderson. You keep your word."

Before Neil could say more, a girl with striking, dark hair pushed through the small crowd and approached him. It was Ginny Danburry, still in her Hermia costume. "Neil! You were brilliant!" Ginny said, her voice bright and breathless. "We're all going out for dinner now, the whole cast. You absolutely must come. We're celebrating!"

Immediately, Knox, Pitts, and Meeks converged. "See, Perry? Stage romance already!" Knox crowed, nudging Neil.

"Go on, Neil! Celebrate!" Meeks added, clearly excited by the drama. Neil looked from Ginny to Todd, whose face had instantly shifted from relieved gratitude to panic. "I appreciate that, Ginny," Neil said politely, turning to Todd. "But I actually promised Todd I'd grab a meal with him back at the dorm. We have some... heavy studying to do."

"Oh, come on, Neil!" Ginny insisted. "It's the opening! Studying can wait! This is tradition!" Todd felt the panic climb. He desperately wanted Neil to take the easy out, to go be the triumphant star.

"No, Neil, it's fine," Todd rushed out, shaking his head slightly. "You should go with the cast! I can... I can study alone."

Neil ignored Todd's frantic denial. He looked at Ginny and smiled gently. "Sorry, I can't. I keep my word. Todd promised me pizza, and when Anderson promises something, it's a firm commitment." Todd's heart did a dizzying flip. Neil was choosing him and Ginny looked disappointed but accepted the refusal.

“Alright, well, I'll see you at rehearsal Monday!" She gave him a quick, friendly pat on the arm and left.

Knox sighed dramatically. "The tragic loss of opportunity, Perry."

"But the noble commitment to friendship," Charlie murmured to Todd, a knowing glint in his eye.

Back in their dorm, the celebratory pizza arrived. They spread out their calculus books on Neil's bed, the heavy, greasy box between them. Neil tore into a slice, balancing it precariously over his textbook. Todd picked at his, still wound tight.

"You really should have gone with them, Neil," Todd said quietly, after several minutes of silence. He carefully avoided looking at Neil. "It was the opening night. That’s a huge thing. That kind of opportunity doesn't come often."

Neil stopped chewing and looked at him, calculus forgotten. He reached out and tapped the pizza box lightly. "Why would I want to be crammed into some expensive, loud restaurant making small talk with people I just spent three hours on stage with?" Neil asked, grinning easily. He glanced at the pages spread before them. "I prefer this.”

Neil laughed, "Besides, I'd rather be here. I get to eat, I get to study, and I get to see the only person who knows I almost blew the audition over one line. Seriously, Todd, this is much better than formal dining."

"But... why?" Todd finally asked, unable to keep the question in. He picked up a piece of crust, turning it over and over. "I mean, it's Ginny Danburry and the whole cast. They're celebrating a su-successful night. This is just.. you know… calculus." Neil stopped writing, lowering his pencil. He looked at Todd with a look of genuine affection mixed with slight exasperation at Todd's perpetual need for explanation.

"Todd, I just spent four hours on stage being watched by hundreds of people and for a director I didn't know," Neil said, his voice quiet. "I don't want to talk about the play with strangers. I don't want to explain myself. Here, I don't have to explain anything.” Neil launched into a low, passionate ramble, still buzzing from the stage.

As Neil rambled, Todd stopped listening. His focus narrowed entirely to Neil's face. The feeling from the theater, the desperate, aching urge to affirm Neil's worth, returned with a crushing intensity. Neil was talking about safety and lies, but to Todd, he was simply the most beautiful, most dangerous thing he had ever encountered.

"Why would I want to celebrate with people who don't understand the depth of the treason?" He punctuated the thought by running his tongue over his bottom lip, unconsciously removing a stray bit of pizza grease.

Todd's thoughts raced, collapsing years of fear and devotion into a single, frantic justification.

He did a great damn job at drowning Neil’s words since he is too occupied with the weight of everything. The humiliating jealousy from earlier, the radiant memory of how magnificent Neil had looked on the stage, the intimacy of being called "my poet," and the final, fatal distraction,

How shiny Neil's lips looked from the grease of the pizza.

Todd's world contracted to the small, perfect geography of Neil's mouth. His gaze fixed on the precise spot: the tiny, dark mole tucked just on the lower curve of Neil's lip. He cataloged the way Neil’s lips moved—so expressive, so often smiling or pouting.

He was looking at the precipice of his own destruction, and he couldn't look away. So, Todd moved before his mind could construct a single warning.

Todd kissed him.

Todd pulled back instantly, the world snapped back into sickening focus. It was as if a bucket of ice-cold water had splashed across his face. He saw the pizza box, the calculus book, the unmade bed, and Neil's stunned face. His hands dropped from Neil's face as if scorched. He struggled violently to regain his composure.

"I—I'm sorry," Todd stammered, his eyes wide and sick with fear. He couldn't articulate the real reason, so he snatched the nearest, most pathetic excuse. "Y-you were talking too much. You were just... rambling."

The worst lie I've ever told, Todd thought frantically. He braced himself and waited for the inevitable—Neil's disgust, his shock, maybe even the physical retaliation he knew he deserved for the trespass. Neil remained frozen for another silent moment, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open.

He reached up slowly and touched his lips with the back of his hand, still staring at Todd. The color, which had drained from his face at the initial shock, began to flood back.

Then, Neil offered the last thing Todd had expected. He did not recoil. He did not shout. He simply let his gaze drop, and a deep pink flush spread across his cheeks and the base of his neck.

"Oh," Neil whispered, the sound barely audible. He looked utterly sheepish, a sudden vulnerability replacing the actor's confidence. "I'm s-sorry."

Todd stared at him, completely thrown. Deep inside, his mind screamed in disbelief. He apologized? Neil apologized for the "rambling," completely sidestepping the fucking colossal elephant in the room,

The kiss.

The fear didn't leave, but it warped into confusion, the non-reaction was more terrifying than any punch.

Neil slowly pulled his calculus notebook closer, his attention seemingly fixed on the derivative on the page. His ears and cheeks were still a tell-tale pink. Todd, leaning across the desk, felt his own face burning, the fierce blush impossible to hide. The silence returned, but thick with tension.

They simply tried to resume studying. Todd, however, was in internal chaos. His hand trembled as he reached for his pencil. He kept glancing at Neil, watching the perfect arc of his brow, the slight focus lines around his mouth. Where did I find the courage to do that? he wondered.

"This one... the chain rule applies here," Neil muttered, his voice still a little husky, breaking the charged silence to talk about math. Todd swallowed hard. "Right. The outer function first." For the next hour, they spoke only of derivatives and integrals.

As the clock neared two in the morning, Neil finally pushed his books aside.

 "I think that's all I can absorb tonight," Neil murmured as Todd nodded, gathering his own scattered notes. Neither of them looked at the other as they performed the familiar ritual of preparing for bed.

Neil stripped out of his clothes and pulled on a thin cotton pajama top. He climbed into his bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Todd did the same, turning off the single desk lamp. The room plunged into darkness.

"Goodnight, Todd," Neil whispered from the darkness, the words sounding strangely hesitant.

"Goodnight, Neil," Todd replied.

Todd lay in the dark, his heart beating a slow, steady, triumphant rhythm. He pressed his fingers lightly to his lips, remembering the firm pressure.

He closed his eyes and finally fell asleep with the memory of Neil Perry's lips against his.

Chapter Text

Todd woke up suddenly, violently pulled from the deepest sleep he had in months. It was the sound of raised voices right outside their closed dorm door. He sat bolt upright in bed. The light filtering through the window showed the early Monday dawn, casting pale grey shadows across the room.

The voices belonged to Neil and his father, Mr. Perry.

"You lied to me! You told me you were in the library studying late, but your professor called and told me you were not there, and Mr. Nolan informed me that your school assignments have been found in a community theater!" Mr. Perry’s voice sharpened to a terrifying edge.

"Do you realize the position you put me in? I condemn this humiliation! You will apologize to Nolan, and you will never mention that nonsense again."

"I won't apologize!" Neil said, his voice clearer now. "I won't! I did a good job, Father. Mr. Keating said I was excellent."

"Keating!" Mr. Perry spat the name like a curse. "That radical fool has poisoned your mind. You will drop this foolishness immediately."

"No!" Neil’s voice cracked with raw pain. "I won't! Why can't you just see that I'm happy doing this? That I'm good at it? I was free!"

"Because it is not your path! It is a destructive fantasy, and you will not destroy the future I have laid out for you!"

The argument reached a devastating peak. Neil stepped away from the door, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with tears and rage. Then, Neil's voice charged with bitter defiance. "At least my friends care about me! At least they came to see me! At least Todd comforted me that night!"

Mr. Perry’s immediate reaction was laced with annoyance. "Comforted you? What is that supposed to mean, Neil? It means nothing! It means you are losing focus, losing control, allowing a clique of fools to dictate your priorities!" Mrs. Perry then intervened sharply, "Tom! That is enough. Stop shouting. You're alarming the other boys."

"He lied to me, Clara! He stood on a stage and made a fool of me!”

“The entire play was excellent, Tom. The director even called me this morning before you arrived to congratulate Neil. He was good. He found something he loves."

"Clara, this is not about a pastime. This is about his future! If he wants to squander his potential, he can do it outside of this school," Mr. Perry insisted, though the absolute authority in his tone had fractured.

 "He is leaving Welton. He will finish the semester with a private tutor and enroll at the university prep course in the city."

"No, Tom," Mrs. Perry said, and her voice held the unyielding steel of a mother protecting her child. "You are wrong. He will not be withdrawn. He is staying at Welton. But, Neil," she continued, her voice softening slightly "you broke your word and there will be consequences." Neil stood still, processing the unexpected victory against the heavy cost.

Mr. Perry didn't argue further with his wife and the conversation ended.

“Fine, Clara. But I want this room cleared of all... theatrical paraphernalia by noon. And I want to speak to Mr. Nolan myself." The footsteps retreated down the hall. Neil stood frozen for a long time, listening to the silence of the now-empty corridor.

Slowly, he pushed off the door and turned, his face still pale. He finally saw Todd sitting bolt upright in his bed, the blankets pulled up to his waist, eyes wide and fixed on him. Neil’s composure, which had just been strong enough to stand against his father, instantly crumbled into deep embarrassment.

He didn’t want Todd to witness that private devastation. And, worse, he had dragged Todd's name into the fray as a desperate weapon.

Neil shuffled across the room and sat heavily on the edge of his own bed, facing Todd.

"Todd," Neil began, his voice barely a whisper, thick with shame. "I... I'm sorry you had to hear that. I'm sorry I dragged you into it. It was stupid, I shouldn't have used you like that." Todd quickly shook his head, pushing the blankets back. He scrambled off the bed, needing to close the distance.

"N-no, don't apologize," Todd stammered, his concern for Neil overriding his own fear closing the distance between them. "You're the one who's going home. I'm sorry, Neil."

"No," Neil interrupted, looking up with a complicated mix of emotion. "I'm staying. My mother intervened but, I'm grounded. I can't leave campus for the rest of the year. No town, no movies, no trips. And no more Midsummer rehearsals, obviously." He dropped his head, staring at his hands.

"But thank you, Todd. For everything. If you hadn't convinced me to go through with the performance I would have quit. I would have let him win before I even stood on that stage." Neil looked up again, his expression intensely earnest.

"I stood up to him, Todd. Did you hear me? I told him no. That was the first time in my life I've ever stood my ground and finished what I started, even after I saw him in the audience. And it felt... so good."

"It was right," Todd confirmed as he placed his hand back on Neil's shoulder, this time more confidently. "It was worth it.”

The door to their dorm room was thrown open with a violent shove, "Perry!" Charlie rushed over, ignoring the mess of calculus books. "Don't worry about that old bastard, man," Charlie spat, pacing the small room. "He is an antiquated totalitarian. Your mom's got spine, though. Good for her."

He stopped and looked at Neil, who still looked drained, then noticing Todd's hand resting on Neil's shoulder. Charlie’s gaze was momentarily sharp, taking in the proximity but he quickly dismissed it, prioritizing the crisis.

"So, you're grounded. No more plays. That's the consequence?" Charlie demanded. Neil sighed and rubbed his tired face. "Well, my mom said I can't leave campus. I'm grounded.”

"And the Dead Poets?" Todd asked quietly, afraid to confirm the worst.

Charlie, who always saw the solution before the problem, scoffed. "He can't ban the Dead Poets, you idiots. That doesn't exist on paper. That's us. It just means we meet here now. Or in the cave, and Todd, Meeks, and Pitts have to carry the flag." Charlie stopped pacing and leveled a serious look at Neil. "But listen to me, Perry. Nolan is tightening the screws on Keating. He saw us all at the play, and that notice this morning about unauthorized activities. That's phase one. They are looking for a scapegoat."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "This is not the time to look defeated. You won the battle. You stayed at Welton, and you performed like a god. Now we act like it. We stand by Keating, and we keep this thing quiet.”

The morning bell rang violently cutting off Charlie's resolve and signaling the start of classes.

"Crap, Calculus," Charlie muttered, immediately turning professional. "Anderson, you look like you haven't slept since the audition. Get dressed. We have to go." Todd was already scrambling off the bed, grabbing his uniform trousers. His mind was still caught between the echo of Mr. Perry's rage and the memory of Neil's lips.

"Go ahead," Todd instructed, struggling to pull his shirt over his head. He needed an extra minute to compose his face, which felt permanently flushed. "I'll catch up.”

They walked in silence for a few paces, broken only by the clock ticking down to class. Then, unable to help himself, Neil cleared his throat and posed a question, injecting it casually into the conversation as if it were a point of philosophical debate.

"Hey, Charlie," Neil began, staring straight ahead at a fire extinguisher case. "Hypothetically. Say someone was talking... rambling, you know? Just completely running their mouth off about something they were really excited about." Charlie gave him a strange side-eye.

"What kind of rambling?"

"Doesn't matter. Just rambling," Neil insisted, his cheeks starting to warm slightly. "And say... say someone else like a friend just suddenly kissed them. Out of nowhere. Like, to make them stop. What would you do?" Charlie stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. He turned to Neil with a raised eyebrow.

Charlie slowly surveyed Neil, taking in the frantic energy and the sudden, intense flush spreading across his face. "Perry," Charlie drawled, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "We've been friends for five years. We've talked about everything from revolutionizing the school paper to the existential terror of Dr. Hager's Latin tests. And now, out of the blue, you're asking me about hypotheticals involving friends spontaneously kissing?"

Charlie leaned in, lowering his voice with amusement. "You're the guy who probably watched porn once in his life.” Neil’s blush deepening to a furious crimson. He yanked his arm back from where Charlie had been loosely holding it.

"Don't be an ass, Charlie! What does that have to do with anything? It's a simple question about human behavior and motivation!" Neil protested, trying to inject academic severity into the panicked situation. "You're supposed to be analyzing the scenario, not the source!"

"The source is everything, Perry," Charlie said breezily, flashing him a knowing wink.

Charlie stepped back, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement.

"Alright, alright, fine. Let's analyze," Charlie conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender. "So, the friend like the one who was kissed… What was their reaction? Did they recoil? Did they punch the rambler? Did they, you know, lean into the 'shut up'?"

Neil hesitated, his eyes fixed on the molding of the ceiling, trying desperately to recall the previous night without admitting it. "The friend... the friend was surprised. And then, he just... went quiet. And then they went back to studying calculus."

Charlie let out a loud, incredulous laugh that stopped just short of being disruptive. He lowered his voice, dropping the teasing and focusing a gaze of keen assessment on Neil. "They went back to calculus? After a spontaneous kiss that was supposedly meant to silence a rant?" Charlie shook his head.

“Why are you more panicked than the friend who was actually kissed?"

Neil instantly stiffened, grabbing the strap of his satchel so tightly his knuckles went white. "I'm not panicked! It's the pressure! My father just-" Charlie let out a short, soft burst of laughter, laced with undeniable knowing.

"Never mind, Perry. The point is lost in the terror. Just tell your hypothetical friend to sit down, take a deep breath, and reassess what they actually felt about the kiss, not why it happened. That's the only way forward."

Charlie gave Neil a final, gentle push toward the classroom door. "Now go get in there. And for God's sake, stop analyzing the motives of spontaneous kissers." Neil stumbled forward, the blood rushing from his face. He reached for the door handle, his hand still clammy.

Just as he did, the door swung inward.

Todd walked through the doorway, having finally caught up after letting Neil and Charlie get ahead. Charlie, who had been watching Neil closely, followed Neil's gaze to Todd. He watched the visible rush of color to Neil's cheeks.

His eyes widened slightly, then a slow shit-eating grin stretched across his face.

Knox burst in, slightly breathless, clutching a folded piece of stationery. "Perry! This came for you!" He announced loudly, weaving through the crowded aisle. "It was waiting at the headmaster's office for the morning post. It's from Ginny Danburry!"

"Just put it down, Knox," Neil muttered, trying not to catch the others’ attention but it was too late. The surrounding boys had caught wind of the exchange and descended immediately. "A letter from Ginny Danburry!" Meeks whispered, nudging Pitts. "It's a love letter, Neil! Look at the handwriting, it's practically calligraphy!" Pitts leaned in, his eyes wide. "She was the prettiest girl at the play! She's obsessed with Puck now, Neil! You're a ladies' man!"

Knox, beaming with the success of his delivery, practically placed the perfumed envelope in Neil's lap. "Open it, Neil!" Charlie urged, but his tone was surprisingly gentle. Neil finally picked up the letter, his fingers trembling slightly. He felt Todd shift beside him, he wasn't looking at the letter or at Neil, he was staring intently at the page of his binder, his face expressionless, but his jaw was visibly clenched.

Meeks, leaning in eagerly from behind, whispered, "Well? What did she say? Is she professing eternal love?" Pitts, craning his neck over Meeks, managed to catch a single, devastating word. "Date!" he announced, a little too loud, catching the attention of several boys nearby.

"A date!" Knox crowed, hitting Neil playfully on the shoulder. "Attaboy, Perry! The star gets the girl! Where are you taking her?" Neil tried to stuff the letter quickly into his desk.

"I can't go anywhere," Neil said flatly, "I'm grounded."

"What? Seriously?" Meeks asked, sounding genuinely disappointed. "For how long?"

"For the rest of the year," Neil muttered.

"Doesn't matter!" Pitts declared, waving a dismissive hand. "She can come to campus! The girls' school is only twenty minutes away! Just invite her to the next Welton dance, Neil! Say yes!" Neil looked defeated, burying his face in his hands.

"Gentlemen, please," Charlie drawled, slipping the letter into Neil's satchel with a decisive snap. "The Star needs a moment to consult his calendar. Clearly, he's overwhelmed by the sudden rush of adoration. Give him air." Charlie winked at Neil, but his gaze was serious. "Just tell me one thing, Perry. Is she proposing another play, or is this... personal?"

"It's personal," Neil muttered into his palms. "She wants to talk about the feeling of the performance and... she wants to get coffee."

"Coffee!" Pitts cried, his voice laced with the romantic melodrama of a boy who'd never been on a real date. "You have to go, Neil! This is what it's all about! Carpe Diem!"

"But he's grounded, Pitts!" Meeks argued, worried about logistics. "He can't leave campus!"

"Then ask her to meet you at the gate, Perry! Just for five minutes!" Knox insisted, his own knack for yearning fueling his urgency. "Don't let this chance pass you by! You'll regret it!" Neil remained slumped, shaking his head against his palms. "My father... he'll be back at noon to check the room. I can't risk anything else. It's just not worth it."

Meeks, desperate to see his friend achieve the pinnacle of conventional teenage success, turned to the one person Neil always listened to. "C'mon, Todd," Meeks pleaded. "You're like the only person Neil listens to right now. You were the one who told him to go through with the play! Convince him to say yes to the girl, too! He deserves this."

Todd, who had been struggling to support his facade of indifference, felt every eye in the cluster turn to him. He could feel the agonizing anticipation from the other boys, and the piercing, knowing gaze of Charlie. He clenched his fists in his lap, forcing his voice to appear flat.

“You should… I think you should go on that date, Neil," Todd said, the words ringing hollow even to his own ears. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the front of the classroom, projecting an air of total nonchalance

" It sounds like something y-you should do."

It was the most brutally honest lie Todd had ever been forced to tell but every fiber of his being was screaming for the opposite answer.

Say no, Neil. Please, for once, just say no.

"See, Neil?" Knox murmured, his voice now devoid of teasing. "Even your poet thinks you should seize the day. Don't be a coward."

"Fine," Neil sighed. "I'll write her back. But only for coffee near the gate. I'm telling her I'm grounded." The announcement was met with a roar of approval that briefly overwhelmed the classroom noise.

Knox shouted, punching the air "Yes! That's my Perry!" Meeks and Pitts slapped Neil on the back. "A date with Ginny Danburry! We should throw you a party, Neil!" Pitts cheered.

Neil managed a weak, distracted smile for his cheering friends, the color still high on his cheeks. He was focusing more on getting the letter safely back into his bag than on the celebration. Meanwhile, Todd remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the open page of his binder. He could feel the celebratory energy pressing in, demanding his participation and to look happy for his friend.

Slowly and painfully, he forced the muscles around his mouth into a slight, upward curl—a lifeless imitation of a smile. Charlie, leaning back was the only one who saw it. His eyes were not on the cheering poets but on the subtle, betraying movements of Anderson.

Charlie watched the way Todd's forced smile didn't reach his eyes, the way the thin curve stretched the skin over his clenched jaw.

It was a beautiful, devastating piece of acting from the boy who never spoke, and it confirmed everything Charlie had deduced.

When the bell finally rang for the mid-morning break, Todd desperately needed air. "I need some quiet," Todd murmured to the others, already halfway out of his seat. "I'll be down by the lake."

The boys understood Todd’s need for space after the intensity of the morning.

Todd didn't stop until he reached the small, dilapidated wooden dock by the edge of the lake. He sat down, legs dangling over the freezing water, and stared at the empty expanse.

Charlie stopped a few feet away, leaning against a post, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't speak for a long moment, allowing the silence to stretch. "Nice bird," Charlie finally commented, his voice flat, barren of its usual bombast. "It is," Todd agreed, his voice rough.

Charlie sighed, pushing off the post and stepping closer to the edge of the dock. He looked at Todd's slumped shoulders, then out at the water.

"You kissed Neil, didn't you?"

The question wasn't accusatory, nor was it playful. Rather, a blunt statement of fact.

The silence of the lake augmented the rush in his ears and Todd froze as he felt the blood drain from his head. He stared fixedly at the heron, willing it to take flight.

He couldn't lie, not to Charlie, and certainly not about this.

After a long, agonizing pause, Todd gave a barely perceptible movement of nodding. “I thought so," Charlie said softly, looking suddenly older and more serious than Todd had ever seen him. He paused then pushed his hands deeper into his pockets as he kicked a small pebble into the water.

"So, here's the part I don't get," Charlie continued, his voice hardening slightly with confusion. "You risked everything last night to prove to him he was free, and that you cared about him more than his father does. You sealed it with... with a shut up kiss, as I call it. Then, ten minutes ago, when he needed a defense against that stupid girl and those eager idiots, you told him to go on the date. Why?"

Charlie turned to face Todd's profile. "Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you say 'No, Neil, you shouldn't go, because of what happened last night, and because I'm the one who should be comforting you'?" Todd finally turned his head, his eyes burning with frustrated tears. He tried to speak with stability, but the words caught, emerging as a ragged whisper.

"Because... because that's what he's supposed to do, Charlie! That's what's normal! That's the right answer!" Todd gestured frantically toward the distant school buildings.

“The kiss... the kiss was just a mistake! It was selfish! If he goes on the date, he's safe. He's normal. He can forget all the crazy things that happened here."

Todd choked on a dry sob. "I should want him to be happy. And that date makes him look happy to everyone else. It's what he needs."

He wiped furiously at his eyes with the cuff of his sweater. "And besides," Todd added, his voice cracking with the ultimate fear. "He's probably not even... he's not even like that, Charlie. He's not gay. He was surprised. I just jumped him! He's going on this date because he should. And I told him to."

The desperate act of admitting the truth was too much. Todd buried his face in his hands as his shoulders beginning to shake. The sobs were dry and ragged at first, quickly escalating into wrenching sounds of a boy who felt alienated in his own truth.

He had guarded his feelings for so long, and now, exposed on the cold dock, the release was catastrophic. Charlie's usual flippancy vanished, replaced by genuine concern and knelt immediately beside Todd.

"Hey, hey, Anderson. Come on. Don't do that," Charlie murmured, placing a hesitant, comforting hand on the back of Todd's neck. He searched for the right words, something that wouldn't sound patronizing or false.

"Look, I don't know a damn thing about being gay," Charlie admitted quietly, his gaze steady on the school. "But I know what fear looks like, and I know what truth looks like."

He squeezed Todd's neck gently. "And I know the feelings inside people are the same, Anderson. You felt something, and you acted on it. Neil reacted to it. Now, you're scared of what that means for the world you both live in." Charlie pulled back, looking Todd straight in his tear-streaked eyes.

"Maybe Neil is, maybe he isn't. I don't know. But he listened to you to fight his father. He didn't use Ginny. You're the risk he chose to take, Todd. Stop trying to push him back into the safe box just because you're afraid of what it will cost you both."

He stared at Charlie, still half-kneeling beside him, "Thank you, Charlie," Todd whispered, the lump in his throat making the words almost indistinguishable. "Thank you for... for not getting mad at me. For not hitting me. I know you're not... you're not like that. And I just admitted that I am and I-I kissed… Neil. You didn't..." He trailed off, unable to complete the phrase, you didn't hate me.

Charlie looked genuinely confused for a moment, then let out a low, surprised chuckle. He finally rose to his feet, pulling Todd up with a quick tug on his arm. "Hit you, Anderson? For a kiss?" Charlie shook his head, a wry smile returning to his face. "Please. The only time I'd ever be willing to hit you is if you stole my new provocative poster of Jayne Mansfield out of my room. Even then, I'd probably just settle for blackmail."

The mischievous glint fully restored in his eyes. "Now, we have five minutes until the next bell. If we don't start walking back, Mr. Nolan's going to find a way to connect your illegal birdwatching to Keating."

When the last bell of the day finally rang, Todd hurried back to the room. Neil was not there—he was likely detained by a teacher or perhaps was facing his mother again to plan the execution of his grounding. Nonetheless, Todd was thankful for the empty room.

He didn't want to see Neil. Not right now.

Todd gripped his pen and started to write, allowing himself to immerse in lines to pull him away from the day's events. He was trying to write a poem about the heron he had seen on the dock, it felt like the only form of escape left.

The winter bird, anchored in the marsh of doubt.

He knows the weight of every start and turns away a silent fool.

Lest sudden flight, too hard, too bright, should tear the fragile morning light.

He stopped, pressing the pen so hard the paper almost tore. A few minutes later, the door handle rattled. Todd froze, dropping his pen as Neil walked in.

Then, Neil looked across the room and saw Todd sitting on the bed, notebook open, staring at him. Their eyes met, and the air thickened with the weight of the last twelve hours. Neil shrank a little under Todd’s gaze. His usual confident stride was gone, replaced by a nervous shuffling. He looked down, fiddling with a button on his cuff, visibly shy.

"Hey," Neil murmured, "Uh, are you... are you alright, Todd? You disappeared at lunch. I... I wanted to make sure you were okay." He's asking if I'm okay. The simple question, the concern in Neil's voice, should have been comforting, but it twisted in Todd's stomach.

An intense wave of regret washed over Todd. He hated this. He hated that he had kissed Neil.

This is what I did, Todd thought bitterly, staring at the nervous fidgeting of his roommate. This is the consequence. The confident, golden retriever Neil was gone, replaced by this timid, guilt-ridden stranger.

This Neil was just as shy as Todd felt himself to be.

Is this the price? Todd wondered, his heart aching with immense regret.

Is this awkward silence and his lost confidence the only knowledge I get in exchange of the pressure of his lips against mine?

Todd forced himself to put down the pen and close the notebook, snapping himself back to the present. He had to be normal. "I'm fine, Neil," Todd managed, his voice steady but flat. "Just... needed some air after that morning. Are you alright? You look exhausted."

"Yeah." Neil mumbled. Todd felt a sudden, frantic spike of anxiety. Yeah? That was it? A four-letter word?

Neil Perry didn't answer with one-liners. Neil Perry answered with a rambling, breathless flood of words, a hundred tangential thoughts. Neil Perry, even when defeated, filled the silence.

But this Neil was small and quiet.

Todd's mind went instantly and brutally to the kiss.

Did I actually kiss him so he'd shut up, and now he can't talk?

The thought was agonizing and ridiculous at the same time. Todd hated that his desire had been so potent, so physically aggressive, that it had apparently stripped the very essence of Neil's personality.

Todd couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand the space between them. He couldn't stand the knowledge that he had silenced the one person who had ever made him feel brave. He couldn't live in a room with Neil where every shared breath was a lie.

"Are we... are we really," Todd began, the words catching painfully in his throat. He forced himself to look directly at Neil's profile, his voice a strained, broken whisper. "Are we really never going to... to address it, Neil?"

Neil froze, his hand stopping halfway to a hanger.

"I... I kissed you," Todd whispered, his voice cracking violently on the last word. His hands came up in a small, helpless gesture of despair. "I kissed you, and now you're going on a date with someone else. What does that mean, Neil?"

The final word hung in the air, broken and heavy. Todd wasn't accusing Neil, he was accusing himself, terrified that he had misinterpreted everything, and that moment was just an aberration Neil was already trying to correct.

Neil looked from Todd's desperate, tear-filled eyes to the floor, unable to meet the intensity of the confrontation. "Todd, I..." Neil finally started, his voice barely a breath. "I don't know what it means. I don't know what you want me to say."

A painful sound tore its way out of Todd's chest, a sound that started as a sob but twisted into a short, bitter laugh laced with tears. His worst fear had just been validated, but the confirmation felt physically catastrophic. He had known the answer, yet the truth struck him like a fucking truck. It hurt so much.

He doesn't know what it means. He doesn't have the words because it meant nothing to him.

I was right. He's not gay.

The desire to scream and demand honesty warred with the desperate need to protect their friendship that felt like hanging by a thread.

Todd felt his control completely collapse. His shoulders slumped in total defeat and wiped his streaming eyes furiously with the heel of his hand, forcing his voice to be flat. "Right," Todd whispered.

"I know. It was stupid. I'm sorry."

He took a shaky breath, stepping back and restoring the painful distance between them.

"I'm sorry for kissing you that night, Neil. It won't happen again." Todd pressed his back against the desk, the hard edge digging into his spine, and stared blindly at the equations on the textbook cover.

His heart didn't just hurt it felt physically violated, as if Neil's quiet, confused "I don't know" had been a blade piercing his chest and twisting. Atleast the confrontation was over. The thought that had him in a chokehold for those agonizing weeks had been immediately buried.

Todd squeezed his eyes shut. If only I were a girl. If only he had Ginny Danburry's femininity, her simple, heterosexual appeal.

If he were a girl, that kiss would have had a defined meaning, it would have been a passionate mistake or a new beginning.

It wouldn't have been a terrifying, unnamed violation of the natural order.

If he were a girl, Neil wouldn't be walking away to a date, he would be trying to figure things out.

But Todd was just Todd. He had traded the friendship for this agonizing silence, all for the fleeting knowledge of the press of lips that meant nothing.

He heard the soft scrape of Neil's belt buckle as he started to change, the intimate, everyday sounds that now felt like a violation of Todd's privacy. Todd tightened his grip on the textbook, wishing the equations inside could somehow compute a solution for the impossible pain of his heart.

"It's okay, Todd. I'm not mad."

I'm not mad.

Neil wasn't angry nor he wasn't threatened but he was forgiving him. He was treating it like a harmless misstep, a clumsy stumble that simply needed a quick, generous pat on the head.

He was afraid of Neil being indifferent. This easy dismissal was worse than a shouted rejection. It stripped the kiss of all its truth, making it look like his love was some pity case.

"Don't," Todd choked out, his voice a strained, brittle whisper.

"Don't what?" Neil asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Don't say that," Todd repeated, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Don't tell me it's fine. It wasn't fine." He heard Neil pause near the closet, the sound of fabric rustling stopping entirely.

"I said I was sorry, Neil," Todd managed, pushing the words past the massive lump in his throat.

"That's all there is to say. Just... forget it."

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since the kiss.

Two weeks since Todd had choked out his agonizing apology.

The awkward phase was over. Neil had snapped back to his loud self again. Full of energy and theatrical schemes, dominating the conversation with rambling about poetry and impossible plans. He was just as playful with Todd as he’d ever been, borrowing his pens, demanding input on his Latin homework, and leaning against Todd's desk in that familiar snug invasion that Todd both desperately missed and now resented with bared teeth.

The more Neil talked, the quieter Todd became.

Where he had once managed hesitant sentences, he was now retreating into the deep silence of his earlier Welton days. He was growing more reserved, sinking behind his journal full of scribbled poetry, afraid that any spontaneous word might betray the tortuous secret lodged in his throat.

Now, it was late afternoon, and the emotional climax Todd had dreaded since Ginny Danburry’s letter arrived was finally here. Neil pulled out a pressed blazer, checking the knot on his tie in the small, reflective pane of his wardrobe door. He looked handsome, so painstakingly handsome.

Todd was sitting at his desk, pretending to do Keating’s new assignment but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Neil, watching the reflection in the wardrobe glass. The sight twisted a heavy, familiar knot of pain in his stomach.

"Do you think this blazer is too... collegiate?" Neil asked, turning abruptly and catching Todd watching him. There was no shyness in his tone now.

Todd swallowed hard, trying to keep his face a neutral mask. "No, Neil. It looks... fine. Sharp."

Go. Todd thought, the wish a burning cinder in his mind.

"Perry! You look like you're about to meet the Queen!" Knox crowed, bounding into the room. He spotted Neil in his freshly pressed blazer and immediately started circling him, inspecting his work. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You're going to charm the pants off that girl."

The sound of Knox's excitement drew the others. Meeks and Pitts piled in behind him, buzzing with encouragement, instantly forming a huddle around Neil, peppering him with final, hurried advice about where to meet and what to say.

Todd remained at his desk, making himself as small as possible. A moment later, a shadow fell over Todd. Charlie walked past the huddle of poets and sat down on the edge of Todd's bed, pulling the mattress down slightly under his weight. He just watched the commotion, then glanced pointedly at the book Todd wasn't reading.

Charlie noticed that in the last two weeks, Todd had grown quieter, practically mute. He was a statue of contained tension, and Charlie knew exactly why.

Neil fixed his blazer one last time, smoothing the lapels. He took a nervous breath, then deliberately turned away from the cheering boys. His eyes found Todd.

"How do I look, Todd?" Neil asked, his voice low, seeking Todd's validation above all the boisterous noise.

Todd felt a violent internal protest. Why the hell do you keep asking me? He felt the familiar scrape of swallowing barbed wire every time Neil asked him for an opinion on a script, on a tie, and now, on his appearance for a date with a girl.

Knox let out a final, ear-splitting whistle. "Attaboy, Perry! Go get 'em! Women swoon!"

"Alright, wish me luck. I'll be back before lights out, I promise." Neil grabbed his coat and hurried toward the door. The poets immediately dispersed. Knox left first, Meeks and Pitts followed, talking loudly about how Neil needed to remember to pay for Ginny's coffee. Charlie, who had been sitting silently on the bed, waited until the last footstep faded into the hallway. He gave Todd's shoulder a light, knowing squeeze, and then he, too, slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

Todd couldn't breathe. He couldn't stay in the room, which now felt poisoned by Neil's lingering cologne.

He stood up so quickly his chair scraped back and strode to the door. He didn't bother grabbing a coat.

He needed the cold. He needed silence. He needed the solitude of the water.

Todd reached the dock, his lungs burning with every inhale. He leaned against the nearest weathered post, his head thrown back, trying to draw long, shaky breaths. Just as the internal noise began to subside, a familiar, insistent whirring started in his pocket. Todd pulled out the device.

The light on the small screen indicated the caller was his brother, Jeffrey.

Todd swiped to answer, keeping his voice carefully level despite the turmoil in his chest.

"Hello?"

"Todd! Hey, man, what's with the heavy breathing? Just sprint a mile?"

"No. Just... just out on the dock," Todd mumbled, trying to sound casual. "It's cold. Everything alright?"

"Everything's fine here," Jeffrey confirmed. "Mom just wanted me to check in before father calls again later tonight, make sure you're... well alive." Jeffrey chuckled dryly, a shared acknowledgment of their father's tyranny. "But really, I wanted to see how you were doing.”

The effort to keep his emotions caged caused Todd to finally let go of a slow, held-in breath that sounded less like a sigh and more like a suppressed sob. Jeffrey paused, his tone shifting entirely to concern. "You brought your coat, right? It gets cold by the dock every night."

Todd hated that Jeffrey could hear the broken pieces of him through a simple phone line. He felt a single tear escape and track a slow path down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, trying to sound careless.

"It's n-nothing, Jeff," Todd said, pulling his shoulders in tighter against the raw cold and leaning further against the wooden post as if it could absorb his pain. "Just the usual Welton nonsense. And y-yeah, I'm wearing a coat," he lied. "It's fine. Really. Tell Mom I'm buried in my calculus."

"Alright, if you say so," Jeffrey conceded, though his voice remained doubtful. "But call me if that calculus gets too lonely. Stay warm, okay? And tell Neil congratulations on the play, he earned it."

"Will do," Todd mumbled. He hung up immediately, before Jeffrey could ask any more questions.

The air had grown colder as the sun dipped toward the horizon, and the damp chill coming off the lake was now biting through his thin shirt and blazer. He had been out here too long without a proper coat.

His muscles had stiffened, and he felt a deep, pervasive ache spreading from his core outward.

His legs felt useless. He couldn't force himself to turn back towards the dorm.

The wind rustled through the reeds, the sound indistinguishable from the faint roar of exhaustion in his own ears. He felt his consciousness begin to drift, the sharp edges of the dock.

Then, a sound cut through the haze. A whisper, close by.

"Todd?"

It was soft, hesitant, and undeniably familiar.

Todd’s eyes remained closed. He was too weak, too far gone in inertia, to distinguish reality from the desperation of his own subconscious. He just let the sound wash over him, unable to risk that it might be real, and unable to risk that it might be just another cruel trick of his longing heart.

The voice came again, closer this time, laced with genuine panic: "Todd! What are you doing out here? You'll freeze!"

A rush of warmer air hit Todd's face, immediately followed by the familiar scent of Neil's cologne mixed with the fresh, outdoor smell of the cold night air. The date was over.

Then, Neil’s hands were on him.

Neil’s eyes widened in panic, noting Todd’s posture and the pallor of his skin. Neil immediately shrugged off his freshly pressed blazer and wrapped it tightly around Todd’s shoulders. With a strength Todd hadn't known he possessed, Neil quickly slipped an arm beneath Todd's knees and the other behind his back. He hoisted Todd up in a rush, gathering his unresponsive roommate into his arms.

Todd instinctively grabbed a fistful of Neil's fresh blazer, his face pressed against the comforting warmth of Neil's neck. He finally realized this wasn't a dream. This was Neil, carrying him.

Neil didn't stop to question or explain. He turned immediately, leaving the desolate dock, and started moving quickly toward the lights of the dormitory, jogging the entire way. "We're going back to the dorm," Neil’s breath warm against Todd's ear.

"Just hold on, Todd. We're almost there."

Todd registered the clatter of the main hall, the quick turn into their corridor, and the fumbling lock of their door. Then came the soft drop onto the mattress. Neil didn't put him on his own bed. He settled Todd carefully onto Neil's bed, pushing him back against the pillows. He immediately pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and yanked it up to Todd's chin.

Todd was still wrapped haphazardly in Neil’s warm blazer, cocooned in the comforting, intense smell of Neil's cologne.

The combination of the blanket, the blazer, and Neil’s presence finally began to thaw the frozen fear from his muscles. Todd blinked slowly, his vision clearing and he was lying in the heart of the sanctuary he had just been running from.

I am in Neil's bed. Under Neil's blanket. Wearing his blazer.

The irony hit him, he had spent two weeks meticulously avoiding his roommate only to end up right here, helpless and entirely consumed by Neil.

Panic flared, overriding the remaining fatigue. Todd tried to sit up, scrambling against the blankets. "W-wait," Todd stammered, his voice weak and ragged. "The... the date. Neil. Your date. Why are you here? You left!"

Neil, who had been kneeling by the bed trying to rub warmth back into Todd’s clammy hands, looked up, his expression a mix of worry and frustration.

"The date is over, Todd. I left," Neil said, his voice sharp with impatience. "Who cares about the date? I went out there, and I saw you by the dock. You were practically frozen! What were you even doing out there without a proper coat?"

He had been found at his absolute weakest, literally paralyzed by the pain of Neil’s departure. He couldn't just say the truth.

 I was out there because the thought of you on that date was destroying me, and I needed the cold to make my emotional pain physical.

Todd averted his gaze, looking at the ceiling, the ceiling fan, anywhere but Neil's intensely worried face. He couldn't find a lie, and he certainly couldn't articulate the truth. He remained stubbornly quiet, clamping his lips shut.

"Todd, talk to me," Neil urged, his voice softening with concern as he realized Todd wasn't being difficult, but was genuinely shaken. He stopped rubbing Todd's hands and gently tucked them under the warmth of the blanket. He then moved to Todd's feet, taking off Todd's cold, damp shoes and socks.

"N-nothing happened," Todd whispered, the stammer a painful betrayal of his attempt at nonchalance. "I just... I just wanted to get some fresh air. I... I guess I forgot my coat."

It was the most plausible, stupidest lie he could conjure. Neil paused, sitting back on his heels, assessing the lie. Todd felt the bed shift under Neil's weight.

"Todd, that's not 'forgetting your coat.' That's deliberate. You were sitting there. You were practically rigid when I found you." Todd didn't answer. He just pulled the blanket up higher, burying his chin.

He knew the lie was paper-thin, but he also knew Neil would never press him past a certain point of discomfort, especially not after their conversation two weeks ago. He was banking on Neil choosing kindness over confrontation.

He heard the subtle sounds of Neil tidying up, perhaps putting his blazer back in the closet. Todd was overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. Neil had just sacrificed his evening to carry Todd back from the dock. He slowly turned his head on the pillow, finding Neil sitting at his own desk, facing away, inspecting the damage to his blazer.

"Hey, Neil?" Todd asked, his voice rough from the cold and the past silence.

Todd swallowed, forcing the neutral roommate persona back into place. "I... I just wanted to ask. How did it go?"

Neil frowned, momentarily confused. "How did what go?"

"The date," Todd clarified, forcing a small, difficult shrug of his bundled shoulders. "With Ginny. Since you came back early. Did you... did you have a good time?"

Neil's expression shifted from worry to a kind of blank neutrality, as if recalling something vaguely tedious. He picked up a loose thread on the sleeve of his own jacket and worried it between his fingers.

"Oh. Right. It was okay," Neil answered, his gaze distant. "The coffee was good. We mostly talked about... well, about the play, mostly. And my dad." He paused, then looked directly at Todd. "I left early because I didn't want my father getting another lecture in. But I got out before the last bell, and then I saw you on the dock."

He didn't know why he asked the next question—maybe to inflict the maximum pain on himself but a fresh wave of self-torment was necessary.  "D-did she," Todd stammered, hating himself, "did she look... pretty?"

Neil finally offered a small, careless shrug, the gesture entirely devoid of enthusiasm. "Yes. She looked nice. She was wearing a pink coat."

The word 'yes' landed like a heavy stone. Todd swallowed the burning lump in his throat. This was the final hurdle, the ultimate question of his despair, and he had to ask it to confirm his sentence.

"Right," Todd whispered, leaning further back into Neil's pillows. He paused, gathering every ounce of his courage, and spoke the words that he had suppressed for so long.

"Do you... do you like her, Neil?"

The question hung in the air and Todd braced himself for the sharp, casual yes that would end his suffering.

Neil didn't answer right away. He stopped fidgeting with his jacket and slowly pushed himself up from his desk chair. He walked toward the bed, stopping at the edge, looming over Todd. The distance between them, felt cavernous.

"Does 'liking' mean having your stomach flutter when she walks into the room? Does it mean going completely silent, suddenly terrified you'll say something stupid? Does it mean the minute I found out you were out there on the dock, nearly freezing to death, the whole date became completely irrelevant, and all I could think about was getting you back into this room?"

He paused, the rhetorical questions hanging heavy, each one an accidental, profound confession. He shook his head slowly, looking down at his own hands.

"Because if that's what 'liking' is... if that's the standard for Ginny Danburry," Neil finished, looking back up that made Todd's breath hitch, "if so... maybe I don't."

He doesn't like her.

The simple statement should have brought elation, but Todd’s mind screamed a warning as if it’s going on fight or flight mode.

He doesn't like her, but that doesn't mean he likes you.

The questions Neil had posed were the exact definitions of how Todd felt about Neil. The stomach flutter, the sudden silence, the complete, overriding priority. Todd felt a blinding, desperate urge to reach out, to touch Neil's face and finally say the truth he'd been choking on.

If he misread this, if he allowed himself to hope and was wrong, he wouldn't just lose the friendship, he would lose Neil's respect forever. He would force Neil back into the terrified shyness, the two-word answers, and the cold, impenetrable distance.

The silence stretched filled with everything Todd wanted to scream and everything Neil was waiting to define. He knew he should retreat, swallow the hope, and allow Neil to put his confusing introspection away.

Todd didn't know what possessed him. It was a reckless surge of the very Carpe Diem he was too timid to enact. He pulled his hands out from under the blanket, the movement quick and unsteady. He reached out and lightly held Neil’s wrist.

"H-how," Todd began, his voice barely a breath, forcing his gaze to meet Neil's confused, searching eyes. He had to be specific. "How... how about the k-kiss, Neil?"

Neil’s entire posture stiffened.

Todd rushed on before his nerve completely failed him, the words tasting like ash.

"Did you... did you l-like it?"

God, he wants to stab himself right now. He had just raised the stakes again, laid his entire soul bare for a second time, banking everything on a moment. He was blind again, driven by this stupid, annihilating hope.

He was risking the total destruction of their friendship, and he knew it.

Neil froze, he knew what this question cost Todd. From this moment on, he remembered Charlie’s question from last time.

The point is lost in the terror.

Just tell your hypothetical friend to sit down, take a deep breath, and reassess what they actually felt about the kiss, not why it happened.

That's the only way forward.

What did I actually feel?

Neil stopped staring at Todd's mouth—which was trembling slightly and forced himself to look at the boy's eyes. He let the anxiety and the fear of his father, of Welton, of normality, fall away for one second.

He didn't answer with words.

Instead, Neil reached out, his hand no longer hesitant. He gently cupped the back of Todd's head, his fingers threading into Todd's slightly damp hair, pulling him forward just enough to seal the minimal, agonizing distance between them.

This time, the kiss was not desperate or aggressive.

It was soft, searching, and entirely his own choice. It was the definitive answer.

Neil didn't pull away. He held the kiss, his thumb gently stroking the curve of Todd's neck. He wasn't thinking about the mechanics of the moment.

The coldness, the slight chapped texture of Todd's lips from the dock air, or even the faint salty trace of old tears. None of it mattered. Todd, recognizing the gentle, deliberate pressure, finally allowed himself to relax into the contact.

Two weeks of fear and cold was instantly melted when he dropped his guard entirely, opening his mouth slightly to welcome the warmth and rightness of the return.

This was what Neil liked.

This was the answer to his terrifying internal questions, not Ginny Danburry's pink coat, not his father's approval, but this kiss with his roommate.

Neil finally pulled back just enough to look into Todd's eyes. "I think," Neil whispered, his thumb still resting lightly against Todd's cheekbone,

"I think that means... I liked it."

Before Todd could process the words, Neil closed the remaining space and kissed Todd again. This kiss was a slow, clumsy admission of mutual inexperience. Neil’s hands, though no longer hesitant, were far from expert. He gently cupped the back of Todd's head, the angle was slightly off, and their noses bumped awkwardly before their lips properly settled. Todd, equally overwhelmed, lifted one hand only to tentatively rest it on Neil’s shoulder. They were searching slightly for the rhythm, their mouths pressing together with urgency.

Todd pulled back, gasping sound leaving his throat. He needed air, not because of the overwhelming taste of the actor’s kiss, but because his entire world was spinning off its axis. He stared at Neil, his eyes wide and searching. He was waiting. He waited for the gold to turn to lead.

But Neil just looked back, his lips slightly parted, showing no trace of shame or apology. Todd’s chest was heaving. The cold from the dock, which had permeated his bones just minutes ago, had completely vanished, replaced by a searing heat.

"N-Neil..." Todd breathed out, the sound ragged and almost useless. He’s so afraid of fate playing a huge prank and he suddenly wakes up from a life that could not possibly be his. Neil scrambled off the mattress and sank to his knees beside the bed.

He didn't try to kiss Todd again or offer a grand explanation. Instead, he rested his forehead against the blanketed fabric covering the younger’s lap. "Todd," Neil murmured against the wool, his voice thick and muffled.

“Please," Neil’s voice cracked with earnestness. "Please don't tell me to forget this kiss, Anderson. Please don't be sorry again. Not this time." Todd stared down at him, paralyzed to the nth degree. This was the precise opposite of the scenario he had rehearsed in his mind for two weeks.

"I won't," Todd whispered, his voice steadier now than it had been all day. "I won't forget it, Neil."

He slowly brought one hand up, his fingers still slightly trembling, and tentatively brushed the hair back from Neil’s forehead, encouraging the said boy to rest his head more fully on Todd's lap.

"But... I thought you did," Todd whispered, his voice thick with past pain. "I thought you wanted to forget it. We... we went back to studying calculus that night. After. As if—as if I didn't just kiss you. You were so quiet. And then you went on the date..."

Neil lifted his head from Todd's lap, his expression shifting from distress to an intense, bewildered frustration.

"I did go back to calculus," Neil admitted, his voice tight. "I was terrified, Todd! I didn't know how to act, and you were already apologizing. You told me it wouldn't happen again! You gave me the perfect out.”

Neil grabbed Todd's hand, his fingers pressing hard against Todd's cold knuckles.

"And I went! I went on the date, because you told me to, because you were so convinced that the kiss was a mistake that I thought you were saving my life! I thought you were giving me permission to be the Neil Perry my father expects, and that was supposed to fix... this." He gestured frantically between the two of them.

"I'm sorry!" Todd blurted out, the words ragged and desperate " I'm so sorry. I told you to go on that date because I was terrified." He scrambled to sit up, pulling the blanket around him like a cloak. "I was terrified that you weren't like me. I thought you were just being kind.”

Todd pointed a trembling finger toward his desk. "You didn't even know who Auden was! When Keating discussed him last week—you were completely lost!"

Neil tilted his head, his confusion deepening. "Auden? W. H. Auden? So what? I don't know many poets, Todd! I'm an actor, not a scholar!" Todd stared at him, his face flushing crimson.

The reason for his panic, the ridiculous internal logic he had clung to, finally spilled out.

"He's... he was gay," Todd whispered, the word feeling explosive in the quiet room. "I thought, if you didn't even know him, then you couldn't possibly be... gay.” Todd immediately looked away, realizing the sheer absurdity of his rationalization. He's right. That's not proof of anything. His blush deepened.

Taking in the impossible, ridiculous logic of the boy who could write stunning poetry but relied on Auden's sexual identity to prove his roommate was straight. A soft, genuine chuckle escaped Neil, low in his throat, bewildered delight at the way Todd's mind worked.

Todd's head snapped up. His eyes were wide with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance at being laughed at during his emotional breakdown. "H-hey!" Todd stuttered, trying to sound firm, but the warmth in Neil's gaze was too disarming. "Stop it! It made sense at the time!”

"You are such an idiot, Todd Anderson," Neil smiled with tenderness laced in his tone.

Todd felt his entire body go slack with the impossible sensation of being wanted. But even as the warmth spread, the internal defense mechanism, honed over years of self-repression and internalized shame, screamed against acceptance.

He likes the kiss. He doesn't like Ginny. But what does that mean? Is Neil... gay?

The question was bloodcurdling that it makes him want to sprint a thousand miles away out of impending doom. Todd couldn't reconcile the confident, popular, father-pleasing, girl-charming Neil Perry with the hidden reality Todd had always assumed belonged only to misfits like himself.

The thought felt like a sickening violation of the natural order of Welton. In Todd's brutal, internalized logic, this truth meant that Neil, too, would now be forced into the small, terrified corners of existence. He would have to hide, he would have to lie, and he would have to face the inevitable judgment.

Todd was repulsed not by Neil, but by the label and the dangerous, hidden life it implied.

Without saying a word, Neil pushed himself off his knees and sat down beside Todd on the bed, pulling the thick blanket over his own legs. He reached out and very gently touched Todd's cheek again, his fingers tracing the fair skin of his poet.

"Are you okay, Todd?" Todd let out a shuddering sigh, releasing the last of his frantic resistance. Then, with a defeated movement, he leaned in fitting his cheek directly into the cup of Neil's warm palm.

You will ruin him.

The thought was a physical punch to Todd’s gut. Neil was the golden boy, destined for success and public acclaim. Now, Todd had dragged him down into the subterranean world of shame and fear that Todd himself inhabited.

He knew the internal battlefield that awaited Neil, the self-doubt, the fear of exposure, the sickening realization that his father’s impossible demands were now laced with the poison of homophobia.

Todd was terrified that one day, perhaps years from now, when the pressure became too great, when Mr. Perry's disapproval finally broke through. Neil would regret everything.

And when he did, he wouldn't blame the world or his father he would turn to the boy whose impulsive kiss started it all.

He will blame you.

He will say you made him this way. Todd thought, the terrible burden of assumed liability settling over his shoulders.

He will say you are responsible for destroying the perfect future his father carved for him.

He was resting his head in the palm of the boy he loved, but inside, Todd was already preparing for the day Neil would look at him with hatred and accuse him of theft—the theft of Neil Perry's normal life.

Neil, oblivious to the self-flagellation taking place beneath his touch, felt Todd relax. He slid his fingers deeper into Todd's hair, tilting Todd’s face up slightly so he could look down at him. "We don't have to figure it all out tonight, Todd."

"We just have to agree on one thing.".

"What?" Todd whispered, dreading the impossible commitment Neil was about to ask for.

"I won't tell you to forget it, and you don't tell me to be sorry," Neil said, his voice firming with authority. "We stop lying about this. To each other. That's all. We start there."

Chapter Text

Neil was the most affectionate person Todd has ever met. Was it because he had not met enough people that cared enough to get to know Todd or was Neil actually just full of love.

They had not kissed again after that night but the intensity of that confession on the bed seemed to have satisfied Neil, who was now content to simply be around Todd. He would sit on Todd's desk while studying, letting his ankle casually rest against Todd's thigh. He'd pull his blanket off his own bed and drape it over Todd's shoulders while Todd read. They’d read plays aloud in low voices, their heads almost touching over the spine of the book, their breath mingling in the quiet air.

Every time Neil leaned close, Todd's throat tightened with the need to ask,

Are you absolutely sure, Neil? Do you realize what this means? Do you realize what you're choosing?

He would open his mouth, the question burning, only to clamp it shut again, terrified of disrupting of this beautiful thing that they’ve got going on right now. Todd needed Neil to confirm his certainty, to define the risk, to admit the impending doom.

Todd was trapped. He desperately needed Neil to understand the danger, but he couldn't bear to be the one to remind Neil of the danger, for fear that the certainty in Neil's eyes would finally crack.

Now, they were both sprawled across Neil's bed, the thick wool blanket pulled up over their legs. They were supposedly studying ancient history, but Neil was mostly tracing the seams of the quilt—a habit of his, while Todd stared blankly at the map of Gaul, unable to focus.

"My father called again," Neil murmured, his voice entirely flat. He picked up a loose thread on the blanket and twisted it with his fingers.

Todd instantly stopped in his tracks upon hearing the mention of his father. "W-what did he say?" Todd managed, his voice barely a rasp.

"Oh, the usual," Neil said dismissively. He shrugged, tossing the piece of thread onto the floor. "Lectures about how I shouldn't waste time on so many extracurriculars, especially any more plays." He tilted his head slightly toward Todd, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "He sounded exactly like Mr. Nolan.”

Todd stared at him, bewildered by his calm. "But... weren't you worried? What about the grounding?"

"Anderson, you worry too much. It doesn't matter what he says, really. My mother's already smoothed it over. She always does. He's furious for a few days, then she reminds him that his heart medicine is expensive, and he goes back to reading his ledgers."

Neil leaned his head sideways, resting it comfortably on Todd's shoulder.

"There's an open call next month for the spring production," Neil murmured filled with a excitement. "It's Ibsen. A Doll's House. They're looking for someone to play Krogstad, the villain." As he spoke, Neil’s hand found Todd’s beneath the blanket and gently intertwined their fingers, fitting their hands together perfectly.

Todd had constructed elaborate daydreams about scenarios just like this. He had always believed in certainty that these scenarios would forever remain locked inside his head, belonging only to in his journals. But suddenly, he was living in it. The reality was infinitely more beautiful than the dream.

"You'll get it, Neil," Todd murmured, the words simple and certain. "You always do."

Neil lifted his head slightly, his eyes shining with immediate delight. "You think so? Krogstad's tricky. He has to sound menacing, but also pathetic. Listen, I need to work on the monologue. Will you... will you run the lines with me?" Todd squeezed Neil's hand once, firmly. "Yeah," he agreed, the word coming out without a single stutter.

The class bell sliced through the room's bubble of intimacy.

He couldn't always stay here, safe under the blanket, holding Neil's hand. They had to leave, step out into the hallway, and face the scrutiny of other people.

The hallway. The dining hall. Classrooms. Everywhere outside this room was a minefield.

Todd pulled his hand back quickly, feeling the skin where Neil's had been held burn with the sudden loss of contact. He immediately started gathering his history notes, his movements jerky and panicked.

Hell, he hadn’t even told Charlie that they had kissed again, or that Neil had knelt by his bed and sworn to stop lying. He wasn't even sure if Neil wanted anyone to know. Todd glanced at Neil, who was already hopping off the bed, grabbing his blazer with easy confidence.

The rest of the Poets were lounging by the water fountain, waiting for them. The sight of the group immediately triggered Todd's deepest fear. He instinctively dropped back a full pace, creating an obvious distance between himself and Neil.

"There he is! Perry!" Knox shouted, instantly launching into a barrage of questions. "What happened with Ginny Danburry? Did you Carpe her Diem!" Meeks and Pitts piled in, buzzing with curiosity.

"Yeah, what's the verdict? Is she worth the parental wrath?"

Neil laughed, the sound bright and casual, settling easily into the role of the desirable boy being debriefed on his date. "It was fine. The coffee was good. We mostly talked about... well, mostly about the play and my dad. She's nice. But nothing to write poetry about, gentlemen."

Todd remained at the back, walking slowly, allowing the loud, excited chatter of the Poets to form a wall between him and Neil. He hated the distance, but he craved the anonymity it provided. The bitter reality sank into his stomach like a lead weight.

The ease with which Neil could play the straight part reminded Todd of the colossal risk they were taking. This was the lie Neil was so adept at living. He desperately needed to know,

 Was Neil acting now, or was he acting when he had kissed him?

"Come on, Perry! 'Fine' isn't good enough! If she's nice, you need to book a second date!" Knox insisted, his eyes sparkling with competitive hope. "I need you to cement this! You get a second date with Ginny Danburry, and then maybe we can try for a double date! Chris and Ginny and us—"

Todd stopped dead, the noise of the hallway receding. The casual suggestion of Neil continuing to court a girl sent a spike of raw, blinding jealousy shot Todd. "We'll see, Knox. Right now, I need to pass French. No more plotting for now," Neil said, giving the group a disarming smile.

He then noticed Todd lagging behind, frozen by the wall. Neil paused his movement toward the classroom and waited for Todd to catch up. "I mean it, Knox," Neil clarified, his voice still light, but with a subtle undertone of finality that only Todd picked up on. "I don't need to see Ginny again. She's fine, but I would rather not develop anything romantic with her.”

Neil then fell back slightly, pulling Todd along by the elbow, forcing him to keep pace with the rest of the group. "You okay?" Neil asked with softness, genuinely worried at Todd hearing about their teasings aimed at Neil. The younger just gave a timid nod, his blush betraying him.

Neil glanced down at their arms, where his fingers were now firmly wrapped around Todd's elbow, guiding him. He leaned in close, his voice a reassuring murmur meant only for Todd.

"Hey. Don't worry about Knox and the date.That was the last time Ginny Danburry is going to be mentioned. Ever."

"Why?" Todd whispered, the single word sharp with a desperate protest. He pulled his elbow free, needing to reestablish distance before they stepped into the room. "You don't have to promise me that, Neil.”

Neil stopped just outside the classroom door, his easy smile vanishing. He looked at Todd, and the sudden, intense hurt in his eyes was discernible. It showed the pain of being told his feelings weren't real.

"Don't I?" Neil asked, his voice low, shaking slightly with controlled emotion. "You're the one who cornered me two weeks ago in the dark and asked me why I kissed you. You're the one who told me the date with Ginny wasn't fair because of... of what happened."

He leaned in, his gaze direct and unwavering. "Todd, you don't get to demand I stop lying, and then get angry when I finally tell the truth. I dismissed her because I meant what I said. I already chose what I care about. And it wasn't Ginny."

The sudden edge in Neil’s voice—the genuine hurt and frustration made Todd’s eyes widen in panic. He had never seen Neil defensive, about anything other than his father's arbitrary demands. Todd stumbled backward a half step as Neil pushed the door open.

"I—I'm sorry," Todd stammered, the words barely audible over the scrape of chairs inside the classroom. It was an apology not just for his words, but for his continuous self-sabotage. Neil softened instantly and reached out, placing a hand on the small of Todd's back and gently guiding him across the threshold into Mr. Keating's class.

"Gentlemen," Keating began, his voice dropping to the intimate tone Todd loved. "We've spent a week talking about the terrible honesty of poetry, the need to strip away the expectations and find the truth in the 'yawn' of our own lives. We've talked about the challenge of being silent and the greater challenge of finding your voice."

Keating paused, his gaze deliberately settling on Todd's desk. Todd froze, instinctively flinching.

"Todd," Keating said, his voice gentle but entirely public. "Last week, you were kind enough to share a deeply personal letter with me. A letter that spoke of quiet despair, but also, surprisingly, of quiet hope."

Todd’s stomach plummeted. The letter. He had forgotten about the assignment entirely, completely consumed by the confusion with Neil.

Keating continued, unperturbed. "I feel that, as an exercise in courage and honesty for the whole group, we should listen to that voice. So, if you're willing, Mr. Anderson, at the end of class today, we'll carve out some time for you to read your letter.”

Todd swallowed hard, his throat dry. The letter was about to be broadcast. ”Y-yes, sir," Todd mumbled, the affirmative sound thin and almost lost. Keating acknowledged the response with a slight nod, his expression warm.

"Right then, gentlemen," Keating announced, his voice regaining its usual enthusiastic cadence. "Today, we address the one thing more potent than passion, and far more pervasive, Conformity."

He drew a large, perfect circle on the chalkboard with a smooth, sweeping motion.

"Look at this circle," Keating said. "It's safe, predictable and easy to define. It represents the path of least resistance. the path your fathers, your deans, and society at large expect you to follow. It's safe college applications, safe jobs, safe marriages. And why? Because it requires no courage. It requires no thought."

He then stabbed the chalk sharply outside the circle, leaving a jagged, violent mark.

"But what happens," Keating asked, lowering his voice, "when a man feels something that doesn't fit inside the circle? When his genuine desire, his true Carpe Diem, forces him to step outside the prescribed lines? The world calls that the outcast. The world calls it failure. But I call it courageous truth."

Keating began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes sweeping over the students.

"You see examples of conformity everywhere," he continued. "The way you dress, the way you answer in class, the way you decide who is 'acceptable' and who is not. Gentlemen, conformity is comfortable, but it is the death of poetry. The moment you start fearing the judgment of the crowd more than the pain of your own silence, you've already lost."

Todd listened, every word was a direct hit. He felt Neil shift beside him, their shoulders brushing. Todd knew Keating wasn't just talking about career choices, he was defining the prison that Todd's own fear had built. The fear of stepping outside that circle, the fear of judgment was the very force that made him want to apologize to Neil for being loved.

"You are, all of you, poets in your own right. But how many of you," Keating challenged, turning back, "are brave enough to live outside the margin? To choose a line that makes the established order wince?"

He walked to his desk and picked up a worn, slim volume. "Even the great ones struggled with this pressure. Look at E. E. Cummings. He fought with every typographical mark, every lowercase 'i,' to declare his individuality. He refused the conventional, the expected."

He said, 'To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.'"

"So, tell me, gentlemen," Keating challenged, leaning against the edge of his desk. "What is Cummings really saying? What is the core of this fight? Is it simply about being different, or is it about something far more vital?"

A few hands went up tentatively—Meeks and Pitts looking thoughtful, Knox looking eager. But it was Neil whose hand shot up immediately, his arm extended high and straight, his gaze fixed intensely on Mr. Keating.

"Yes, Mr. Perry," Keating said, acknowledging the fierce enthusiasm.

"It means," Neil began, his voice clear and ringing with conviction, "that the world, everyone wants to shave off the parts of us that don't fit the mold. The parts that are too loud, or too artistic, or... or too much."

"But the battle is defying to fight for because if you let them win," Neil continued, his voice gaining depth and passion, "You become a lie. You become a perfectly clean, capitalized name that belongs to someone else. It's about protecting the truth of who you are—the lowercase 'i,' the messy part because that's the only part that's real."

Keating smiled, genuinely impressed. "Very well put, Mr. Perry. The soul of the poet is in that defiance. The refusal to be commodified."

As the discussion hung on that high note, Charlie casually raised his hand, his usual confident smirk back in place.

"Yes, Mr. Dalton," Keating prompted.

"Sir, I think the real truth of Cummings is that he figured out that if you make your name look funny, people will talk about you more," Charlie declared, completely deadpan. "It's the ultimate marketing strategy. It's about getting noticed. It's about getting the girl, even if you spell your name with a lowercase 'i'."

A loud burst of laughter erupted from the students, easing the intense tension of Neil's confession. Even Neil couldn't help but crack a wide smile. Keating shook his head, a wry grin spreading across his face.

"Ah, Mr. Dalton. Always finding the cynical heart of a romantic. And yet," Keating added, leaning forward conspiratorially, "in your own unique way, Mr. Dalton, you live the truth of who you are more fully than most men in this room. You refuse the conventional, if only for a laugh."

Charlie winked and bowed slightly from his seat, basking in the approval and the attention.

The discussion carried on, the minutes blurred into a single, agonizing countdown. Every second that ticked by brought him closer to the inevitable.

"Alright, gentlemen, that's all for Cummings," Keating announced, tapping his desk. "Todd, if you would be so kind." Todd felt the blood drain from his face. Neil squeezed his hand under the desk, a silent shot of courage, but Todd's fingers were numb.

Todd cleared his throat, but the sound was thin and dry. He lowered his gaze to the page, his voice barely a thread. "I write this because I feel I have no voice..." Todd began, the words almost swallowed by the quiet room.

Todd nodded, inhaling sharply, forcing the air deep into his lungs.

"I write this because I feel I have no voice," Todd repeated, louder this time, though still hesitant. "I feel like a copy. The quiet one. The little brother, perpetually standing in the glare of Jeffrey's sun." He paused, finding a painful rhythm in the confession.

"And.. and they say I have a future," Todd continued, his eyes locked on the impossible words he had written. "But the future they want for me is clean and cold, like a page with no ink, contained in a perfectly built, white-picket-fence box. And when I look at that box, the life they d-demand, I feel the walls closing in."

"Sometimes," Todd read, the emotion catching, "I see something so bright, so real, so entirely good, that it feels like the only honest thing in the world. It is the uncapitalized truth. And it makes me want to burn the box down, just to be near the warmth.”

“But that brightness is dangerous. It doesn't belong in the dark place I live. It belongs in the sunlight, in the plays, in the laughter of boys who are not afraid."

"And I know I should leave that light alone," Todd concluded, his voice trembling slightly but clear, "because if I dare to reach for it, I will only smudge it with the shadow of my own fear, and ruin the perfect thing forever."

He lowered the paper, his hands shaking violently.

"My God, boy," Keating finally whispered, his voice hushed with reverence. He slowly pushed himself off the windowsill and walked toward Todd, his eyes alight with triumph. "Do you hear that? The fear, the honesty, the poetry! Mr. Anderson, that was a soul finally choosing to speak its own name."

Keating placed a warm, firm hand on Todd's shoulder. "That shadow you speak of? It's the only thing that proves the light is real. You are a poet, Todd. A true poet."

The relief that Todd had not stammered, that he had held the line and delivered the truth, was immense, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of Neil’s gaze.

As the other boys surged toward the door when the bell rang, their usual chaos was muted by the lingering impact of Todd's words. The poets gathered around Todd and basking him in pure admiration, Todd nodded stiffly, unable to absorb the compliments, still reeling from the exposure.

Charlie pulled Todd away from the path to the door, effectively separating him from the rest of the group, and most importantly, from Neil. Neil, who had just managed to gather his own books, looked up, saw Charlie's gesture, and hesitated, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Look at you," Charlie said, his tone shifting to one of genuine, quiet pride, pulling Todd into a brief, tight hug before releasing him. "That was guts, Todd. Real guts. I'm proud of you, man. You were shaking like a leaf, but you stood your ground.”

He flicked his eyes toward the door where Neil was waiting, then back to Todd. "I think you owe me an explanation. I saw how you two were walking in this morning, Anderson. And I saw how you panicked when Knox started talking about Ginny."

Charlie fixed Todd with a direct, challenging look, the smirk returning, but softer this time.

"Something's changed since you last saw the Captain and I think you need to say something to me, before I just start making up my own very entertaining conclusions."

"I... I can't right now, Charlie," Todd mumbled, shaking his head. He desperately tried to slip out of Charlie's hold. "I just read that out loud, I need a minute."

Charlie, ever perceptive, followed Todd's frantic gaze to Neil. "Well, if that isn't a picture of devotion," Charlie chuckled, a hint of playful malice in his tone.

"Listen, tonight's meeting is going to be in Pitts and Meeks's room," Neil said, leaning in.  He gave Todd's back a final, reassuring squeeze. "You still up for running lines later, after the meeting?" Todd managed a small smile, finding comfort in the routine. "Yeah. I'll be there."

They continued down the hallway toward the dining hall, the throng of students growing denser as they neared the midday meal. Todd was still keenly aware of Neil's proximity.

The thrill of being touched like this in the crowded hallway,

The thrill of being touched like this in the crowded hallway, Todd was certain that he himself would have instantly pulled away, retreating into his shell the moment they hit the main thoroughfare. He would be calculating the sightlines, the distance to the nearest wall, and the probability of being seen.

But Neil was utterly unconscious of the risk. He didn't drop his hand. He didn't look around nervously.

Todd stood in front of the communal basin in the washroom, his movements heavy with exhaustion. He was brushing his teeth with slow, mechanical strokes, his eyes half-closed. Neil came up beside him, energetic as ever, grabbing his own toothbrush and paste. He glanced at Todd, taking in his roommate’s slumped posture and weary expression.

A soft, affectionate smile spread across Neil’s face. He found Todd's current state cute. Neil reached out, his free hand lightly ruffling Todd's hair. Neil finished his brushing with a loud, refreshing spit into the basin. He rinsed his mouth, gave a quick swipe to his damp hair, and then fixed his eyes on Todd

"You look cute when you’re sleepy.”

The compliment was enough to snap Todd fully awake. He felt a ridiculous, immediate blush climb from his neck to his hairline. He was still entirely unused to this easy, open flirting "Butt off!" Todd stuttered, trying to sound annoyed, but the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth betrayed him

They had a precious few hours before the eight o'clock Dead Poets meeting at Pitts and Meeks's room, and Neil had declared it mandatory rest. Todd immediately set about preparing for bed, only to find that Neil wasn't moving toward his own bed. Instead, Neil walked directly to Todd's cot, lifted the blanket Todd had just straightened, and slid underneath it.

Neil propped himself up on an elbow, his head resting on Todd's perfect pillow, his expression one of utter contentment.

"What are you doing?" Todd whispered, his heart instantly leaping into a frantic beat.

"Resting," Neil replied simply, pulling the wool blanket up to his chin. "My bed's cold."

"It's the same bed, Neil," Todd countered, gesturing helplessly. "Just... a few feet away."

"It's psychologically different," Neil insisted, reaching out to gently tug on the sleeve of Todd's pajama top, a clear invitation. "Besides, I want to watch you read. You have a very serious reading face." He finally conceded, crawling onto the bed and pulling the blanket over his own legs.

"See, Todd?" Neil whispered, moving closer until his shoulder was pressed firmly against Todd's. "Much better." Then, Neil turned his head and started puckering his lips and wiggling his eyebrows with. He was clearly trying to provoke a reaction, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

He lightly pushed Neil's forehead away with his index finger.

"You are… crazy, Neil Perry," Todd muttered, blushing fiercely, his voice a breathy mix of surrender and disbelief. "Absolutely crazy."

"Maybe," Neil agreed, his smile wide and open. He stopped making the faces and waited, his gaze soft and patient. Todd let out a small, defeated sigh. He knew he couldn't resist.

Todd leaned in, quick and clumsy, and pressed a soft, tentative kiss against Neil's waiting lips. He immediately pulled away, his face burning, already retreating back to the safety of his pillow. Neil let out a sound of mock distress, "Anderson," Neil sighed dramatically, "that was barely the length of a single syllable. Is that the fate of the poet's love? To be cut short, like a bad audition?"

"Fine, you idiot," Todd mumbled, and he gave in again.

This time, Todd didn't pull back. He leaned in fully, finally letting go of the tension that had gripped him all day. The contact was longer, deeper, and more confident than before. Neil's hand lifted from the pillow, finding the back of Todd's neck, gently pulling him closer until their foreheads rested against each other.

The simple supposed-to-be-brief kiss quickly became heated, charged with all the repressed emotion and desperate certainty they had shared over the past two weeks.

Todd pressed into the kiss and tasted the lingering mint from Neil's earlier brushing. Neil was not passive. His mouth moved against Todd's with an instinctive, gathering eagerness, shifting the angle of the kiss to deepen the contact. He felt a cold flash of the old shame, the thought that this was wrong, that he felt perverted indulging in this secret intensity

But his thoughts were completely drowned out when Neil suddenly let out a low, involuntary groan. Todd instantly pulled away, his panic surging back tenfold. He stared at Neil, whose eyes were wide, dark, and slightly blown out. Neil's thick eyebrows were furrowed in deep frustration. His lips were parted, still glistening from the kiss, and his breathing was ragged.

"Why did you stop?"

Neil waited for only a second, then his face softened with recognition. He reached out and gently cupped Todd's cheek, his thumb brushing away a tension Todd hadn't known was visible.

"It's okay, Todd," Neil whispered, his voice warm "Don't run from me."

He didn’t wait for an answer. Neil leaned in again, capturing Todd’s mouth, and the blond melted into it without hesitation, letting Neil guide the pace. A gentle pressure traced along the seam of his lips made his breath hitch in an involuntary gasp against Neil's mouth.

A helpless sound caught in Todd’s throat, swallowed by Neil before it even left him, deepening the kiss immediately. He knows how to do this, Todd felt the soft, insistent jostling of Neil's tongue against his own that made his blood pound in his ears. He had never imagined such a sensation. The carnal pleasure of being this close to one another is really making Todd dizzy.

Todd broke the kiss, pulling back abruptly. His hands instinctively flew up to rest on Neil's chest, pushing for room to breathe from the intense make out. "Neil," Todd whispered, his voice shaky and small. He looked directly into Neil's still-dazed eyes. "H-how do you... how do you know how to do that?"

Neil blinked, the haze of passion slowly dissipating as the question registered. He looked genuinely flustered, the confident performer momentarily vanishing. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, matching Todd’s own.

"W-what?" Neil stammered, pulling back slightly. "It's... I mean, you just... you just do, don't you?"

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking much younger, less certain. "I mean, I've read about it. In books," he looked away sheepishly. Then he met Todd's gaze again, his vulnerability entirely exposed. "T-to be honest, Todd, that was... that was my first time, too. You were the first person I've ever..." He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

Todd stared at him, his mind reeling. His first time?

"So... are you telling me that time I kissed you to make you shut up... that was your first kiss?"

Neil looked away briefly, a boyish shyness washing over his face as he nodded.

A wave of guilt washed over Todd, eclipsing the earlier rush of feeling. He had not only been clumsy and desperate, but he had practically stolen a moment that, in Neil's romantic mind, should have been perfect.

"Oh, Neil," Todd whispered, horrified. "I'm... I'm so sorry. Your first kiss should have been... better. It should have been romantic, planned, under starlight or something, not me trying to silence you in the dark." He reached out, his hand tentatively touching Neil's forearm. The idea that he had robbed Neil of a beautiful memory made him feel really bad.

“It was the best first kiss. Because it was the first time I realized that you felt something, too.” He brought Todd’s hand to his lips and pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to his knuckles.

"Don't you dare apologize for it," Neil murmured, his voice firm with absolute certainty. "Any kiss from you is perfect. Now stop thinking, and let's go. We have a meeting in about.. ten minutes.”

Chapter Text

It’s officially the week-long mid-semester break. Everyone packs their suitcases excited to come home to their own families. For the boys of Welton, the mid-semester break was a near-mythical reprieve. The joy of sleeping in their own soft, uncreaking beds, the luxury of home-cooked meals—specifically, their mothers’ meals, free from the bland institutional flavor of the dining hall and the glorious freedom of no early morning classes or stern oversight.

Everyone was thrilled to escape the Gothic rigor of the school.

Everyone except Neil Perry and Only Todd Anderson felt the same cold dread.

Neil watched the frantic packing with a detached, weary smile. He knew the soft beds and the hot meals were merely the pleasant wrapping paper around a gift he didn't want—the return to his father’s meticulous control. Every mile between Welton and his home felt like another brick in the wall of the prison that awaited him. As Neil slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to descend to the waiting cars, he found Todd standing by the door of their room, his own small suitcase looking suspiciously light.

"You look like you're heading to a funeral, Anderson," Neil murmured, trying to keep his voice light.

Todd gave a weak shrug. "Feels like it. At least I won't be late for my own."

He stepped closer to Todd and gently, softly, pulled him in until they were standing inches apart, the privacy of the moment made possible only by the room's emptiness.

"I mean it, Todd," Neil whispered, his eyes sincere, focused entirely on him. "I'm going to miss you. Don't let them make you forget how to speak." He reached up and briefly settled his hands on Todd's shoulders, giving them a firm, reassuring squeeze.

"Call me," Neil urged, his voice low. "If you can. Even if it's just a minute.”

The sun had set, casting long, formal shadows across the meticulously set dining room table in the Perry household. Neil sat stiffly in his chair, facing the polished expanse of mahogany and the intimidating figure of his father.

Dinner was always less a meal and more a burdensome gathering at the table.

Mr. Perry was detailing the exact schedule Neil would follow over the break, SAT prep in the mornings, mandatory medical shadowing in the afternoons, and evening reports on his curriculum progress. "We have discussed the Harvard track, Neil. There is no time for frivolous distractions," Mr. Perry stated, slicing his steak.

"Yes, Father," Neil replied, his jaw tight. He picked at his food, the taste of which he barely registered.

Mr. Perry finished his bite, then looked up, a rare, approving glint in his eye.

"However," he continued, placing his knife and fork down neatly, "I did receive a very interesting note from Mr. Nolan regarding your date last week. A Miss Danburry." Neil’s internal temperature immediately spiked.

"Yes, Father. Ginny Danburry," Neil confirmed, his voice carefully neutral.

"She sounds like a sensible girl. From an appropriate family," Mr. Perry stated, nodding decisively. "I told Mr. Nolan I was pleased you are finally showing maturity in this regard. You need to cultivate the right associations, Neil." Mr. Perry leaned back, now launching into the grand, comprehensive plan that was Neil’s life.

"This is exactly the type of relationship I approve of. You will need a suitable wife, Neil, one who can manage your social standing and your household while you are establishing your medical practice. It is important to find her now, before medical school consumes your focus."

Neil felt the familiar rage building in his chest. His father was literally mapping out the entire geometry of his future.

"You and Miss Danburry are an excellent match," Mr. Perry finalized, looking immensely pleased with his own foresight. "You can be married during medical school—a simple wedding, nothing distracting. Then you will have two children. A boy to carry on the family name and ensure the practice, and a girl for companionship. They should arrive before you turn thirty-five."

Neil stared at the immaculate reflection of his father in the polished table, the silver glinting, the entire scene a portrait of smothering control. A boy and a girl. His father was planning his entire lineage, removing every element of Neil's own will.

"I'm afraid I won't be seeing Miss Danburry again, Father," Neil stated, the words coming out flat and dangerously quiet.

Mr. Perry’s knife and fork remained suspended above his plate. The air in the dining room froze.

"And why not, Neil?" Mr. Perry asked, the single word delivered with lethal precision. "The girl is perfectly respectable, her family is well-positioned, and she provides a suitable introduction to your future. You will be seeing her again."

The command was absolute, but before Neil could risk an answer, his mother finally spoke. "James, please," Mrs. Perry interjected, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate. "That's enough. Neil is too young to be discussing marriage and children."

She met her husband’s cold stare. "He just came home. He needs to breathe, not be scheduled for a wedding. If he wishes to pursue a relationship later, that is his choice to make, with whomever he chooses."

The momentary defense gave Neil the courage to speak, his voice cutting through the tension. "I will not, Father. I don't care for her, and I will not fabricate a courtship just to satisfy your timeline."

Mr. Perry leaned forward, his patience dissolving. "You will fabricate whatever is necessary to ensure your success, young man! You have no idea the sacrifices I have made to provide you with this life—"

"But it's your life, Father!" Neil finally exploded, the repressed rage of months boiling over. He slammed his fist down on the table, making the silverware jump. "It's all yours! The school, the friends, the career, the wife, and the children! What about my life? What about what I want?"

The moment Neil shouted, he knew he had gone too far. The silence returned, heavy and fatal. Mr. Perry did not need to shout back. He merely needed to look at his son with the utter contempt reserved for failure.

The conversation was over. Neil's outburst had accomplished nothing but to solidify his father's disapproval. Under the table, Mrs. Perry reached out, her hand finding Neil's trembling one. Her thumb began to rub slow, comforting circles against the back of her son’s hand.

As soon as Mr. Perry pushed back his chair with a scrape that sounded deafeningly loud, Neil knew he was dismissed. "I trust you understand the gravity of your behavior, Neil," Mr. Perry said, his voice flat.

Neil rose without a word, the heavy silence of his father's disapproval clinging to him. He climbed the stairs, the velvet carpet muffling his steps, and entered his bedroom. He glanced at the large, formal telephone on the hall table outside his room, the instrument his father frequently monitored. No, he couldn't use that.

With quick, practiced movements, Neil moved to the small, discreet service closet near his bookcase—a spot designed for storing linens but which Neil had repurposed. He carefully pulled out a long extension cord and a spare telephone handset he had acquired years ago. He plugged the cord into the concealed jack behind the closet, snaking the thin wire under the door and across the carpet until the handset was safely hidden

He lifted the receiver and quickly dialed Todd's number.

"H-hello?" Todd's voice was low, tentative, and slightly muffled.

"Todd, it's me. Neil," he whispered, pressing the receiver tightly against his ear, his voice urgent and quiet.

"Neil! Oh, thank God," Todd stammered, his relief audible even over the static. "Are you... are you okay? I was just about to call you. I heard—I mean, I can only imagine how your dad is—"

"I'm fine," Neil cut in softly, needing to stop Todd from listing the dangers. The reality was, he wasn't fine. The dinner had left him vibrating with suppressed dread but he couldn't burden Todd with that.

"I just..." Neil paused, his voice softening into a low confession. "I just really wanted to hear your voice. Todd fell silent on the other end, but Neil could hear his quick, shallow intake of breath.

"I miss you," Todd finally whispered back. "The silence here is... it's worse."

"I know," Neil murmured, closing his eyes, letting the sound of Todd's voice wash over him. "I know."

He knew they couldn't risk a long conversation.  "I have to go," Neil whispered quickly. "My father... he'll check on me. I sent you a letter, Todd. It should arrive soon. Read it, and write back, okay? Just... hide it."

"I will," Todd promised instantly. "Be careful, Neil."

"Always," Neil replied, his lips curving slightly at the familiar farewell. He hung up the phone quickly, carefully unplugged the handset, and coiled the wire back into the closet. The conversation had lasted less than sixty seconds, but it was enough. The sound of Todd's voice was enough to calm him.

He smoothed the bedspread and settled onto his bed, pulling out the well-worn, illicit copy of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House that he had successfully smuggled home. He opened it to his marked pages, forcing his concentration onto the character of Krogstad.

He read for only a few minutes, but the words refused to stick. His gaze kept drifting to the ceiling, and a sudden, genuine smile broke across his face as he thought, not of Nora or Torvald, but of Todd.

He admitted to himself that he had always felt a strange overprotectiveness toward his quiet, clumsy roommate. In the beginning, he had dismissed it as simple caring friendship—the Captain looking out for the youngest and most vulnerable member of the group. He’d made sure Todd was included, that he was never left behind.

It was the reckless kiss that day—Todd’s sudden, panicked attempt to silence him that had confirmed everything. It was the moment the question mark hanging over his feelings dissolved into an exclamation point of certainty.

Just as he was settling his mind, Neil heard a faint, persistent tap-tap-tap against his windowpane. He ignored it, attributing the sound to a loose branch or the cooling of the house. He turned onto his side, but the noise came again, more deliberate this time

Annoyed, Neil slid off his bed and quietly crossed the room. He eased the curtain back a crack and peered out into the darkness. His house, like many in the affluent neighborhood, sat on a large plot, but several of his friends lived within walking distance.

Standing below his window, hands shoved casually into his pockets, was Charlie Dalton.

Charlie grinned and waved, then made a broad, exaggerated gesture with his arm, indicating that Neil should come down. The things I do for the Dead Poets, Neil thought, a rare thrill of non-sanctioned adventure cutting through the evening's gloom. He crept to the door and listened intently. He walked to the end of the hall and carefully peeked into his parents’ room. The sound of Mr. Perry’s heavy breathing confirmed that both his parents were fast asleep. The coast was clear.

Neil quickly changed out of his pajamas, threw on a sweater, and quietly made his way to the back staircase, pausing only to retrieve the key to the heavy back door. With a soft, almost inaudible click, he let himself out.

He found Charlie waiting patiently by the edge of the lawn.

"Took you long enough, Captain," Charlie grinned, slinging an arm over Neil's shoulder as they began walking toward a cluster of trees near the property line—their usual local teenage hangout spot. "I was about to stage a full-scale Ibsen drama right here on your lawn."

"You're lucky my father is a heavy sleeper," Neil murmured. "What are you doing here, anyway? Couldn't wait a week to plot against the Dean?"

"I was bored," Charlie admitted simply, kicking a pinecone ahead of them. "My parents left me with my aunt—the one who believes jazz is Satan’s soundtrack. I escaped." He pushed aside a low-hanging branch, stepping into the small, secluded clearing where they sometimes met in the summer. "Besides, I figured you needed a distraction after your harrowing attempt at courtship."

"What are you talking about?" Neil asked, settling against the trunk of a large oak.

Charlie slid down beside him, his expression immediately changing from playful to shrewd. He didn't waste time with small talk. "Ginny Danburry," Charlie stated flatly. "And the incredible tension you have with Anderson."

Neil stiffened, the sudden shift in topic catching him entirely off guard. He tried to brush it off. "Ginny? What about her? It was one date. I told you, I'm not interested."

"Yes, I know you’re not interested.” Charlie said, his voice laced with mocking sincerity. "But you dumped her like she was radioactive waste, and you did it the morning after Anderson practically wrote a love letter in Keating's class about a dangerous, bright light he was afraid to touch."

Charlie turned, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on Neil. "Don't insult my intelligence, Neil. I'm not Meeks. I've been watching you two all week. What the hell is going on between you and Todd?"

There was no point in lying. Charlie was already there. Lying to Charlie about something this fundamental felt like betraying the very principle of the Dead Poets Society. He also did not have the need to hide whatever he and Todd had.

"Remember that time I asked a hypothetical question about suddenly being kissed by a friend?" Neil began, his voice low and steady, not quite matching the intensity of Charlie's focus.

Charlie nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing in dawning comprehension. "Yes. You were unusually defensive."

"That wasn't hypothetical, Charlie," Neil confessed, the words quiet but firm. "That was Todd and me."

"And it's not just a kiss anymore," Neil added, the conviction in his voice strengthening. "I dismissed Ginny because of him. Because of what he wrote in that letter. And because... I'm in love with him, Charlie. That's what the hell is going on."

Charlie remained silent for a long moment, the quiet broken only by the distant sound of crickets. "Well," Charlie finally drawled, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I told you, Captain. You may not be predictable, but you are always, always dramatic."

Charlie shifted, crossing his arms over his chest as he settled into the role of confidant. His eyes held genuine curiosity now. “"But tell me something, Perry. Since when are you interested in boys?”

Neil sighed, pushing his hands through his hair. The question was fair, and one he’d been asking himself for weeks. "I don't know, Charlie," Hel confessed, the honesty humbling him. "I honestly didn't even know I had the capacity to be interested in anyone. I've been too busy trying to be the perfect son.”

He looked at the dark silhouette of his house, a fortress of expectation. "I never let myself look long enough at anyone to feel anything real. All my energy was focused on making my father happy, or escaping him through the play."

Neil looked back at Charlie, his gaze earnest. "It's just Todd. It's always been Todd.”

He gave a slight, helpless shrug. "I don't know what that makes me, Charlie. I don't know about 'boys.' I only know about him."

Charlie nodded slowly, absorbing the confession. "That's poetic, Captain. I can respect that." Neil let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head at the irony of his situation. "Poetic, yes. But my father's response to my 'courtship' was less poetic and more terrifyingly systematic."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I just told him I wasn't going to see Ginny Danburry again. And do you know what his response was? He told me I was approved to marry her. He wants me to settle down during med school, have a boy and a girl, a clear blueprint for my life, including my progeny. All before I turn thirty-five."

Charlie stared, dumbfounded. He pushed himself back onto his hands, genuinely shocked. "Hold on. You mean you got caught trying to sneak a date and he didn't ground you? He didn't lock you in your room for a week? Your father, the Dean of Doom's spirit animal, approved of the girl?"

"Exactly," Neil confirmed, the absurdity of the situation making him tired.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better." Charlie began, his voice dropping into a dry, humorous lament, "my parents have decided this break is the perfect time for a 'cultural reset.' They confiscated all my jazz records and replaced them with Gregorian chants."

He dramatically threw his hands up in mock despair. "It's a fate worse than death! I'm spending my evenings listening to a choir of monks telling me to repent, and they keep suggesting I send my poetry to a parish newsletter. They think I need to turn my youthful 'rebellion' into 'devotion.' Honestly, they're trying to turn me into Pitts."

Neil couldn't help but laugh. "You're crazy, Charlie. Absolutely crazy."

The following morning, Neil found his house eerily quiet. Mr. Perry had left early for the office. Neil was sitting at his desk, staring blankly at a biochemistry textbook, when he heard the rhythmic swoosh of a broom outside. A moment later, the bedroom door cracked open gently, and his mom peered in.

She held a letter in her hand. "Neil, dear," she whispered, stepping inside. "I was just sweeping the front porch when the mailman came by. This looks like it's from Welton."

She crossed the room and handed him a plain, cream-colored envelope addressed in a neat, familiar hand. Her eyes, though anxious, held a flicker of curiosity. "It doesn't look official. Just a boy's handwriting." Neil's heart gave a violent lurch. He recognized Todd's handwriting instantly.

"It's just Todd Anderson, Mother," Neil said, trying to keep his voice casual. Neil's hands were shaking as he ripped the envelope open. Inside were two folded sheets of paper, written in Todd's neat, meticulous handwriting.

Dear Neil,

I hope you are enduring the storm of your life’s schedule.

This house of my family feels too large and too cold. My thoughts scatter in its echoing emptiness. I miss the simple, close quarter of our room, and the easy, dependable beat of you nearby.

Without that singular presence, any attempt I make at writing falls into a chilling silence.

It proves difficult to practice the self-reliance Mr. Keating taught when my heart keeps reaching, instead, for the clear, truth that settled upon us in that last, brief moment. I wish you find a quiet minute to simply breathe.

Sincerely, T.A.

The second sheet was folded smaller and written on the reverse side of a Welton syllabus—a clear indication of a hidden message. At the top, Todd had copied the final two stanzas of Auden's poem.

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Below the quote, Todd had written his own, raw confession.

This is the poem of choice. I understand the cost of loving without certainty of return, but I choose to pay it. I still taste the reckless, beautiful mint of your certainty. The silence here is the taste of ash. I miss the sound of your laughter, and the sharp, mint-sweet war declared not by the mouth, but by the reckless courage of yours.

He carefully read the last lines again, a gradual blush spreading across his face. Todd had managed to take their hormonal kiss and render it into faultless poetry.

Neil was downright thunderstruck over the boy who struggled to speak a single verse aloud, had composed a confession of war and devotion more silver-tongued than any grand speech Neil himself could muster. He realized in that moment just how lucky he was. To be loved by Todd Anderson was to be seen with a depth and pellucidity that Neil’s parents and the entire world of Welton would never allow.

He retrieved his school bag from the closet and carefully took out his copy of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King—a classic volume his father would never suspect of harboring dissent. He opened it to the very center, slipped the two precious pages inside, and then closed the book firmly. He buried the book deep within the bag

He took a deep breath, swearing a silent oath. "I swear," he muttered, looking down at the bag, "if I ever lose this, I'll punch myself."

What were they?

They had kissed. Not once, not even twice. Todd had just sent a poem declaring their secret love a matter of life or death, proclaiming himself the "more loving one." Yet, they hadn't said those precise words, I love you. And they certainly hadn't used the one word that would define their new reality, boyfriends.

Miles away, in his room, Todd was sat immovably at his desk. He kept glancing at the clock, then at the calendar. He was convinced that at this very moment, Neil must have received the letter.

His fear wasn't solely intellectual, it was born of stark, recent experience. The previous evening, during a dinner, Todd’s father had launched into an angry diatribe about their neighbors, the Hendersons.

"Did you hear the latest about young Mr. Henderson?" Mr. Anderson had asked his wife, his voice heavy with contempt. "I hear he's moved back to the city with that... friend of his. Pure disgrace. No respect for family or tradition. It's a sickness, truly. A sickness that destroys everything good in society."

Todd had frozen, his fork halfway to his mouth. The hateful venom in his father's voice, the ease with which he dismissed an entire life as a "sickness," had been a chilling reminder of the true stakes.

He got up and went to the window, pulling the heavy drapes apart just enough to look out at the immaculate lawn. He felt sick with worry. He had given Neil his heart on two flimsy sheets of paper, pages that could, with a single careless movement, be intercepted and used as evidence of his own "sickness."

Todd pressed his forehead against the cold window glass, trying to cool the frantic heat of his anxiety. The cruel words his father used had already taken root inside Todd’s own mind. Every time he remembered the overwhelming, mint-sweet clarity of Neil's mouth, a part of him would flinch, instantly cataloging the act as shameful.

He hadn't dared to name his feelings, even in the safety of his thoughts. Even though Todd had declared his love through Auden’s poem, He didn't know how to integrate the pure feelings he had for Neil with the societal certainty that this kind of love was a fundamental error.

Todd was terrified that his affection for Neil was merely a symptom of his own failures—proof that he couldn't even manage to be a "normal" son. The thought made his chest tighten. He loves Neil but the lifetime of self-loathing that told him the love he felt was a fatal mistake.

The cold, logical part of his mind, shaped by years of conditioning, insisted that he should just give up everything for the so-called betterment of them. He wanted to love Neil wholly, without the constant, asterisk of shame. He wanted to embrace the Auden line, Let the more loving one be me, without the crippling fear of the cost.

Exhausted, he lay still, the pillow damp beneath his eyes. He wanted the break to be over to see Neil, to look into his eyes and be assured that everything was real, and that everything was going to be okay. A soft knock echoed on his door. Todd flinched, quickly scrubbing the dampness from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Only one person in this house ever bothered to knock.

"Todd? Are you in there?" It was his older brother, Jeffrey. Todd scrambled to sit up, instantly re-imposing his protective silence. "Yes, Jeffrey. Come in." His older brother opened the door just enough to survey the room.

"Everything alright? You look a bit…" he paused, searching for a polite word "pale." Todd forced a casual shrug. "I'm fine. Just reading over my notes. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, maybe." He gestured vaguely toward the stacks of textbooks on his desk. "I just needed a moment of silence to prepare for the onslaught of the break schedule, you know?"

Jeffrey nodded, his gaze sweeping over the desk, but his eyes snagged briefly on the damp spot on the silk pillow Todd had tossed carelessly beside him. "Right," Jeffrey murmured, his concern deepening subtly.

"Don't worry too much about the grades. You're trying too hard. Just be yourself." The phrase struck Todd with irony.

That was exactly what he was trying to do, and it was the one thing that could shatter his life.

Chapter Text

In the blink of an eye, the suburban cages were exchanged for the institutional confines of Welton Academy. As always, Todd was the first of the roommates to arrive back at their dormitory. He walked into the room, dropping his suitcase with a dull thud.

He went immediately to his side of the room, peeling off his heavy coat and tossing it carelessly over his desk chair. He stood for a moment, just breathing in the familiar scent of old wood, dust, and Neil’s lingering cologne. He ran a weary hand across his mattress, thinking of Neil. Todd mechanically began the ritual of unpacking.

He was just finishing, placing his poetry journal in its hiding spot, when his stomach gave a weak rumble. He decided a quick, solitary lunch was in order. Todd walked to the door, pulling it inward. The sound of his knob turning was immediately answered by a quick, powerful shove, and the door was thrown fully open.

Neil stood there, he hadn't even dropped his suitcase, which sat forlornly next to his shin in the hall.

Before Todd could utter a single, tentative word—not even "Neil?". The older of the two dropped his own bag right where he stood, ignored the luggage and lunged forward. He slammed the door shut behind him with his heel and enveloped Todd in an embrace.

Todd gasped as the air was forced from his lungs, but he held on just as tightly, his hands instantly gripping the familiar wool of Neil's jacket. Neil didn't wait for a reply. He closed the remaining distance, his urgency overriding any need for words, and had his lips pressed against Todd’s.

Neil pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against Todd's, his breath coming out in a shaky rush. His eyes were closed, his voice thick with relief.

"I missed you so much," Neil breathed out, his voice a low, fierce murmur. "God, Todd. That entire break—it was you. All I thought about was you and that poem, and getting back here." He opened his eyes, now shining with an almost frantic energy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the two neatly folded sheets, slightly crumpled from their time spent hidden.

"I got your letter," Neil whispered, his gaze intense. "The one with Auden. I kept it safe. You were so brave to write that. It was the only thing that kept me from losing it when my father pulled out the heavy artillery."

Todd finally found his voice, a choked, wet sound. "Neil... you're okay. You're here." He reached up and touched the dark smudges under Neil's eyes, "I'm here," Neil confirmed, leaning into the touch.

Todd's composure shattered. With a shabby and despairing sound, he buried his face instantly into the soft wool of Neil's jacket, his arms locking around the taller boy’s torso. He simply broke into hard, shuddering sobs. The tears were not quiet as they had been in his own room. They were violent gusts of release, soaking the fabric.

He clung to Neil, his entire body shaking, finally releasing the burden he had carried.

"Hey, hey. What happened, baby?" Neil murmured softly, his voice rough with concern. "Did he... did your father say anything? Tell me. You're okay now, I'm here."

He pulled back just enough to look at Todd's face, his thumbs gently wiping away the hot, silent tears tracking down Todd’s cheeks. The desperation and fear he saw there confirmed that the letter had only been a fraction of the pressure Todd had been under.

Neil led Todd toward the bed, gently guiding him by the shoulders. He sat Todd down on the edge of the mattress, then crouched in front of him, hands still firmly gripping Todd’s arms. "Come on," Neil murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Breathe with me. Just look at me."

The latter tried, his chest heaving as he fought the sobs. A few moments passed, punctuated only by Todd's uneven gasps and hiccups. He was desperately attempting to regain control, embarrassed by the complete collapse.

Between a sniff and a hitch in his breath, Todd managed to whisper, his voice barely audible: "Your... your luggage. It's still... still outside the door."

Neil didn't even glance toward the door. He focused entirely on Todd, giving a small, dismissive shake of his head.

"The luggage can wait," Neil stated, his voice firm and absolute. "You're what matters right now. You're here, and you're safe. Whatever you carried this break, we'll put it down now. Just tell me what happened, baby."

Todd squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly as a fresh wave of tears threatened. He pulled his hand free from Neil's grasp, rubbing his thumb against his palm as he struggled to speak.

"I can't," Todd choked out, the word thick with shame and guilt. He stared at the carpet, unable to meet Neil's earnest gaze. "You... you have enough, Neil. You're carrying everything for us, and I can't just dump this on you."

The truth was, the shame wasn't just about his feelings, it was the intense, internalized guilt of being a burden. He knew the immense, high-stakes battle Neil had been fighting. Todd felt that his own problems—were trivial next to Neil’s tangible loss of freedom and the clear threat to his future.

"I was just so scared," Todd finally admitted, the words barely a whisper. "And my father... he was talking about the neighbors. He called it a... a sickness." The memory of the venom in Mr. Anderson's voice was enough to make him shudder violently.

Neil’s protective concern sharpened into focus. "Sickness? What are you talking about, Todd? What did he say about the neighbors?" Todd swallowed hard, the shame making his throat tight.

"He was talking about Mr. Henderson," Todd finally confessed, his voice dropping even lower. "The neighbor's son. He came home with his... with his friend. And my father went on about it for twenty minutes. How it was a disgrace. How that kind of thing... was a sickness that destroys everything."

Todd looked up at Neil then, his eyes wide and devastated. "That's why I was so scared, Neil. That's what I heard the whole time. I could hear was my father telling me that what I felt was wrong. That I'm wrong."

"And... and that's why I told you," Todd whispered, his voice cracking. "When I told you to go to the date. It wasn't because I didn't care, Neil. It was because... I was trying to save you."

He tightened his grip on Neil’s hands. If people thought you were with her, you wouldn't get the same scrutiny. I was terrified of being the reason you lost everything, Neil."

Todd finally lifted his head, his eyes raw and vulnerable. "I love you. But I can't stand the thought that I'm dragging you down into trouble just because I can't stop being myself." Neil didn't hesitate. He took his thumbs and gently, definitively, wiped the last of the tears from Todd’s cheeks.

"Todd," Neil said, his voice soft but with absolute conviction. "I love you, too."

Todd only blinked, still caught in the aftershock of his own confession and the he was so focused on Neil's touch that the three simple words seemed to have slipped right past his comprehension. He nodded slightly, leaning into comfort, believing Neil was simply reassuring him that the affection was mutual and real.

Neil moved toward his luggage still sitting in the hall and pulled it into the room, kicking the door shut. He turned back to Todd, who was still sitting on the bed. Neil walked over, placed one hand on the back of Todd's neck, and gently pulled him in for another kiss.

When he pulled away, he rested his chin on Todd's shoulder. "Hey," he murmured. "I know we didn't use the word before, but I need you to know where I stand. You're my boyfriend, Todd. Don't ever let your father tell you that your love, or our love, is anything less than the most important thing."

"Boyfriend," Todd breathed, testing the sound of the word. The simple sound of Neil saying it—his boyfriend sent a searing blush up his neck and into his cheeks. He flung his arms around Neil’s neck and pressed his now heated cheeks against the soft slope of Neil's nape, burying his face there.

The door to their room swung inward with unnecessary force, and Charlie still carrying a duffel bag and looking winded from climbing the stairs walked right in without knocking. "Hey, Neil, I'm short two pairs of socks and I know you always overpack, so if you could—" Charlie cut himself off instantly, halting mid-sentence.

Todd jerked back from Neil's embrace as if he'd been shocked. Neil, however, was immediately and utterly calm. He turned his head slowly to face Charlie, his expression one of bored disapproval.

"Dalton," Neil drawled, his tone clipped. "You really need to learn how to knock. The bell works perfectly well, I assure you." Charlie smirked, leaning against the door frame and taking in the scene.

Neil, sensing Todd’s sudden terror, moved slightly, putting his body between Todd and Charlie. He reached back and squeezed Todd’s hand.

Then, Neil spoke to Todd quietly, but with absolute confidence. "It's okay, baby. Charlie knows."

Charlie pushed off the door frame and swaggered into the room, tossing his duffel bag onto the floor. "Relax, guys. Don't worry about me. I've got bigger issues than who's kissing who," Charlie said, rummaging through his bag.

"Seriously though," Charlie continued, pulling out a handful of white socks. "Save that mushy shit for your alone time, alright? The walls here are thinner than your cover stories. Welcome back, you crazy kids." He then grabbed a fresh pair of socks, slapped Neil lightly on the arm, and sauntered out, knocking politely on the door on his way out.

"See?" Neil said softly, turning back to Todd and cupping his cheek. "You're safe. We're safe."

Later that afternoon, they found a quiet spot down by the dock near the school’s boathouse. Todd sat hunched on an old, sun-bleached bench, his journal open but his eyes fixed on Neil. The brunette stood a few feet away, script in hand, but not looking at the pages. He was running through his lines for Krogstad.

"If I have to fight for my little place again, I shall fight as if for my life, and I know of no better way than to restore myself in your husband's eyes. And I shall do that—for that is the main thing."

A soft cough broke the silence.

They both turned sharply. Mr. Keating was walking along the path by the water, his tweed coat flapping slightly in the breeze, a small book tucked under his arm. He smiled warmly as he approached them.

"Practicing your lines, Mr. Perry?" Keating asked, his tone friendly and perceptive. He glanced from Neil’s intense posture to Todd’s quiet, attentive presence.

Neil’s face tightened with disappointment. "No, sir. Not practicing. Just trying to hold on to them, I suppose. My father made me withdraw from A Doll's House. Complete prohibition on the theater for the rest of the year."

Keating's smile didn't fade, but his eyes softened with clear understanding. "Ah. The heavy hand of the parental Golgotha," he murmured. "I suspected something of the sort, Captain. Well, I am proud of you for having fought so hard for it."

Keating nodded, his smile widening. He then held out the book he had tucked under his arm. It was a slim, worn volume of poetry.

"Good. Hold onto those words, Mr. Anderson," Keating said, his voice quiet. "I happened upon this recently. You may find some comfort in it now." He passed the book to Todd. The cover was simple, and the author's name stood out clearly, W. H. Auden.

Todd’s eyes widened in genuine surprise and a thrill of recognition. He carefully took the book, cradling it in his hands. "Thank you, sir," Todd whispered.

"My pleasure, gentlemen. That's the real challenge. Holding onto the beautiful things, even when the world demands you let them go," Keating said. He gave them a quick, knowing smile. Todd clutched the book to his chest, the heavy linen cover reassuring against the faint ache in his heart.

"Neil! Todd! Just the fellows I wanted to see!" Meeks walked up, adjusting his glasses. He was carrying a stack of books and sporting his usual cheerful, slightly rumpled academic look. "The exams are right around the corner," Meeks said, his tone practical. "I was thinking of running a Latin study session tonight in the common room.” Neil immediately seized on the idea.

"That's a fantastic idea, Meeks," Neil said, injecting his voice with the appropriate tone of academic zeal. "We'll definitely be there. Todd could use the extra Latin push, right, Todd?"

Todd nodded instantly. "Yes. I'd appreciate that, Meeks."

As Meeks walked away, disappearing around the corner, Todd leaned closer to Neil, his voice dropping to a low, quick whisper.

"Do you think Meeks knows?" Meeks was observant, and Todd’s reaction to Neil’s proximity was not subtle.

"Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't," Neil said, his tone suggesting the answer was completely unimportant. He met Todd's anxious gaze, his own eyes alight with a deep confidence. "And so what if he does? Meeks is a poet, Todd. He’s one of us. He knows what matters." Neil squeezed Todd's hand, his certainty absolute.

As they moved, the memory of Neil's voice, thick with concern during his breakdown, suddenly played back in Todd’s mind. A blush bloomed across Todd's cheeks, heat rising despite the cool afternoon air. He hadn't fully registered the endearment yet when he was crying, but hearing it now, internally made his heart beat a thousand times faster than the normal rate.

He tugged lightly on Neil's hand, stopping them from walking. "Neil," Todd said softly, trying to sound casual despite the heat in his face. "When you... when you came in, and I was crying, you called me something."

Neil turned, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes. "Did I?"

Todd nodded, staring intently at the laces of Neil's shoe. "You said, 'What happened, baby?'" He looked up, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and hesitant curiosity. "Why did you call me that?"

Neil smiled until it reached his eyes. He leaned down slightly, bringing his mouth close to Todd's ear, effectively sealing the comment just for them.

"Because you are," Neil murmured, his breath warm against Todd's skin. "You're mine, and you were hurting, and that's what you are. My baby. Don't worry about it. It's just for us."

Despite Neil's recent near-calamity with his father, the group unanimously decided against the suggested study session in the dorm. The Cave was the heart of their meetings and without it felt wrong. At seven sharp, the group was huddled in the familiar, damp interior of the cave.

But this time, the meeting felt instantly different.

Charlie Dalton, ever the provocateur, had decided their post-break reunion needed an elevated level of Carpe Diem. He had already built a roaring fire, and lounging on the makeshift blankets nearby were two local town girls, neither of whom were Welton students. "Gentlemen," Charlie announced with a flourishing gesture toward the women, "I believe an introduction is in order. This is Gloria and this is Brenda. They were kind enough to join us for our inaugural post-Golgotha session."

A wave of awkward silence hit the group. Meeks adjusted his glasses nervously, and even Neil seemed momentarily stunned by the audacity of bringing outsiders into the ultra-secretive society meeting.

Neil quickly stepped forward, recovering his role as Captain, though a frustrated look crossed his face toward Charlie. "Welcome," He said to the girls, with formality. He then addressed the group, his voice low and serious.

"Alright, poets. This meeting will be quick. The stakes are higher now. My father has imposed a total ban on the theater and close supervision. We have to be subtle. But first, Knox, tell us. What happened to your face?"

As Neil spoke, focusing the group’s attention, Brenda, the quieter of Charlie's two guests, settled her gaze across the firelight. Her eyes passed over the animated Knox and the stern Neil, but then lingered on Todd.

She leaned toward Charlie, interrupting Neil's interrogation of Knox. "Charlie," she whispered, her voice husky and low, "who's the quiet one? The one with the amazing eyes."

Charlie followed her gaze to Todd. He grinned, clearly pleased by the immediate interest his friend generated. "That, Brenda," Charlie replied loudly enough for the whole cave to hear, "is Todd Anderson. Our resident genius and the quiet storm of the Dead Poets Society. Don't worry, he bites a little, but only if you ask nicely."

Todd froze, feeling the full, unwanted weight of a stranger's attention.

Neil’s smile was gone. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he watched Brenda's obvious interest. The sudden external threat of someone showing interest in his boyfriend. "Knox," He continued, his voice dangerously even, ignoring Charlie and Brenda completely. "Start from the moment you left Welton."

"I called her, boys! I told her I loved her! And she didn't call the police! She told me to go home, but she called me later! She did!" Knox declared, triumphant. "She said Chet was being an animal, and she needed time, but... I'm winning! Carpe Diem!"

Throughout the celebration, Brenda kept glancing at Todd, completely unfazed by his silence.

"You haven't said anything," Brenda whispered to Todd. "What did you do over the break?"

Todd swallowed hard, acutely aware of Neil's presence next to him and the fire of Neil's gaze on Brenda. "I... I read," Todd managed, barely moving his lips.

Neil subtly rested his hand on the back of Todd's neck, the possessive gesture completely hidden from the others by the shadows.

God, Charlie is an idiot. Charlie’s recklessness was a double-edged sword. On one edge, it was gleaming, courageous steel. He was the only one in the entire school who could so quickly take Keating's philosophy and wield it like a weapon. But the other edge was dull and dangerously idiotic. Charlie simply didn't think. He bypassed caution entirely. He never seemed to consider the consequences, believing his force of personality could shield him from any reprisal.

Charlie could afford to be expelled, Neil absolutely could not.

“No more outsiders, Charlie. Is that clear?" Charlie, chastened but still grinning, raised his hand in a mocking salute. "Clear, Captain. No more new recruits."

Neil didn't press the point. The meeting was concluded with a brief reading since they still had review for Latin at Meeks and Pitts’ room. As Brenda passed Todd, who was distracted by packing his things, she paused. With a quick, subtle movement, Brenda slipped a folded piece of paper directly into the outer pocket of an unaware Todd's coat.

"Right, let's go," Neil said, his voice brisk, pulling Todd toward the exit of the cave. As they reached the edge of the woods and started across the lawn toward the dormitory, Neil slowed. He placed his arm around Todd's shoulder, pulling him close, then casually, almost lazily, slipped his own hand inside the side pocket of Todd's coat.

Todd stiffened slightly at the unexpected intimacy. "W-what are you doing?" he asked, his voice low with confusion. Neil’s hand was already closing around the small, foreign slip of paper. He gave a soft squeeze to Todd's shoulder and pulled his hand back out, the note concealed entirely within his palm.

"My hands are cold," Neil replied smoothly, offering a simple, easy smile. "Just warming them up."

He simply walked, his hand now deep in his own trouser pocket, crushing the piece of paper completely. He would dispose of the note in the nearest wastebasket.

He wasn't the jealous type. He truly wasn't. As an only child, Neil had grown up accustomed to all the attention being focused on him—albeit usually his father's demanding, critical attention. The concept of vying for affection or feeling threatened by another's interest was foreign to him.

This new, sharp, unpleasant sensation, however, was undeniably the closest thing he'd ever felt to possessiveness. It wasn't that he questioned Todd's ability to attract anyone. No, the problem was that Neil had grown completely accustomed to Todd blending into the background.

Charlie threw an arm around Neil's shoulder, his breath smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor. "Hey, Captain! You look awfully tense for someone who just survived the break.” He merely laughed, his gaze flicking to Todd, who was still slightly flushed.

"I see you're guarding your territory, Perry. Tell me, you're not a jealous type, are you? Because the look you gave Brenda when she was talking to little Todd there was magnificent." Neil stopped, pulling his shoulder out from under Charlie's arm. He looked at his best friend with a warning.

"It's called being careful, Charlie," Neil stated, his voice low and firm. "You brought two outsiders into our secret society, knowing my father is waiting for any excuse to pull me from this school. I'm not risking a damn thing for your messy fun."

Then, moving quickly before Charlie could retort, Neil reached up and flicked Charlie sharply on the forehead with his middle finger. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but it was enough to sting and assert control.

"Don't do that again," Neil commanded.

Charlie rubbed his forehead dramatically, whining. "Ow, come on, Neil! I didn't think! Who the hell would've guessed? I didn't think anyone would even notice Todd! He's practically a wall ornament! Why are you acting like the CIA just breached our headquarters?"

The next morning, the mood in the English class was tense but expectant. Mr. Keating, sensing the shift from holiday freedom to institutional oppression, began the class not with a reading, but with a challenge.

"Gentlemen," Keating announced, leaning against his desk. "We return to the art of expression. Now that you have endured the pressures of your own private Golgothas—or, in Mr. Overstreet's case, a very public boxing match. It is time to consider the power of disguise."

He walked over to the chalkboard and wrote in bold, looping script.

OBLIQUE STRATEGY.

"In this room, you have been taught to be honest," he said. "But the world outside often demands cleverness. When your truth is too dangerous to speak aloud, you must learn to speak obliquely. Like the Roman poets, you must develop a language that only the initiates understand. You must create a code."

"Your assignment for the week is this: Write a poem, not about a person, but about an object—a chair, a tree, a book. But use that object as a perfect metaphor that only your trusted audience can decipher."

Chapter Text

Todd was situated on Neil's lap, his back resting against Neil's chest. Neil was theoretically reviewing his calculus textbook, but the book was propped up on Todd's shoulder, and the rhythm of Neil’s breathing was distracting both of them.

"Neil," Todd groaned, attempting to shift his weight. "You've been reading the same page for five minutes, and I'm pretty sure you can study for the calculus exam without me cutting off the circulation in your legs."

The older of the two shifted the book slightly so he could lean down and whisper against Todd’s ear. "Pretty sure I can’t," he murmured. "This chapter is incredibly difficult, and I require constant reassurance and body heat to properly assimilate the concepts of differentials. It's a psychological technique."

"It's an excuse," Todd scoffed, but a soft, uncontrollable smile touched his lips. He rolled his eyes dramatically, knowing the gesture was wasted on Neil’s proximity, yet loving the fierce, possessive way Neil refused to let him move.

He gave up the fight. Todd leaned back fully into the solid warmth of Neil's embrace, letting the familiar scent of Neil's wool sweater and clean soap envelop him. He snuggled into the curve of Neil’s shoulder, turning the cold, hard chair into the safest spot in the entire world.

"Fine," Todd mumbled against the fabric. "If I fail calculus, it's entirely your fault for disrupting my cognitive functions." Neil chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. He tightened his arms around Todd, resting his chin on Todd’s head, and then, with a decisive movement, he slammed the calculus textbook shut.

"Perfect," Neil announced, dropping the heavy book onto the desk with a thud.

Todd blinked, turning his head slightly. "What do you mean, 'perfect'? You only started studying ten minutes ago. Are you having a sudden academic crisis?"

Neil ignored the question. He shifted, his hands coming down to grip Todd's waist firmly. His voice dropped to a warm, suggestive murmur. "I suddenly feel that my mind is sufficiently taxed with the concepts of partial derivatives. I've assimilated all the knowledge I need for this evening, and now I want to do something else."

Todd felt a familiar thrill uncoil in his stomach as Neil’s hands lingered. "Oh, do you?"

Instead of answering, Neil simply gave a quick, gentle squeeze to Todd's hips, a silent command to signal for Todd to turn around and face him. The blonde complied instantly, his heart accelerating. He pushed himself back slightly and swiveled on Neil’s lap until he was facing his boyfriend directly.

He straddled Neil’s legs, one knee on either side, their faces now just inches apart. Neil reached up and cupped the back of Todd's neck, pulling him in. Todd pressed himself closer, his hands tangling in the softness of Neil’s hair. In the clumsy heat of the moment, He shifted slightly, and his teeth caught Neil's lower lip too sharply.

Neil gasped, pulling back slightly, a low, involuntary moan escaping his throat before he could stop it. He brought a finger up to touch his lip, now slick and slightly stinging.

Todd immediately pulled away, his eyes wide with distress. "Oh, God, Neil! I am so sorry! I didn't mean to—" He winced, dropping his head in instant embarrassment. "See? This is why... I should have just let my dad get me braces when he suggested it. I knew my teeth were too crooked for this."

Neil looked at the boy straddling him, whose confession was now being derailed by self-conscious anxiety over his dental alignment, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, hey," Neil said, gently lifting Todd's chin so their eyes met. "Todd, you look like you just committed a felony."

He kissed the corner of Todd's mouth lightly. "They're not crooked, sweetheart. You're just a little clumsy when you're excited, that's all."

Neil then leaned in, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Besides, I liked it. It means you were paying attention. You are free to bite me anytime, Anderson. Just aim for the soft spots next time, okay?" Todd rolled his eyes again, "Idiot."

The kiss grew rush and heated, Todd felt Neil's hands slide down his back, urging him closer, the pressure escalating the urgency between them.

Todd was inexperienced, a self-proclaimed virgin in the landscape of physical intimacy, but he was certainly not ignorant. As their bodies pressed together on the small desk chair, he became acutely aware of the hard, undeniable evidence of Neil's hard on pressing against him. The realization was an invigorating surge of confidence.

The quiet, fearful Todd Anderson, could dismantle Neil Perry's usual composure.

Neil responded with a low, ragged sound. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at Todd, his eyes dark, wide, and entirely focused on the boy in his lap. "Todd," He breathed out.

Todd stared down at him,

Those big, dumb puppy eyes and those ridiculous, bushy eyebrows, he cursed internally.

He shifted his weight, and without a second thought, grinds his hips deliberately against the crest of Neil's hardness. Before Neil could properly react, Todd plunged back down, claiming Neil's mouth again, Todd didn't have a plan; he was operating purely on instinct and Neil's response. Every desperate sound Neil made was a guiding signal, a confirmation.

Todd felt the adrenaline rush of being the initiator, the one driving the need, and he pressed the advantage. Neil's hands immediately locked onto Todd's hips, tilting his body into the perfect angle to maximize the friction. His control, usually his defining trait, was dissolving completely. Neil broke the kiss just to gasp out a desperate, strangled sound, his head falling back against the wooden chair.

The blonde seized the opportunity, pulling back slightly to watch Neil's face, dark with pleasure and surrender. He leaned forward and kissed the pulsing line of Neil’s throat, feeling the rapid, frantic beat beneath his lips. Todd pressed his mouth firmly against the sensitive skin just below Neil’s jaw, drawing a deep, involuntary shiver from Neil.

He sucked gently unaware that his persistent attention was creating the unmistakable start of a hickey.

Neil's hands instantly gripped Todd's hair, tilting his head back slightly as his own desire flared in response to the intimate pressure. He groaned out loud, his usual reserve shattering under the unexpected ferocity.

"Todd, wait," Neil choked out, the word a plea and a warning simultaneously, though he did nothing to push him away. He grabbed Todd's shirt, pulling him up for a kiss, desperate to reclaim some form of mutual control.

But control was already a lost cause. As they collided, Neil’s big hands instinctively slid down Todd’s back, spanning the width of his waist and settling firmly over Todd’s hips. From there, the hands traveled lower, cupping the soft, firm curve of Todd’s ass.

But control was already a lost cause. As they collided, Neil’s big hands instinctively slid down Todd’s back, spanning the width of his waist and settling firmly over Todd’s hips. From there, the hands traveled lower, cupping the soft, firm curve of Todd’s ass.

The contact was devastatingly effective. Todd gasped into Neil's mouth, the sensation of those large, proprietary hands gripping him so intimately was overwhelming. He pressed closer, desperate to communicate the rush of feeling.

Pulling back only centimeters, his breath ragged, Todd stuttered out a confession, "I-I l-like... when you d-do that," his voice barely a choked whisper. Neil's eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, focusing entirely on Todd. He shifted his weight, adjusting the pressure of their joined lower bodies.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" Neil murmured, his voice husky. He used his thumb to trace the curve of Todd's cheekbone before plunging back into the kiss.

Neil’s hands tightened on Todd's ass, lifting him slightly, urging him to grind against the hard, insistent length pressed beneath the fabric. Todd obeyed instantly, rocking his hips in a slow, sensual rhythm.

"N-Neil," Todd breathed, his voice shaky, his hands gripping Neil's shoulders for balance. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"No, sweetheart," he confessed, "But it feels good." That was all the answer Todd needed.

Neil grabbed the hem of Todd's trousers and, with a sudden surge of strength, shoved them down his legs. Todd kicked them off instantly, the rough wool replaced by the smooth freedom of his boxers. Not to be outdone, Todd reached for the button on Neil's own trousers. They fought the fabric together, the zipper a loud, rasping sound in the quiet room, until Neil’s trousers joined the textbook on the floor.

"Now," Neil breathed, his voice thick and rough. "How do you want me?"

The question hit Todd with a dizzying charge. He was so accustomed to being the follower, the quiet audience, the one who reacted. So the power to choose, to dictate the terms of was an unexpected turn-on. Todd hesitated for only a second, his fingers tracing the sharp line of Neil's jaw, finding his voice small but firm.

"I..." he began, swallowing hard. He loved the feeling of control he’d found earlier. "I like when I'm on top of you. Like... like when I straddle you."

"Then that's where you'll be, sweetheart," Neil murmured, his hands sliding down to cup Todd’s hips again. With a grunt, Neil shifted his weight, easily guiding Todd to climb over him, pressing him down against the mattress, ceding complete physical authority to Todd.

Todd found himself settling back onto Neil, the hard, insistent length beneath him now perfectly aligned. He was on top, watching Neil watch him. His eyes dropped to the thin barrier of fabric stretched taut between them.

He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the elastic waistband of Neil's boxers. He looked into Neil's eyes, needing verbal affirmation. "C-can I?" Todd whispered, the question simple, clumsy, and heavy with implication.

"Can I... pull them out?" Neil's breath hitched, and his eyes darkened further with a blend of disbelief and raw excitement. The shy, quiet boy who refused to speak for more than 250 words when they first met was now asking to undress him.

"God, yes," Neil groaned, his voice barely a rasp. Todd didn't need to be told twice. He fumbled briefly with the fabric, then peeled the cotton away, exposing Neil. The sight—the thick, eager length of him—made Todd's stomach flip with a potent mix of fear and elation.

Neil let out a raw, shuddering moan as the cool air hit. The skin was smooth, the length surprisingly clean and thick, and the tip a prominent, flushed red against the paler skin. It's... pretty," Todd whispered, the word escaping his lips without conscious thought. A soft, genuine smile displayed upon Neil’s lips when he hears the earnest compliment, “Thank you.”

The younger felt a hot wave of embarrassment crash over him as he realized he’d said the word aloud, but the shame was immediately chased away by the sight of Neil's pleasure. He smiled shyly in return.

He reached out a hesitant hand, his fingers clumsy but careful, and wrapped them around Neil. With a tentative, feather-light grip, he gave a single, slow tug. The reaction was immediate and intense. Neil's body arched off the mattress, a sharp, choked gasp escaping his throat. "Oh, God, Todd," he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut. Todd immediately pulled his hand back, his fear returning.

He knew how to masturbate, of course, but applying that knowledge to another person felt like delving into a minefield. He was terrified of doing it wrong, of causing pain instead of pleasure. "It's okay," Neil reassured him, his voice low and steady despite the intensity in his breathing. He guided Todd's hand back into position. "Don't stop. You're doing it perfectly. Do more, baby. Show me what you want to do."

Todd's confidence surged back, anchored by Neil's direction. He tightened his grip, mimicking the rhythm he used on himself. He leaned forward, spitting a generous amount of saliva onto his hand, and immediately coated Neil's shaft with the warm, slick moisture.

A guttural sound of pure pleasure escaped Neil's throat as the lubrication hit. The sight of his own hand driving Neil toward the edge of control was the most rousing feeling he had ever known. He moved faster, more aggressively, no longer shy but rather determined to push Neil over the edge.

Neil was beyond words, his head thrashing slightly against the pillow, his hands now clamped onto the sheets. He was gasping Todd's name, the sound broken and raw. "Now!" Neil choked out, the single word a warning and a signal. His eyes flew open, wide and glazed. He looked directly at Todd, his voice dropping to a desperate rasp. "Todd, I'm... I'm going to finish. I don't know if you want that on you—"

Before Neil could finish the caution, Todd reacted. He broke the hand pump, leaned down, and took Neil into his mouth. The action was sudden and total, silencing Neil mid-word. Neil's body convulsed in shock, a sharp, surprised cry tearing from his throat. The warmth of Todd's mouth, the wet, demanding pressure, was way better than the friction of the hand.

Neil felt his entire body shudder, crying out Todd's name one last time as he finished completely. He collapsed back against the pillow, utterly spent. Todd did not hesitate. He swallowed everything, pulling back only when the intense contractions had ceased. He looked up at Neil, his eyes wide and earnest, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He stared at his boyfriend, breathing heavily. "You're crazy," He whispered, the word laced with awe. It was the highest praise he could offer. Todd simply smiled, shy but victorious, and collapsed onto Neil's chest.

Neil gently smoothed the latter’s hair back from his forehead, "I'm sorry, Todd," Neil murmured, his voice still rough from the exertion. "I didn't... I didn't get to finish you off. I can do it now. Just tell me."

He lifted his head just enough to look at Neil, his eyes bright and completely sincere. "Just... sucking you off and swallowing was enough for me tonight, Neil. That was all I needed." Todd pressed a light kiss to the base of Neil's throat, right where the conspicuous mark was now blooming. "But," he continued, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face, "You could repay me with something else soon. “

"Anything," Neil promised, pulling Todd up for a quick, lingering kiss that affirmed the deal. "Anything you want, sweetheart."

The students were lined up in the hallway, shuffling toward the dining hall, the air thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and meatloaf. Suddenly, Charlie pushed his way through the line, reaching them with a wide, manic grin. "Neil, my man! You look like you just won the lottery! Did you ace the calculus review?"

Charlie clapped Neil enthusiastically on the shoulder, but his eyes immediately fixed on the exposed skin just above the neckline of Neil's sweater. Neil hadn't pulled the collar high enough. The angry red edge of the mark was visible near his Adam's apple.

"Damn, Neil," Charlie hissed, though loud enough for the three of them to hear. "That must have been one violent bug. Looks like it bit you right on the throat!" Neil looked at him, completely confused. "What are you talking about, Charlie?"

Charlie scoffed, gesturing vaguely at Neil’s neck. "The mark! Right there! You can't miss it." Neil instinctively raised a hand to his neck, but of course, he couldn't see the exact spot. He glanced helplessly at Todd, who was rapidly turning crimson.

"I don't see anything," Neil insisted. Charlie sighed, impatient with Neil's obliviousness. He spotted the polished fire extinguisher casing on the wall nearby, which acted as a makeshift, curved mirror. Without warning, Charlie grabbed Neil's head, gripping his chin, and forcefully twisted it toward the reflection.

"Look, you idiot!" Charlie demanded. Neil saw it immediately, a distinct, dark purple patch blooming right at the base of his neck, glaringly obvious against his pale skin. Todd stepped forward, placing a sharp hand on Charlie’s arm. "Cut it out, Charlie! It's nothing."

Charlie just grinned, completely missing the genuine terror in their eyes. "Right, 'nothing.' You boys better be careful with those Welton mosquitos. They’re getting vicious!” The delinquent finally sauntered off. Todd immediately turned to Neil, his face pale with renewed anxiety. "Neil, I am so sorry. I didn't realize... I mean, I shouldn't have…" Neil reached out and gently ruffled the nervous boy’s hair to calm him.

They quickly joined the other poets at their usual table in the bustling dining hall. Meeks and Pitts were already locked in a good-natured but intense argument over Keating's Oblique Strategy assignment.

"But I called the radio first, Pitts!" Meeks insisted, adjusting his glasses earnestly. "It's the perfect metaphor! It speaks of transmitting ideas across great distances, the static of conformity, the hidden frequencies—"

"Balderdash! Your radio is for math nerds!" Pitts countered, gesturing with a piece of dry bread. "My radio is about connection! About receiving the world's pandemonium and making sense of it! Besides, I need it. What else am I going to write about? My socks?"

Charlie, leaning back in his chair with an air of sophisticated boredom, flicked a piece of stray lint off his sleeve and chimed in without opening his eyes. "Gentlemen, it hardly matters. You're both going to end up writing the exact same boring poem." He finally opened one eye and leveled it at the two friends.

"You two spend so much time attached at the hip, you probably think the same thoughts anyway. Your poem won't be about a radio, it'll be about your shared study schedule!"

Meeks and Pitts immediately stopped arguing with each other and turned their unified annoyance on Charlie. "It will not!" Pitts snapped.

"Our study schedule is rigorous and highly intellectual!" Meeks added defensively.

Charlie simply laughed, ignoring their indignation completely. Meeks, still smarting from the insult to his intellectual rigor, turned to the instigator. "Well, if you're such a master of oblique strategy, Charlie, what object are you writing about?"

Charlie grinned, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling, savoring the attention. "Me? I'm writing about a gong." Pitts stared blankly. "A gong? Why a gong?"

The instigator lowered his head, his eyes glittering. "Because a gong is a perfectly respectable, traditional instrument, yet all it takes is one strike to shatter the silence and announce the start of the revolution." He tapped his chest dramatically. "It represents my new motto, Nuwanda. A name that rings through the school."

"A gong, Charlie? Really? I was going to suggest something more fitting for you," Meeks said, his tone deceptively monotonous. "Like a broken record. It's circular, and constantly repeats the same, worn-out dramatic phrase until everyone wants to smash it into a thousand pieces."

Charlie's jaw dropped, then he barked out a surprised laugh, throwing his head back again. "Meeks! You absolute genius! That's almost as good as mine!"

Knox leaned forward, intrigued by the rapid-fire exchange of metaphors. "Alright, enough with the class clowns. What about you? Neil, what magnificent object are you planning to lock your soul into?"

"I'm writing about a Stage," Neil declared, his voice firm. "It's a place where everything is seen, everything is real, but it's only a temporary world, one that can disappear the moment the lights go out." Knox nodded thoughtfully, impressed by Neil’s chosen object. He turned, leaning slightly across the table with a familiar, easygoing grin.

"And how about you, Toddsie?" Knox asked, using the nickname affectionately. "What's the object for the quiet poet?" Todd, having his complementary metaphor prepared, didn't hesitate. He spoke quietly, but the word carried weight. "Curtain," he replied.

Knox, finally done admiring the depth of the others' choices, cleared his throat and announced his own object with a slightly sheepish smile. "Well, I'm doing a Toothbrush." The table went silent for one beat, then Charlie burst out laughing, hitting the table with the flat of his hand.

"A toothbrush, Knoxie? Good God, man! Is it a statement on oral hygiene?" Charlie wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. Knox flushed, but defended his choice. "No! It's about personal, daily choice, and the necessity of maintenance!”

"Sure it is, Knox," Charlie snorted, still chuckling. "It's about making sure the girl you stalk—I mean, pursue—doesn't think you have bad breath."

Neil, trying to project an air of calm normalcy despite the anxiety churning in his stomach, reached over to Todd’s plate. Todd hated the boiled cabbages served in the dining hall with a visceral passion. Instinctively, Neil scooped the offending mound onto his own plate, burying it under a spoonful of mashed potatoes. It was a silent, well-practiced gesture of care.

Knox, who had been watching the interaction, suddenly slapped his hand down on the table, startling the group. "That's genius, Neil Perry!" Knox exclaimed, his voice hushed but intense.

The mentioned boy, caught in the middle of a mundane act of charity, looked up, completely confused. Todd, whose plate was now blessedly cabbage-free, just looked bewildered. "What is?" Neil asked. "The mashed potatoes?"

Knox leaned in, his eyes shining with feverish revelation. "No, the cabbage! It's the Olive Theory! Don't you see? My father talks about it all the time. He says in a successful marriage, one person has to hate olives, and the other has to love them. That way, there's always a balance. There's always something to give, something to take!"

He pointed excitedly between Neil’s plate, now sporting two helpings of cabbage, and Todd’s pristine one. "You hate the cabbage, Todd hates the cabbage, but you take it! It shows a complementary nature! It's not about both liking the same thing; it's about covering the deficiencies! It's fate!"

Neil felt a sudden heat rise in his cheeks, a faint blush that he hoped was masked by the dim lighting of the dining hall. Knox had completely misinterpreted the gesture, seeing it as some grand, platonic philosophical discovery about compatibility, rather than the quiet, romantic habit it actually was.

"She hates lima beans! I saw her pick them out the other day. I'm going to walk over and take the beans from her plate. It's fate!"

Later that night, Neil and Todd were walking back to their dorm room from the dinner hall. As they reached their door, an item was stuck beneath the latch: a thick, cream-colored envelope, embossed with the familiar, severe Perry family crest.

Neil snatched it up and ripped it open, his jaw tightening as he read the contents. Todd hovered anxiously at his shoulder.

"What is it?" Todd whispered.

Neil let out a raw, frustrated sound, crumpling the letter in his fist before smoothing it out. "It's a new shirt," he spat. "He sent me a new dress shirt. Claims the cuffs on my old ones are 'fraying and unprofessional' for my upcoming obligations."

He threw the letter onto the bed and began pacing the small room, his agitation growing.

"And listen to this," Neil continued, grabbing the letter again, reading the precise, controlling lines with thinly veiled sarcasm. "'I have arranged a small, private dinner at the house this Sunday. I want you to make time in your revised schedule to attend. Ginny Danbury will be joining us. Her father is a highly respected cardiologist in Boston, and she is set to attend Radcliffe next year. It would be a useful connection for you to develop.'"

Neil threw the letter across the room. "See? This is what he does! He tears down every single thing that brings me joy! The play, the extracurriculars, my time. It's all 'distractions' and 'unnecessary expenditures of energy' because it doesn't lead to a medical degree!"

He ran a frantic hand through his hair. "But a date! A fiancée interview dressed up as a dinner party with the daughter of a cardiologist?”

"Wait," Todd said, his voice small and tight with sudden dread. "Fiancée?"

The frantic energy drained out of Neil, leaving him frozen. He realized, with a sickening lurch, that he had never actually told Todd the full extent of his father's expectations. That these arranged "dates" were not just networking, but part of a long-term plan for an approved, strategic marriage.

He turned slowly to face Todd, his eyes wide with a look of caught guilt and fear. "Neil?" Todd pressed, searching his face. The brunette swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "It's... it's the plan. My dad wants a perfect, pre-approved life."

Todd felt a sickening lurch in his chest, as if his heart had been violently wrung out. The "sickness" his family warned against, the deviance that could never be spoken, was not just a personal failing. It was a shared understanding between their two families, between the whole of Welton.

It doesn't matter how much we love each other, a cold voice echoed in his mind.

Their families would ultimately want them to end up with a girl.

Neil saw the devastation on Todd's face and moved immediately, taking his hands. His voice became frantic, desperate to repair the damage his omission had caused.

"I will not marry Ginny Danbury! I won't! I've been avoiding her all year. This dinner means nothing. It's just another box he thinks he can check off." He gripped Todd’s hands tightly.  He chooses my career, he chooses my life, he chooses... my wife. But I won't let him. I'm telling you, I won't marry her."

Todd wanted to respond, to offer comfort, to say the three impossible words that were burning on his tongue, but the internal pressure was paralyzing. He felt like he was swallowing a box of thumbtacks, every sharp point tearing at the soft tissues of his throat, making speech impossible.

Finally, the words forced their way out, thin and trembling. "Why... why didn't you tell me about the fiancée part?" Neil's shoulders slumped slightly, his grip loosening. He looked down at their joined hands, the initial panic in his eyes giving way to a raw, painful honesty.

"I... I honestly didn't think about it, Todd," Neil confessed, his voice heavy with self-reproach. He lifted his eyes, meeting Todd's pleadingly. "I didn't care about the fiancée part enough to remember to tell you. It felt so far away and so irrelevant to my actual life, I just pushed it out of my head."

The latter nodded, the fear still a cold knot in his stomach, but the honesty was a small comfort. He took a shaky breath, trying to be the sensible one, the realist.

"Neil, you have to be smart about this," Todd urged, squeezing Neil's hands. "You need to attend that dinner. You need to smooth things over with your father. If you defy him on the play and snub this girl, he might pull you out of Welton entirely."

Neil pulled his hands away, stepping back as if Todd had burned him. His face hardened instantly. "No. I won't. I'm not going to play that game anymore. He wants me to crawl back, apologize, and accept Ginny. It's just a way to cement my cage."

"But Neil—"

"I said no," Neil insisted, shaking his head fiercely.

"Unless," Neil said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "Unless you come with me."

Todd stared at him. "What? To your house? To the dinner? Neil, are you insane?"

“I will only go to that miserable, calculating dinner if you are there."

"You… you are completely crazy," Todd whispered, but the thumbtacks were gone from his throat. He saw the risk, but he also saw the love in the madness. He couldn't let Neil go into that viper's den alone. He sighed, the resignation heavy, but his eyes were fixed entirely on Neil. "Fine, Perry. I'll go to your stupid fiancée dinner. But if your father locks me in a broom closet, I'm blaming you."

Neil looked into Todd's eyes, his expression serious. "Thank you, Todd. This means everything. Because honestly," he confessed, leaning in close, "I don't think I can sit through that dinner without you. If they start talking about, you know... the future, or marriage," Neil shuddered.

"I just need to be able to look at you, and stare until the whole conversation drowns out." A private, rebellious smile touched Neil's lips. "And while they're talking about Ginny, I'll just be in my head, imagining my real wedding, with you at the altar instead.”

He can already imagine our wedding? Todd’s heart did a strange, painful flip. They hadn't been a couple for very long, and the future was still unsure. But the way Neil said it, so casual and yet so surely as if Todd’s presence at the altar was a settled fact in his mind was intensely moving.

Neil claimed him for the future, a future entirely outside his father’s script.

"You're so dumb for imagining the wedding already, Perry," Todd murmured, a playful insult laced with affection. "You haven't even finished the chapter on differential calculus yet.” Neil pulled back just enough to look offended. "So what?" he scoffed.

"What good is differential calculus going to do me in the future, anyway? If I'm supposed to be a doctor, I'll just tell someone else to calculate the dosage”

He squeezed Todd tightly. "Besides, I've got you. You can do my calculus and be my imaginary groom. It's a win-win."