Chapter Text
Arthur Rimbaud, folks!” Keating exclaimed to the silent classroom. “One of the most romantic and lovesick of the nineteenth century, and you, boys, are going to love him.”
Yes, Rimbaud was definitely lovesick, thought Todd as he read the first-ever poem he’s read by him. Strangely, he didn’t like him like Keating affirmed. He hated him.
“Why?” asked Neil as they entered the study room, arms laden with books. Todd pushed the door with his shoulder, his friend followed him closely. “He’s great! And he’s young and inspired by nature… he’s just like you or- you’re just like him.”
“It doesn’t matter. I prefer Whitman’s style,” he retorted. In reality, for Todd, Rimbaud simply talked about women with sensuality like any other poet. The only difference he had with them is that Rimbaud was young and the others not as much. Todd could write good poetry too if he wanted, Arthur wasn’t special.
“Are you sure you don’t want to give him a chance?” asked Neil, pathetically. They had reached the table where all the dead poets were already studying.
“If you really want me to…” Todd finally answered before dropping his stack of books on the already crowded and wobbly table.
Fine. He’ll give Arthur the smitten a chance.
“Is there anyone willing to read this poem for us?” The class remained deadly silent. “Come on, I know you have French classes… just let the Molière in you take the lead for a bit!”
No one moved. Strangely, everyone was focused on something else other than Keating for this class.
“You can believe me, this is funnier to read than Shakespeare.” The teacher said as he walked through the aisles, hands in his back. Todd knew thunder was going to strike him, his hair was already rising.
“Todd! Why don’t you give it a try?” Crap. His back tensed up even more, and suddenly, his throat was swollen like every time he had to say a word out loud. Why did it have to be in stupid French? God, he hated French like he hated Rimbaud.
He focused on the words and tried to make sense of them. It didn’t work so well, all he could focus on was his own heartbeat bumping in his ears. “Don’t worry about your accent. I’m not Madam Gazelle.”
Todd sighed before he finally spoke.
“À… elle.”
You’re kidding me, he thought. ‘To her’? Is this another stupid love poem? Really, again? I won’t read this poem. So he just stopped and prayed for Keating to let go of his back.
After another embarrassing silence, “Brilliant!” the teacher declared. “One soldier down, who wants to take over?” Finally someone raised his hand. Keating hopped out of joy before the student started to read.
“L’hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose.
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous…”
Todd covered his ears to never hear the rest of the poem. Why did it find it so boring and pointless? Todd never found poetry boring. At least never the poetry of Whitman or… Hart Crane.
Maybe it was because of the language. He always found French classes boring, as if anyone felt differently about them.
The most concerned one about Todd’s hate towards Rimbaud was definitely Neil. For some reason, Todd loving Rimbaud was, for Neil, as obvious as the sky being blue. And right now, the whole sky was red.
“There’s something wrong about it!” Neil repeated it, and Todd couldn’t help it.
They were studying in their dorm in the afternoon. Todd was reading his notes over and over while Neil mumbled A Midsummer Night’s Dream by heart. The weather was awful these days, a sort of snowy rain poured over Welton every two days, and Todd couldn’t bear it anymore.
Neil didn’t seem too preoccupied. The boy looked happy, bad weather or not, he was a proper sun himself. Todd was always delighted to share his room with a ray of light, especially when it was so gray outside.
“Have you found the books in the library? The ones about Rimbaud.” Neil disturbed the silence with a soft voice.
“I haven’t been there yet. See, I’ve been a bit,” he shows his notebook, “busy.”
“This test is in two weeks! Don’t you want to read instead of studying nonstop?” Todd rolled his eyes.
“I’m not smart like you, Neil. I don’t have time to do plenty of other stuff like you do.”
Neil dropped his annotated book to properly look at his roommate. “What if I find you a book or two? Would you read it?”
Todd couldn’t say no to this. Who could say no to this? Neil had those puppy eyes that could make you agree to anything at any time. So he nodded, and Neil immediately got up. “Where are you going?” Todd asked, frowning.
“Well, the library, obviously.”
“Right now? You really have a problem with Rimbaud and me, don’t you?”
“Indeed I have.” Then he left the room in a hurry, without looking back.
All of this mess made Todd wonder how he could change his mind about something. He always thought that there are things you love and things you hate, and you can’t control it. He enjoyed spending time with Meeks. He liked going to the cave. He loved Neil's smile, and it felt natural. It felt good. You can’t force yourself to like something, except if you know deep down that you’re connected to that something.
When he met Neil, everything made sense. He just felt a connection. An invisible string linking their souls. So he lived with it. He didn’t know if he loved him, he didn’t want to name it. He just wanted to feel it because it was natural. And Neil didn’t have to know anything about it.
And he just didn’t like Rimbaud like he loved Neil. Changing his mind on Rimbaud was always possible, but that would feel unnatural and forced…
Maybe he just had to find an excuse. If Rimbaud was Neil’s favorite poet, he would do anything to know more about him and start liking him. But Rimbaud wasn’t Neil’s favorite-
“Of course he’s my favorite poet!” Todd shouldn’t have asked him when he came back from the library.
“Why?” He asked, genuinely curious— he was always interested when it came to his friends —and Neil started an unstoppable tirade.
“He lives freely! Always roaming around and writing good poetry. And it’s fun to know that he’s our age, right? He mentions love, but nature, growth, war, society and freedom too! I swear he’s not like other poets. And not all his poems are about girls, trust me. You’ll like him.”
Neil probably liked Rimbaud because he liked girls and going out. Disobeying the rules and running in tall grass fields. Maybe he wanted Todd to like Rimbaud too so they could run through the grass and feel free together. Or maybe he just knew Todd wasn’t too interested in girls, and Neil wanted to fix it. All this situation was so confusing.
“He reminds me of you…” He added, his voice low. What to say back to this? Something dropped in Todd’s stomach, he couldn’t say if it was comforting or the right opposite. It was something he linked to Neil, because no, it wasn’t the first time Neil made him feel like sinking into the ground.
His roommate wouldn’t find it surprising to hear nothing for answer, so Todd kept quiet.
Neil’s tone was a bit different than usual afterwards. Either because he was genuinely passionate or a little anxious. Todd had never seen him like that before, he didn’t even know Neil was all over Arthur the smitten this much.
Neil then landed him two books. “One’s a biography, and the other is a poetry collection with a bunch of poems we don’t have in our literature textbook.” He explained.
“‘The thief of fire’ and ‘The Douai poems’…” Todd mumbled. He didn’t admit that, just by looking at the book covers and titles, Rimbaud had piqued his interest.
He decided to start with the biography right away to understand the guy before reading his work. This stupid test could wait a little longer.
“Thank you.” He said so softly he could hardly hear himself. But he was sure Neil heard it. They then settled in their own beds and didn’t exchange a word until it was time to eat dinner.