Work Text:
It starts simple. A short list.
First, Todd has a paper due, then a poem. Next, it’s four pages of math, along with two written pages of lines for Latin, along with a new world studies chapter to read. And then a poem for Keating because he insists Todd can write well. And Neil wants help for the next Poets meeting, and to do something in the library for studying the day after next. And then his father is calling him to say that he needs to call Jeffrey because they haven’t spoken recently. Oh, and his mother is sick, and now Todd is both ill and somehow sick with worry as well. And then there's his history test along with the chapter he still hasn't read, and his math exam, and—
And then it’s simply too much.
It’s so much that the list stops being words and becomes noise. A pressure behind his eyes. A tightness in his chest that never quite loosens. Todd sits on the edge of his bed, hands curled into the fabric of his sheets, staring at nothing. He tries to breathe slowly like he was once told to, but every inhale catches halfway in, like his lungs refuse to do their job correctly.
He thinks, distantly, that he should wake Neil. That Neil would help, would talk him through it, would make a joke or quote a poem, or simply sit there until Todd stopped shaking. But the thought of being seen like this—small, panicked, failing—makes his throat close.
So instead, he moves.
The pressure is so great that now Todd is sitting in a shower stall, the tile cold beneath his bare legs, the water off, but the air still damp and echoing. A thin box knife is held in one hand as he drags it over the other arm. He watches as the skin pulls. As it reddens under the pressure. As it welts and slowly, ever so softly, begins bleeding with tinges of red.
The sting is sharp, then dulls. It grounds him. Brings him back into his body in a way breathing never seems to. His thoughts slow, just a fraction—the pressure quiets. For a moment, there is only sensation and the steady drip of water from a faulty faucet somewhere down the row of showers.
Todd sighs, a soft thing.
He’s meant to be in bed, meant to not have a blade to his arm, meant to be softly asleep across from Neil and resting for the next day of classes. Todd is not meant to find solace in cutting himself in the boys' showers late at night after finishing his last bit of homework. He knows this in the same distant way he knows he’s meant to eat three meals a day and meant to speak up in class and meant to feel grateful for the life he has.
Knowing has never made it easier.
He still needs to study. Still needs to call Jeffrey. Still is sick, still has so, so much to work on. Tomorrow will come whether he’s ready or not. Tomorrow always does.
Todd sighs once more as he drags the blade again, his sigh a louder thing, and startles at the sound of a voice.
“Who ever is up here so late at night?”
The words hit him like ice water. His heart slams painfully against his ribs.
Todd tries to scamper and hide, cover his arms, hide his blade, hide himself. He tries to, but doesn't succeed. Everything happens too fast, limbs clumsy with panic. Keating opens the curtain to his stall just as he goes to hide his knife, arms still half open to the world.
Time seems to pause.
“Mr. Anderson. I’d say a pleasant surprise, but seeing as the hour is well past curfew, I will leave the pleasantries from the surprise…” The captain trails off, eyes catching on the young boy's marred arms. “Mr. Anderson…” Keating breathes.
Todd can’t look at him. Shame crawls up his spine, hot and suffocating. He waits for anger. For disappointment. For the inevitable lecture about rules and consequences.
None comes.
“Dear boy, come with me.” His wavering voice sounds, leaving little room for discussion as he gently takes Todd by the shoulder and guides him forward from the stall.
Todd lets himself be led. He doesn’t trust his legs to hold him otherwise.
— — —
The office smells like old books and antiseptic. A strange combination that somehow feels fitting. Todd sits across from Keating, curled into himself, fidgeting with his hands and avoiding any look at Keating. At his arms. At the angry red, welting cuts that Keating is spreading Neosporin over and bandaging with careful, practiced gentleness.
“Todd, I must ask you this: are you suicidal—?”
“I’m not…! It’s not like what Neil deals with. I’m not… I don't struggle like that, y’know? Just, sometimes, when I’m alone, or when it’s late, or just… overwhelmed… I get tired. Like, just really tired and I don’t want to wake up. That’s all. It’s not… bad. It’s normal.”
The words tumble out too fast, rehearsed and defensive all at once. Todd stares at the floor as if the truth might leak out through his eyes if he looks anywhere else.
“Dear boy, that isn’t… This,” He holds Todd’s arms a little higher in show, “isn’t normal. You aren't meant to live to survive. You aren’t meant to simply ‘wish to sleep forever’. That is no different than Neil, okay?” Keating reaches forward, lifting Todd’s face to look at him. “It’s not alright, Todd.”
And Todd, Todd can't hear that.
Can't hear that the way he was living—is living—is wrong. Can't stand to think that this is also how Neil felt all the time before he was helped. Can't stand the idea that this isn't deserved.
Because maybe he should feel like this.
Maybe God was angry with him. Maybe he was meant to feel so tired all the time. Maybe, because of how sinful, how selfish, how worthless Todd is, he was deserving of his own sorrow.
Above all, though, Todd can't stand the idea of not being like this. Of not having a constant axe to his head. Of not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of not wishing every night before he fell asleep that he wouldn’t wake up, and instead simply be dead—
“It’s not like Neil. I’m, I’m fine. Everything is fine. I can’t…”
And Keating is staring at him, eyes soft, not with pity but pain. Pain, guilt, and a small bit of anger. Anger for whomever has convinced this boy, this child, that he deserved such a horrid thing. Such a horrid feeling. Anger toward whoever convinced sweet Todd Anderson that he was meant to hate himself.
“You aren't meant to feel like this, son. You don’t deserve to feel like this.”
And those words, those are what finally break Todd Anderson’s stubborn resolve.
He sobs out in a wretched cry, a whimpering wail as he wraps his arms around Mr. Keating, finding comfort from the man's gentle soothing. A hand comes to rub across his back, and the captain softly shushes Todd’s crying. Todd clutches at Keating’s shirt like a lifeline, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I thought it was okay, I thought I deserved it, I just, I'm sorry.” The boy stumbles through his cries, words mumbled against the fabric of Keating's shirt. “I thought I was meant to feel… bad.”
Keating soothes him through his sobs, rubbing his back still as one hand holds Todd's face to his chest. He sighs against the boy, softly, letting him cry it out before pulling away just enough to look at him again.
“Todd, I cannot simply leave this to rest. I believe, like your dear friend Mr. Perry, you should speak to someone. And this.” The captain raises Todd's arms the slightest once more. “This must be put to a stop. I cannot have you harming yourself anymore, son.”
To that, Todd doesn't know what to say.
He can't promise nearly anything close to a yes. The thought of stopping feels terrifying, like being asked to step into open air without a safety net. But staring up at Mr. Keating—at the certainty in his voice, the care in his hands—Todd believes that with the help of the teacher, and his friends, he would be able to try.
Todd believes that perhaps, with help, he could.
“I’ll… I'll try. If that's, if that's alright. I can try.” He says, looking away from Keating once more.
“That's all I'm asking for, dear boy. It's all I ask of you.”