Work Text:
It takes two weeks for the superficial cuts lining Todd’s arms to fade into simple angry red lines. He spends the two weeks' worth of nights speaking alternatively to either Keating or Neil about what he spoke about with Keating. His ‘sessions’ with Keating, as Neil has begun calling them, were helping Todd to see that perhaps he was not as ‘fine’ as he once believed.
Keating continues to push Todd to speak to a talk therapist on his issues, but Todd knows as well as the next person that asking his parents for help – let alone from a therapist – was never going to happen. And even if somehow Todd mastered up the meagre amount of courage within his small body, they would never agree to letting their son speak to a shrink.
It takes two weeks for Todd to admit to Neil he had been harming himself for nearly a decade. The two stay together for the night, Neil not wanting to let go of Todd. Somehow, in the midst of everything, Neil has only allowed himself to grow closer to Todd. Keating calls it a trauma bond of sorts, but neither boy cares. Keating doesn't either, so long as both boys are supported.
It takes those two weeks for Todd to even manage to muster enough courage to think of telling the other poets. To think about how they may react. At first it causes Todd's stomach to clench. The first few times he brushes away the idea, but after thinking of Neil's reaction – alongside Keating's prodding to open up – Todd allows the thought some room for growth.
It takes a total of 17 days after Keating finding out, 16 after Neil has found out, and 3 since the last scab has flaked from Todd's arms for there to be a poets meeting.
It happens like this:
Todd is meant to be taking the minutes of the meeting, as always. As has become natural as of late however, he is instead goaded into reading something from his journal.
He is shy at first, blushing and stuttering out negatives, not ready at that moment but agreeing after a few more passes about of the book.
Todd stands, and without thinking, rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't think anything of it, not seeing the soft glances shared, not hearing the sharp inhales from Charlie and Meeks.
Todd smiles and looks to Neil for a moment, who hasn't noticed either, and continues on after a nod from the other boy.
“i have spent most of my life
learning to fold the papers of myself
into corners i do not fit,
with no quiet complaint.”
Todd subtlety shirts his weight, cloak falling further down his arms and back behind him.
“the silence there is heavy,
pressing on your chest.
it teaches you to swallow,
not to breathe.
no one will hear you exist.”
Todd brushes his hair from his face as he speaks, each poet's eyes tracking the movement. The lines marring the boys' skin.
“i do believe that being unnoticed
is, in itself, a safety.”
Todd smiles now, comfortable, closing his eyes to recite the rest.
“but absence
is not peace.
“i may not be a metaphor for death—
i am not brave enough for that.
“but i am an allegory,
and we two
have just met.”
Todd stands a moment longer, words hanging in the silence of the cave. When he opens his eyes he is not met with the normal prideful looks. He is not met with cheers and claps. He is met with a quiet silence he has never seen on this group's normally jovial energy.
“Anderson…” Knox is the first to break the silence once Todd has sat. “What… happened?”
He says it as if he doesn't know, but the dour energy in the cave gives way to the knowledge that every poet possesses.
Todd, lost, looks across each boy's faces before finally reaching Neil. He looks to where the boy's gaze is sitting, staring down at his now barren forearms. Angry red lines are still freely visible, not faded from recent agitation.
Todd follows Neil’s gaze too late.
He startles, just slightly, as if the sight of his own arms has surprised him. His instinct is to pull his sleeves back down, to fold himself inward again, but the moment stretches before he can. The cave is very quiet. Not the heavy, swallowing silence from his poem—but something tentative. Waiting.
Charlie is the first to move. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere carefully not on Todd’s face. Meeks’ hands are clenched together so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. Pitts looks stricken, like he’s trying to solve a problem with no right answer. Knox swallows.
“Oh,” Charlie says finally. Not flippant. Not loud. Just—oh.
Todd feels suddenly small. Exposed. He hadn’t planned this part. Hadn’t planned anything beyond the words. He opens his mouth, prepared to apologize—for making things awkward, for making them worry, for existing too loudly—and then Neil’s hand is on his knee, warm and steady.
“You don’t have to explain,” Neil says, quietly. It isn’t a command. It’s an offering.
Todd blinks. “I—I didn’t mean—” His voice catches, betrays him. He hadn’t noticed how hard he’d been holding himself together until now. “I didn’t think anyone would—”
“Care?” Knox supplies, gently.
Todd nods, once. Shame burns hot in his chest, sharp and familiar.
There’s a beat. Then Meeks speaks, voice soft but certain. “Todd, we… we care.” Like it’s obvious. Like it always has been. “We’ve always cared.”
Charlie scoffs, but there’s no bite in it. “Yeah, man. You think we drag ourselves out here every week just for Nuwanda theatrics?” He gestures vaguely. “You’re one of us.”
Todd looks around again. Really looks this time. At the way Pitts won’t stop glancing at his arms like he’s afraid they might disappear. At Knox’s furrowed brow. At Charlie’s uncharacteristic stillness. At Neil—who hasn’t looked away once.
Something inside Todd shifts. Not fixed. Not healed. But loosened, just a little.
“Oh,” he breathes, the word leaving him softer than he intends.
No one laughs.
Neil squeezes his knee. The cave breathes around them. And for the first time, Todd realizes that being here is not a burden upon the other boys. They're happy to have him here.
Years prick at Todd's eyes, and he has to clear his throat.
“So what did you all think of the poem?” He deflects, voice light and joking through the tightness of his impending tears.
The other boys laugh, smiles breaking across their faces. Neil's hand stays safely rested on Todd's thigh for most of the meeting, a steady comfort for him.
“Honestly,” Pitts starts, “I think we were all a bit, uh, distracted? Would you mind repeating yourself?”
And Todd doesn't mind, so he does. He repeats his reading, smiling his way through the not as heavy words. He re-recites his poem, comfortable in the attention of the company that is wanted.
In the company of friends that want and adore him as he adores them.