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The obsession with wolves was a small, childhood bound thing, something all children have, a special interest in something outside their small world - that's what Todd likes to tell himself when he doesn't want a particularly good day to be ruined. The truth is, he is still obsessed with them, and even when he was as little as four years old, wolves meant more to him than just any cool animal.
Wolves, they have pack. Pack means togetherness, means love, means trust, means open affection, means family. A kind of family Todd has never experienced.
Even at that small age, he knew what his family was like. Learning how to dream himself into different worlds, lives, bodies, how to perfect the art of escapism was the only thing easing the pain of near abandonment.
He'd always been a bit of dreamer, head in the clouds, not quite here or there. He's never had a reason to be fully present, anyway.
He's never really had a friend, or someone to talk to. Thinking back to it, the other children probably smelled the loneliness on him.
A strange child, different, absent in a way that no one broke through to. No one ever really tried, either way.
He's kind of stayed that way, keeping his thoughts, feelings, whole inner world to himself. His mind is the only place where he really allows himself to be himself, dreaming up all the things he cannot do in the real world. Mostly because he's far too scared.
His mind is the only place where he isn't such a wimp, where he actually dares to pursue the things he desires, where he isn't alone.
Because alone, that's all Todd has ever been. Alone at home, learning how to do his own laundry and how to cook his own supper, because his parents never quite bothered and Jeffrey - well, he doesn't really remember much from before Jeffrey went to boarding school.
But after - after, he had framed report cards on the mantle and sports awards and official looking photographs of him and a dozen other boys his age, all dressed the same, expressions terribly serious.
Todd still remembers wishing he'd never have to look like that. He also remembers wanting to be the one his parents hung pictures of, were proud of. Because one apparently equaled the other, even when they never expressed such things verbally.
Now Todd doesn't wish he could go back to that time of quiet, ignored existence. He does wish that his parents would love him enough - or even at all - to enquire about more than his grades every time they talk.
He wishes his parents were like other ones - caring, kind, even gentle maybe. Because part if him feels like he doesn't deserve anything else, isn't interesting or good enough to get treated other than being ignored, and he hates them for it.
He wouldn't ever say it out loud, probably wouldn't even dare to bring those thoughts to paper, but the rage is there.
But the problem with family is, it's never so simple as you wish it to be.
Because Todd still loves his parents and he loves Jeffrey, and because he loves them he is angry because why can't they love him the same? But then he feels guilty, and sad, because that's his family, the only people he has, and he should be grateful for all that they've given him, and who is he to demand more?
It is an endless circle, vicious of self hatred and guilt and the deep running current of just wanting to be loved.
It is a current, because it never stops, never falters, even in the moments he doubts he is worthy of love or even allowed to be wanting such things in the first place. It runs so deep, along the banks of "god, just hug me, please" and the tenderness cliffs, past fields of forget-me-nots and tell me you love me trees. It runs so deep it disappears under the hills, deep under the mountain ranges, hollowing out caves and caverns to push it's way to the depths, looking for a home, a pack, family.
And yes, it is a metaphor he came up with himself, because what is he if not a compilation of pathetic dreams stretching across his body like it is a map itself?
A few years later, his dream does comes true, and as it always is in life, in a far more complicated manner than wanted. There's this boy, and he's funny, and he smiles brightly, and he makes Todd feel like he should take a chance and do something more with his life.
It terrifies Todd, because suddenly his current, his desperate wish for family - as it has been answered, the poets - is rushing along in new directions, past unknown shores and he is scared to let himself feel at ease, feel loved, feel part of something, because what if it gets ruined? What if he ruins it, with that stupid, stupid crush on Neil?
And then December comes, and Todd sits in that row with his friends, his teacher, his family and he watches his- he watches Neil perform and glow and absolutely kill it on stage. He claps and he must agree with Charlie, because yes, Neil is good, really good.
So good, in every possible way, and Todd doesn't understand why Thomas Perry can't see it, too. Can't see how amazing his son is, how he shines and glows, how he gives so much and takes too little, how he cares for his friends, for Todd, how brilliant he is at what he does.
He wants to tell him that and more when he drags Neil away, but - story of his life - he is too much of a coward to do so.
He can't stop thinking about it, how he's a coward, how they're all cowards for getting in this car and driving away from Neil, and he has to beg Keating to stop driving so he can run to the side of the road, nearly slipping on the ice, and hurl out what feels like his whole gut and intestines into the bushes.
And then, they get to the dorms, the empty room, the made bed where Neil should be and isn't. It's wrong, it's all wrong, and Todd doesn't know what to do, how to cope.
In the end it's like his body decides to function on autopilot. He takes off his coat, his dress shoes, he puts on pyjamas and paces around the room. He sits down on his own bed, on the window sill, on Neil's bed. He wants to get up again, some small part of him anxious that if Neil were to come back before morning he'd find Todd in his bed like a creep. The bigger part of him is scared, terrified even, that Neil won't come back before morning, or at all even.
Sometime around three AM his body gives out. He falls asleep, face pressed into Neil's pillow, body atop the covers.
The next time he wakes is because the door creaks. His mind is foggy, he doesn't recognise Charlie's voice at first, when he calls out for Todd.
"I- yeah?" He sits up. Something in Charlie's voice isn't right, something's wrong-
"What's wrong? What happened?" He asks, voice sleep addled. Later, much later, this is the moment where his life splits up into Before and After.
"Neil he- he's in the hospital. They don't know if he's gonna make it."
Todd just stares at Charlie, stares and stares and stares as a tear runs down the other boys' cheek.
Todd doesn't know how to react. He needs to breathe, but he can't really - how does it work again? In out, out in? He frantically gasps for air, clawing at the covers of the bed, until his brain supplies him with a sudden thought.
Neil's not dead yet. Charlie said he's in the hospital, and he might die, and and and
He's not dead though.
Something about that gives Todd the strength to get up. He gets up, he lets Charlie push against his shoulders in the direction of the common room.
Soft yellow light falls through the crack of the half closed door, soft but frantic murmuring behind it, and they go in, and Mr Keating and the headmaster and the poets, they're all there. Except Neil.
Neil who's at the hospital, and somehow - it feels - within the blink of an eye Todd's there, too.
White walls, grey linoleum floor, grey sky, soft light through the window, incessant beeping and flashing of monitors.
Todd guesses he should probably be glad the monitors are beeping the way they are, because that means that Neil isn't dead.
Because he might as well could be. Because Neil shot himself, with a gun, in the head. Because Neil tried to kill himself.
Todd keeps repeating it, keeps reminding himself, because he's so close to spacing out, and he can't, because maybe Neil will wake up. Maybe.
He doesn't, and Todd waits for hours and hours, staring at his best friend, his something, until Keating tries to convince him to go back to Welton for food and sleep.
Todd doesn't move, can't really anyway. Mr Keating leaves him after a while. He might've come back later, but Todd can't remember.
At some point he must've fallen asleep, though. His slumber is fitful and regularly interrupted, but he makes it until the next morning.
He's still at the hospital, next to the bed, next to Neil, and time passes blurry and strangely. Sometimes the other poets are there, but only Charlie stays by his side the whole time.
In the back of his head Todd wonders why he hasn't seen either of Neil's parents anywhere. He can't bother enough, though, because there's just Neil.
Neil who might as well be dead, who is lying on that bed, as if already not breathing anymore, Neil who is hurt, Neil whom Todd loves so much it hurts, Neil whom Todd let get hurt, because he was too much of a coward.
The nurses and doctors don't even try to tell him or Charlie or the other poets to go home when visiting time is over.
Todd doesn't think about that either. He will, later, but there's still only Neil.
This night he falls asleep next to Neil's bed again, Charlie beside him until Keating drives him home. He doesn't try to get Todd to leave this time.
Mr Keating returns, later. He sits next to Todd, and they don't speak a word.
The three of them are just breathing together, in a room, because they're alive, and Todd is glad that Mr Keating is there, because he somehow gives the room a little bit of life.
Mr Keating's breathing makes Todd realise he's breathing in the first place, makes him realise Neil is breathing, too.
He is, he is, he is, Todd thinks. He's not dead, the doctors say-
He doesn't know what the doctors are saying. He can't really hear anything, everything is wrapped in cotton wool, the sounds all around him are dulled.
Keating comes, puts a hand on his arm.
He says "Todd? Todd. Todd"
It takes until the third time that Todd can focus properly on his voice.
He can't take his eyes off of Neil, afraid he'll miss something, anything.
"Yeah" he says, voice cracking from disuse.
"The doctor says there's a good chance that Neil is going to be fine. It might take a while longer, but- he's going to be okay."
Todd takes a breath, and then he keeps on breathing. Neil will be okay. He'll be okay, Todd will be okay, they're all still breathing.
It's the first time Todd cries since he got the news. It's just a few tears, his eyes start burning, suddenly he's sobbing and dry heaving, face in hands, body shaking like a leaf.
Faintly, somewhere else, he can hear Mr Keating murmur comforting words, a heavy hand on Todd's shoulder squeezing.
It takes a while for Todd to breathe evenly again.
He eats something for supper this time, he can't remember what though.
The next night and day are filled with feverish tension, Todd's waiting, waiting, waiting. It's monday, he's been excused from school. It doesn't matter. Neil needs to wake up.
He and Keating take turns watching over him now, so that Todd can go to the bathroom and get fresh air and change clothes. He doesn't want to, but he has to.
The next time he's alone with Neil he starts talking to him. He wants to say a lot that he doesn't know how to, so he starts with banal things.
The hospital food is awful, it's terribly cold out, Todd hasn't got any fresh washing anymore and had to borrow something from Meeks, he's written a new poem shortly before the play that he hadn't told Neil about, yet. He will though, because Neil will wake up.
It takes another two days and two nights before that happens.
It's morning, it's still grey outside, the snow still lying not melting. He's next to the bed, and Neil wakes up, and that's that.
Eyes open, still breathing, hand twitching.
Todd's there and so is Mr Keating and the doctor and multiple nurses.
In the end Todd has a hard time remembering what happened exactly afterwards. There might be something about Neil's heart monitor beeping frantically when Todd sits down next to him, but he can't be sure with how faint that memory is.
They don't talk to each other. Todd just sits there, looking at Neil, while the medical staff do things, and Mr Keating is talking, probably. Neil is, too.
Todd isn't listening, but he knows it's all off, strange, the topic is being tip toed around.
Sometime later him and Neil are alone in the room, Todd's looking at Neil, Neil's looking away. Todd can't find it in himself to analyse his own actions, question if what he's saying or doing is appropriate right now. It's like what happened to Neil, it pulled a switch. Later he'll think about it, recognise it as a twisted form of survival instinct.
Neil ends up speaking first.
"Will you say something?"
No, Todd won't. He does anyway, but it won't do much, he's sure.
"I don't know what to say."
Neil just looks at him. Nods. "Okay. Will you come here?"
He lifts his arm, heavily, pats the bed next to him.
Todd gets up, sits next to Neil. His legs feel numb, everything's a bit numb. Numb and wrong and different. Neil's not the same. Todd's not the same. Nothing is going to be the same.
Neil leans his head against Todd's shoulder, Todd leans his head on top. They've never done that before - it's different. Everything is different now.
Later, Mr Keating will wake them up, just in time before the poets pile into the room.
The cheer is forced but well meant. Neil laughs a bit, jokes with the others. Todd just watches him. Notes the little tick in his jaw and the tiredness in his eyes.
Neil stays in the hospital for the next six weeks. Todd goes back to school, visits every afternoon. They don't talk much. They sit together, Todd reads poetry to Neil. They develop a routine. The poets stop by ever so often. At school it's glum, but a little bit less so after a few more days.
But it's not the same. It can't ever be the same. Before, Todd was different. Now it's After, and things have changed.
He feels like they're building up to something, him and Neil. A conversation? He doesn't know.
Todd doesn't really feel much around this time. It's as if the greyness of the world is seeping into him and keeping his feelings hostage. He knows they'll come back, soon enough, knows he'll be angry and sad and hurt and so bloody relieved.
Right now he's just functioning, together with Neil. He goes through the motions, keeps on breathing, waits for the breaking point.
Christmas passes, New Year's too. Todd has to go home for Christmas, he hates it, but he keeps quiet. No one notices, really.
One comment about 'his classmate that tried to off himself', two about his grades, none about his wellbeing.
New year's he's back, he spends it in the hospital with Mr Keating and Neil. They count down the seconds, and when the clock strikes midnight Mr Keating says
"To you, boys. You made it. Another year, another fresh start."
Todd thinks Mr Keating says more after that, but he's not listening really. He's watching Neil.
He's not been talking to Mr Keating much either way. He says he's fine when asked. He doesn't know how to respond otherwise.
The new semester starts, the halls are rowdy, the teachers strict. As always. Nothing's changed, but they have. Todd, the poets.
There had been a school assembly, a warning. Todd's just glad no one got fired or expelled.
The weeks bleed into a big mass, and suddenly it's almost the middle of February. Neil's just got a few days left in the hospital.
The two of them are sitting on the windowsill, like the did in the dorms, Before. Neil is watching the snow melt. Todd is watching Neil.
He turns, suddenly, brown eyes focused on Todd's face.
"Do you hate me?" He asks, out of the blue.
So it seems to Todd. He's sure though that the thoughts in Neil's head lead up to this quite well.
There are unshed tears in the other boys eyes. Todd just looks at him, really looks. The bags underneath his eyes, the set of his mouth.
He realises it's been a while since Neil asked the question.
"No, Neil, I don't hate you." He tries to sound as honest as possible. He's not lying, but he's scared that what he's trying to convey won't reach Neil.
One of the tears rolls down Neil's cheek.
Todd lays his hands on his legs, palms facing upwards. A silent invitation, if Neil should take it.
He does, quietly burying his head in Todd's sweater.
He seems so young all of a sudden. Like a little kid again, like Todd is the older one now. It makes him feel so tired, all of a sudden.
Quiet sobs ripple through Neil, and a little bit of Todd breaks at that. He can feel it coming, the current. Breaking through the ice, the fog, demanding to be heard, demanding to take him whole with little chance that he'll emerge on the other side.
Later, he tells himself. Later.
Later is on his way home.
Knox lent him his bike, but he doesn't feel like riding it right now. He needs to walk, needs to take in the darkening sky. He needs the time to let his feelings come.
Neil's words replay in his head, over and over and over again.
Do you hate me?
No he doesn't. He hates the way Thomas Perry treats his son, he hates how Neil went from glowing to scared so, so fast after the play, he hates how Neil saw himself so trapped he had to try killing himself, he hates that he couldn't do anything to stop it.
He hates how things could have been different, so different. He hates how he doesn't know what to do with himself, hates how even after everything Neil went through he still has so much want for him. He feels like he shouldn't be allowed to need anything from Neil, not now. Maybe not ever.
There is also a bit of anger at Neil in there too, somewhere. Anger and disappointment that Todd, and the poets, hadn't been enough for Neil to give him hope. But it's an anger that isn't feasible, Todd knows. It's based partly on his own insecurities, it's selfish, and it especially isn't something that is Neil's fault.
It hurts anyway.
God, how it hurts. It all does, so much. Todd just didn't notice, pushed it away until he couldn't any longer. It's a pattern he's been following since forever - keep the feelings until he physically didn't have the capacity anymore.
The current comes, now. The dam breaks, the waterworks set in action.
It's cold, but the wet smell of melting snow is like spring's premonition.
That's a nice poem title, Todd notes, as he's choking on his own tears.
Everything is so beautiful and horrible all at once. There's only one form of handling it.
Writing.
What he ends up writing is a lot of shit, bunched together and unworthy of any other acknowledgement than quietly sitting in his notebook. Except for a few strewn together sentences, something he knows he wants to give Neil, because he doesn't know what else to do, other than be there.
Do stay. Stay here, where the sun is not always warm, but I am. Stay here, where when I am cruel you won't be, and when the world is, I will not be. Stay where I can see you, hear you, know you, not just feel you like a ghost-like presence. Stay, so that I can hold you in my arms. Stay, so that we can be lonely together, and then not anymore. Stay, so that I don't have to see you leave. Stay, stay in the light with me.
He just hopes it'll be enough, for now.
Years later that piece of paper sits on a desk in a box, among hasty scribbled shopping lists and blurry pictures, among little sticky note messages left on doors and anniversary dinner receipts. Among the evidence that their lives continued on, even after they thought they wouldn't. Evidence that their love is there, that it actually exists, in the real world, not just in a fantasy in quiet people's heads.
Evidence that they survived.