Todd walked down the street, headphones covering his ears. A dark green hat sat on top of his head - covering his balding hair and chunky headphones from the chilly December air. A big, puffy coat wrapped around his suit as he strolled down the city streets. The lights strung on the New York light posts gave the city a certain feel of romance.

The voices in his ears kept talking, a soft female voice streaming through his ear canal. She talked about books that she read and other important news. The wars in the middle east, the recession, China's economy and how it would affect the US. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, nodding along with the delivered news. They told the news, but did little to offer ways in which to fix the dilemmas. They just sat back and waited to see what happened.

"Neil!"

Todd slid one side of the headphones off of his ear, the woman's voice fading into the background. He hadn't heard that name in years, hadn't spoken it in years. He stopped cold in his tracks and looked behind him, where he heard the name come from. People bumped into him, but he stood in place, looking for the source.

He looked for the shaggy brown hair, sharp smile, and endless enthusiasm. He looked for the knowing brown eyes, the twiggy arms, and passionate voice. He looked for the crooked teeth, the mangled smile, and lively chatter. He looked for the boy that stole his heart long ago.

"Neil!"

He was thrown into a distant memory. Being chased around his room, jumping onto his bed, the green comforter crunching under his body weight. It slid as he jumped on the floor and his roommate jumped up behind him. Todd yelped, rushing towards the blue comforter as his roommate gained speed. The bubble of laughter that enclosed their room. The moment frozen in time where Todd felt like he could share his poetry.

When he spoke in front of the class and his roommate sat right in front of him, looking at him like he found the key to life. Todd had said nonsense, none of it made sense. He was talking like a madmen in front of the class and something beautiful came from it.  That never happened to Todd. It was a mistake, a happenstance that would likely never come again. But his roommate looked at him like he created the Sun in front of the class, his eyes filled with the makings of the universe. They didn't talk about it later. Neither one mentioned the unintended magic that took place in front of the classroom.

The day where his heart broke for the first time and he sat numb on the walkway above the courtyard, letting the November wind nip at his face. His couldn't feel the tip of his nose and his cheeks were beginning to turn the same shade of wind-burn red.  The desk set sat just beyond his feet; too far to kick, too far to grab. He crossed his arms over his knees, only looking up when a pair of shoes stopped by the desk set. It was his roommate, that ever-present smile stuck to his face, unaware of the emotional trauma he had been put through. Once he understood the situation, his personality shrank, he squatted down to Todd's eye level, he spoke soft and purposeful. He listened without contempt and didn't put blame on his parents. He picked up the plastic wrapped desk set and examined it, play observing all the little gadgets that were included. He told Todd that it needed to be set free, had to join the world of wild desk sets. He handed it off to him, watched him as he flung the desk set as high and as far as he could, watched his shoulders relax and a smile return to his face, watched him laugh and clap his hands together. They walked inside, his roommate covering his shaking hands with his own.

The day where his heart broke and never healed. When his roommate had been carted away by his parents, confiscated after his performance in the school production of A Midsummer Nights Dream. The room was colder, the blue comforter left untouched. Todd pulled his blanket around himself, glancing at the open window, wishing upon the snow-speckled sky that his roommate would come back to him. He wished on a star that his best friend, his only true friend would come back to him.

His heart broke when he was woken up in the middle of the night, tear tracks etched red and angry into Charlie's cheeks. His eyes were dull and empty, obscured further by the lack of light. The only thing that illuminated the corner of his body was the reflection of the outdoor lights against the snow piled outside the window.

"Neil's dead."

Neil's dead.

Neil's dead.

"Neil!" the voice called again. "Wait up."

You let out a happy sigh at the thought, and your breath fogs up the glass, temporarily obscuring your view of the winter wonderland outside. At some point, you’ll have to go back outside again, and risk the sensation in your hands and feet for the reward of getting home, but as for right now, you’re safe to sit inside and stay warm another hour.

You’re supposed to be studying, but it’s too cozy in here, the woven weight of your sweater too comfortable. Your pen fell from your hand a while ago, lying idly against a half-finished essay on the role of trade in seventeenth century empire building, and you eye it distastefully. You should keep going, make some actual progress instead of daydreaming, but you don’t particularly want to, so you don’t, and cast your eye about for another distraction instead.

That one is quite easy to find. Although you’re not a Welton student yourself, one of your favorite people in the world is, and he’d snuck you in easily enough since none of the faculty wanted to exert themselves in upholding the rules on a cold day like this one. This is not your first time in the halls of Welton Academy, nor will it be your last. You met Steven Meeks what feels like a lifetime ago, came to know him as a friend and better, and you’ve never looked back once. The rest of his friends, the self-proclaimed Dead Poets Society, accepted you into their ranks with only some mild hedging on Cameron’s part, and now the thought of their world without you in it seems more ridiculous than the inverse.

Steven had invited you here so you could be a good influence on each other, studying-wise: he was supposed to be wrapping up some homework on advanced pre-calculus, and you had that stupid trade essay that really needed revising. It seemed like a good enough plan, two people trapped in a room until they finished their work, but instead you’ve been lost in thought for at least half an hour, and Steven– well, you’re pretty sure Steven’s supposed to have been totally immersed in the unit circle, but instead he’s been fairly well occupied with adjusting the knobs on his radio, sin and cos be damned.

Smiling, you cross the room to take a seat at Steven’s parts table. “How’s the math homework going?” You ask pointedly.

His lips prop up in a self-deprecating grin. “About the same as the essay, I imagine.”

You glance guiltily at the abandoned papers on your desk. “Touché. Well? What improvements have you made this time?”

Steven straightens up proudly, clearly happy to have been asked. “Well, nothing major, just a few tweaks, but I think I’ve managed to improve the radius of signal input, which would definitely help with that signal-to-noise ratio issue, other than adjusting the gain, I mean, and–”

He lapses into muttering, prodding again at an antenna on the top of the box, and your heart warms at the sight. Never change, Steven Meeks. No matter what the others tell you.

“So you’ll be able to pick up other channels?” You ask, curious.

“I’ll be able to pick up a channel, hopefully,” he gripes. “Nothing but static so far. Which is annoying, because really all of this should work.”

“Maybe your radio is working fine and the other stations are having trouble because of the snow?” You ask.

Steven shrugs. “Maybe. Guess we’ll find out,” he says suddenly, screwing one last panel into place again and reaching for the dial once more.

Loud static issues from the speakers, and Steven winces, hurriedly turning down the sound. “Sorry, sorry.”

Once your ears are safe, he starts searching for channels again. At first, it’s not looking good, but then there, in between bursts of irregular static, you hear something, a single note, then two. “There!” You say excitedly.

Steven nods, focusing on the station you’d heard. All of a sudden, it comes into clear, crisp focus, and you realize you recognize the tune, one of those cheerful pop melodies that had been playing on the radio the last time you’d driven over here. Steven throws his hands in the air, celebrating like a little kid, then jumps to his feet, pulling you up with him a second later.

“It works!” He crows excitedly.

You can’t help but laugh. “You’re a genius, Steven Meeks.”

“We’re geniuses,” he corrects happily. “You and me.”

Steven reaches down, takes your hands, and starts to dance along with the song. You dance with him, not always able to keep your pace for laughing, and let him spin you. You don’t know all of the words, but you sing the ones you do, and Stven’s more or less able to match you. You’re both viciously off-key, but the real melody is somewhere between the two of you, and that’s basically the same thing as both of you getting it right.

The light shines on the lenses of Steven’s glasses, making his eyes sparkle. The red of his hair matches the flush of his cheeks as he dances you around the room. Your ribs ache slightly from laughing too hard, but it’s a pleasant sort of ache, similar to the burn of the wind on your blushing face when you'll have to brave the cold to go home tonight. These are the sorts of pains we couldn’t live without.

The door swings open, and Gerard Pitts leans in, looking confused, although his expression quickly melts to pride when he hears what’s playing. “Don’t tell me you got the radio working!”

“Ah, so that’s what this ruckus was?” He’s interrupted by Charlie Dalton, elbowing past him with a rakish grin on his face. “We were starting to wonder what horseplay the two of you were getting up to.”

You roll your eyes. “Just engineering brilliance, Charlie. Go back to harassing another first-year.”

Charlie clutches a hand to his chest in mock agony. “You accuse me of harassment? Other students would vie for the pleasure of my company, L/N. You wound me.”

Steven snorts. “You wound us more, Dalton.”

Charlie laughs. “Bullies, you two. Fine, then, Pitts, we’ll take our business elsewhere. I can see we’re not wanted here.”

He wiggles his eyebrows ferociously before Pitts groans and pulls him out of the room. They disappear down the hall, but not before Charlie manages to shout something about keeping the door cracked for the sake of posterity.

Steven sighs in annoyance at the interruption, but you don’t miss the way his face has gone a sudden, flaming red at Charlie’s comment. You’re not completely unaffected either, but you manage to sit back down at the table with the radio, glancing at Steven with an expression of excitement. “Well? Should we see what other channels are out there?”

Steven smiles again, a real smile, the kind he only ever lets slip around you. “Yeah, I think we will.”

The snow sparkles outside your window, chillingly cold but stunningly beautiful. Inside, you’re warm, you’re happy, and you haven’t yet noticed the way Steven watches you like you watch the new snowfall, as if you were the most fascinating person in the world, and, secretly, as if you were his.

dead poets society tag list: @faerieroyal

Headmaster Nolan firmly intended to maintain this rule. Your parents wanted a good education for their daughter. Never before has such a violent clash rocked the hills of Vermont. Not in a while, at least. It took many, many heated arguments and a good deal of defensive letters, plus a promise to secure an internship at a nearby hospital for the son of Headmaster Nolan’s good friend, a certain Mr. Perry. Also, you would have to promise to keep the whole girl thing under wraps.

This may seem impossible, but they were the terms of your acceptance to the prestigious school, and you were willing to live by them. No doubt Headmaster Nolan would be watching you like a hawk for even the smallest of slip ups, but you don’t intend to give him even a second of victory over you. You’ll play according to his rules, and you’ll ace your classes at the same time. Wouldn’t it be funny if one of Welton’s brightest pupils was a girl?

These were the sorts of thoughts that helped tide you over the summer until your first day of school. When that inevitable day came around, though, you couldn’t help but feel paranoia wrap around your stomach with cold, digging claws. This whole idea seemed impossible. How could you possibly pretend to be a boy the whole time you were at the school? You could cut your hair short and deepen your voice, stomp around the halls and act as if you were just like the rest, but what a thing to do. Still, whenever you think about quitting, you think about the triumphant expression on the headmaster’s face, knowing he’d assigned you the one task he thought impossible. If you were going to do anything, you could at least prove him wrong.

With this mindset in place, you move your belongings into Welton. You’ve been given a single room, as the headmaster decided that having a roommate would only complicate things. Smart move there; it might be difficult to hide your evident lack of masculinity from someone who’d be with you around the clock.

There are plenty of singles in the Welton dorms, the students placed inside for various reasons. It’s nothing uncommon. Still, it does draw a fair amount of attention during move-in, as students pretend not to openly stare at you while you’re unpacking your luggage to see what kind of kid could manage to pull the lucky slot of a dorm room all to themselves.

One group of boys in particular seems keen on making your acquaintance, although their attention, unlike that of many of the other students coincidentally passing by your door, seems pleasant instead of demanding. Their apparent leader, Neil Perry, drops by to say hello. Always glad to see a new face, or so he’d claimed.

Neil was the first, quickly followed by his new roommate, Todd Anderson, plus Neil’s best friend, Charlie Dalton. An additional entourage of Gerard Pitts and Steven Meeks joined them soon enough, and a redheaded Richard Cameron followed up the tour, although judging by the not-so-subtle hostility in everyone’s glances his way, Cameron would be the least favored of the whole group.

At first, you’re terrified to have that much attention directed your way. Your goal was to skate under the radar, only making friends when you absolutely had to so you could both avoid detection and focus on your studies. Although it might make for a lonelier experience, staying undercover was far more important. Your parents were sacrificing a lot to keep you in Welton’s halls. You couldn’t afford to disappoint them by getting caught all because you started feeling alone.

However, none of the boys seem to notice that you’re not what you claim. They take up your explanation of having recently moved there readily enough, as it would explain why they’d never heard of your boy name before. You picked that one out earlier that month as if it were a new notebook or yet another school supply: B/N. It’ll be tricky to remember to respond to that name, but no trickier than any other part of this little scheme.

Besides, once classes start to kick up, all of you have far bigger fish to fry than unraveling the precise identities of the latest addition to the friend group. Soon, questions about where you grew up and how you managed to get yourself cast down to Hellton are replaced with frantic trig study sessions and grievous Latin complaints.

If there’s one class none of you seem to mind at all, though, it would be English. The other boys heard rumors that you’d be getting a new teacher, but none of them knew a thing about this Mr. Keating. The general consensus is that English this term would be no different from English at any other time of year; plenty of assigned readings, loads of essays required to be written under short durations, and all of the other joys that a required literature course often brings.

This, however, was not to be the case. From the moment Mr. Keating opened his mouth, all of you knew you’d be in for a treat. Some of you were less hesitant to embrace Mr. Keating into your hearts, namely Cameron, but the rest of you have been quick to appreciate what you have. For once, you’re having fun in class. Who could have an issue with that?

And, when Neil swoops by your seat and asks you if you’d be willing to engage in the first meeting of the new Dead Poets Society out in the woods that evening, you know that the impact your new teacher has on his students is far more drastic than even you’d envisioned. You agree readily, and the rest of your friends look pleased with themselves for managing to boost their numbers with such an agreeable fellow.

If there was one boy who looked the happiest that you’d be joining them after hours, you’d have to say that it was Steven Meeks. Although he may not be the loudest of the set, Steven has quickly been rising through the ranks in your mind. He’s been working on this radio set almost nonstop with Pitts, but every time Steven accomplishes even the smallest of achievements, he immediately has to put everything aside to rush to your side and tell you all about it. It’s wonderful to watch him, how his eyes light up as he talks, hands waving wildly in the air while he talks about receiving signals and communication potential.

You should know better than to get attached. There is a significant chance that your whole ruse will be revealed sooner rather than later, and you’ll be unceremoniously removed from Welton, never to speak to any of these boys again. Still, watching Steven’s ginger curls fall messily about his bright eyes, tracing the path of his hand absentmindedly combing back the strands so he can focus on repeating the information he’s just learned, you can’t help but wonder if maybe this one connection wouldn’t be so bad. Your friends wouldn’t turn you in.

Besides, cutting yourself off from Steven sort of feels like chopping off a limb. When the lot of you sneak out from the dorms that evening, running and howling through the forest, Steven stays by your side the entire time. Dry leaves crunch underfoot, and the moon hangs low and bright overhead. Your heart beats erratically from its cage in your ribs, and you wonder how you could ever have been afraid of something like this. This is living, you decide. You and Steven in the endless night, laughing like crazy, more free than you’ve ever been even as you live your greatest lie.

The first meeting of the Dead Poets Society is a wild success. You take turns reading off various stanzas and prose, alternating between oohing appreciatively at a particularly good turn of phrase and teasing each other wholeheartedly whenever someone provides the opportunity. Despite the jokes, the atmosphere in the cave is reverential, almost. Everyone believes in the strange spirit that’s bewitched all of you, the knowledge that what you’re doing here will make you gods of men. It’s entrancing and awe-inspiring and the first thing you ask the next morning is when all of you will be meeting up to do it again.

Charlie breaks into raucous laughter. “See, that’s the spirit we want! Even B/N here wants more. We’re high off poetry, imagine that.”

You scowl at him, even as the others laugh along. “What do you mean, even B/N? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Nothing, honestly. Just that you didn’t seem all that inclined to hang out with us at the start of the semester, that’s all. We got worried you didn’t like us so much, but obviously that’s not so anymore.”

You arch a brow incredulously. “Of course I like you guys! Would I put up with Neil’s monologues if I didn’t? Or Cameron’s bullshit? Or all of you howling in a cave past midnight so we can pay homage to dead poets worldwide?”

Steven snorts, more at the disbelieving look on Cameron’s face than anything else. “Now that’s a vote of sympathy if you’ll ever get one. I, for one, never doubted you.”

Charlie scoffs loudly. “Of course you didn’t, Steven. Anyone who listens to you ramble on about the benefits of the modern radio as much as B/N would have to be your best friend. Honestly, I’m surprised that didn’t scare him off more than anything else.”

Steven’s face falls, and to cover up for it, you say quickly, “I don’t mind the radio talk. Honest. It’s interesting.”

“Sure it is,” Charlie says a little too loudly, “So’s the company. Anyway, B/N’s right. How about tomorrow night for another meeting? Bring your best limericks, I want to be entertained.”

Neil breaks into choking laughter. “Absolutely, your highness. All your jesters will do their best to make you crack a smile.”

“It’s an honor and a privilege, you know that,” Charlie defends himself.

As you watch the friend group devolve into cackling laughter, you can’t help but meet Steven’s eyes across the table. Instead of getting caught up in the mock argument between Charlie and Neil, he hasn’t lost focus on you for one instant. When he catches you looking, he smiles quietly and mouths, thank you. You smile back.

The meetings of the illustrious Dead Poets Society carry on for weeks. As they go, you realize that you’ve never had friends like these, and it feels as if you never will. They’re the best, brightest bunch of boys in the world. You trust them more than you do anyone else. Those sacred spaces in the caves off campus, baptized by moonlight and wild imagination, make you feel more like you than anything else.

Except, of course, for one secret that still hangs in your way.

You haven’t told anyone that you’re a girl. Your silence carries with it the weight of your studies at Welton. If you want to stay, no one can know. It’s as easy as that. Still, in the quiet, happy moments when the wild laughter fades and you’re left looking around at the faces of the boys who have become your brothers, you can’t help but wonder if maybe you could tell them after all. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they knew. Maybe they would even help you maintain your cover.

It would be nice to have a little bit of this burden off of your shoulders, after all. It feels as if every waking moment not spent studying is chained to making this lie work. Every time someone talks to you, you’re certain they’ve figured you out. This sort of paranoia is driving you mad, and being able to finally share the secret feels like a relief akin to offering a drink of water to a man dying of thirst.

The opportunity to share comes up sooner than you expected. At one of the Dead Poets Society’s meetings, Neil turns to you with a slight frown when they’re asking around for someone else to share a piece.

“B/N, do you want to go next? You’ve been quiet all meeting, I don’t want to speak over you accidentally.”

You shake your head a little too quickly. “No, no, I’m good. Just thinking.”

This, more than anything, attracts attention. Charlie grins, leaning over to you dramatically. “Thinking about what? World domination?”

You snort. “I’ll leave those plans to you, thanks.”

“Come on, B/N, talk to us,” Neil urges. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Your breath hitches in your throat. This is it, your chance. They’re all here, all willing to hear you out. If not now, then when?

“Alright,” you begin, “There is something I do need to say. I’ve, uh, been keeping a secret from you. A pretty big one.”

Charlie arches a brow. “A big secret? Let me guess, you’re secretly a teacher in disguise sent to keep an eye on us.”

This would usually elicit a laugh from you, but tonight you’re so worried about getting this right that you can’t even muster up a weak chuckle. “Not quite, Charlie. I’m–” The words dry up in your throat. How do you say this, after all this time?

The other boys stare at you expectantly. You’ve started now, you can’t back out anymore. “I’m a girl,” you say in a rush. “My parents wanted me to get a good education so they sent me to Welton. The headmaster really didn’t want to let me in, but he only allowed me to enroll if no one knew I was a girl. He said he didn’t want to mess with his pristine record of only letting boys inside or something. It’ll still show up on my college record that I went here, and he wouldn’t have to handle the difficulty of more girl students. I’ve been pretending to be a boy this whole time, but I’m not. I’m a girl.”

The words hang in the air. For once, the cave is absolutely silent. You can hear quiet breathing all around you, nothing more. Your eyes are fixed on the stone in front of you, resolutely refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. You’re certain that if you were to look up, you’d only see disgust or disbelief on their faces. This was their sacred space, and you’ve broken it to bits with your secret. You never should have told them. You never should have thought you could pull this off in the first place.

Just when you’re debating the merits of running for the dorms to get out of here, Charlie starts clapping loudly. You jerk up, expecting him to be mocking you, but instead his expression is celebratory. “Let’s go!” He says. “I’ve been waiting for a girl to go here forever. Of course Headmaster Nolan would be an asshole about it. Wow. Can you get more of your friends to enroll, too?”

You stare at him incredulously. “You’re not mad?”

Neil breaks in. “Why on earth would we be mad? That’s totally cool. You’re like a spy or something. We should write a poem about it. Maybe even a play.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “It would be an honor to be your muse, Neil. But seriously, you’re all fine with it?”

“Of course we are,” Charlie assures you. “Jesus, have you really been worried about that? What were we going to do, kick you out? Your secret’s safe with us. We’re not rats.”

“We’re not?” Cameron chooses this moment to pipe up.

Immediately, he’s hit with death glares from every other boy in the cave. “No, we’re not,” Neil says firmly. “And if anyone even hints to an administrator or other student that B/N’s not a boy, they’ll get their ass kicked. Is that understood?”

Cameron nods, not meeting your eyes. Still, you have a feeling he’ll keep your secret.

Pitts raises a hand. “If you’re not a boy, is B/N your real name?”

“No,” you answer him. “I’m actually Y/N.”

“Sick name,” Charlie comments.

You swat him on the shoulder. “Shut up, Charlie.”

“Nuwanda,” he says in a dramatically injured tone.

Just like that, the tension is diffused. Once you’ve been assured a few more times that no one will say a word about your inherent lack of boyhood, the agenda turns back to poetry more. It’s like nothing even happened, except everything did. Your friends still support you. You feel more free than you could have even imagined, knowing that everything worked out.

On the way back to the dorms, you hang back a little, wanting to take in the events of the past hour by yourself. Steven notices and joins you.

“So,” he says quietly, “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” you affirm. “It’s not too weird, is it?”

“Trust me, it’s not,” Steven says. “This actually answers a lot of questions for me.”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

It’s hard to tell in the darkness of night, but you swear his cheeks have started to heat up. “Well, I realized– or, I thought, really, I was sort of still deciding that for myself, I mean– Well, Y/N, I think I love you.”

Silence in the forest. “You love me?” You ask cautiously.

Steven scratches his head. “Yeah, I do. Hadn’t really admitted it to myself yet because I thought you were a boy. There was a lot of reflection going on. This makes a lot more sense, though.”

You can’t help it, but break into laughter. “I’m fascinated by that. What have the past few weeks been like for you?”

“Very confusing,” he answers. “Still a lot of questions left unanswered.”

“Like what?” You ask.

“Like if you like me,” he says quietly.

You smile again. “Well, I thought that one was obvious. I love you too.”

Steven stops walking completely. “Really?”

“Really,” you laugh. “Now come on, we have to get back to our dorms before an administrator notices we’re gone.”

Steven sighs dramatically. “The administrators are the last thing I want to talk about right now.”

You think your smile might never fade. “Me too. We’ve got plenty of time for that, though.”

Plenty of time indeed. The rest of this term, then on and on until both you and Steven can sum up perfectly what it feels like to be absolutely happy. For now, though, you think you’ll let the sensation of him taking your hand for the first time to lead you back through the forest do the explaining for you.

requested by @faerieroyal, i hope you enjoy!

dead poets society tag list: empty for now!

This is not a good place nor a good time for such musings

Studying at Welton may have brought Charlie his friends, and most importantly, you, but that does not mean it will be happy to see two boys want to be more than brothers, more than friends

So Charlie pushes the thoughts away, just like he always does, forces laughter when it doesn’t want to come and pretends that nothing is the matter

Except, Charlie knows things he shouldn’t, like how you look at him after crashing the night in Charlie’s dorm, or how it feels to stare up at you like he’s worshipping a saint when you’re reading poetry with the society in the caves

Charlie Dalton is good at not taking anything seriously, but this– this he wants with a strength more exhausting than anything he’s ever experienced in his life

The teachers at school, hell, maybe even his own parents, they might all say this is wrong, what Charlie is and what he feels is wrong, but hasn’t he always been in a speeding car straight to hell anyway? 

What’s one more rule to break?

The society is running wild through the darkened forest one night, spread out in an endless expanse of pitch black midnight and waving boughs and no one else is around except for him and you, and Charlie knows

He thinks Achilles and Patroclus, he thinks Alexander the Great and Hephaestion, and when he kisses you, it feels like the greatest, most glorious victory of all

Ancient Greece doesn’t know shit

It occurs to Charlie, two heartbeats after you break away, beaming at him, one heartbeat after you kiss him back, that he has won

And maybe, just maybe, he can be serious about you