Chapter Text
Todd returned to Welton on Sunday; the bitter January airs a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of his childhood home. The semester break had been exactly what he expected, two weeks of polite, strained silence under the shadow of his brother's framed photo with the whole experience of a masterclass feeling like an interruption.
He set his meager suitcase down and the room itself was a rigid box of twin desks and iron-frame beds, smelling faintly of old disinfectant and institutional polish. But it felt alien right now, sterile and half-finished, because Neil wasn't here yet. Todd looked across the room at Neil’s half. The bed was made military-tight, the desk bare, reflecting the meticulous organization Neil employed to keep the rigid demands of Welton—and his father. Neil's usual side, which typically looked like a controlled explosion of scripts, book lists, and bold, impossible plans, was jarringly empty
Todd was used to the noise, the sheer volume of Neil’s presence, the absence of it made the air heavy. He was accustomed to Neil’s orbit already spilling over onto his own side, a comfortable, welcome encroachment.
He smoothed the fabric on his mattress, thinking of how six months ago he’d dreaded this room, expecting a cold, silent roommate. Instead, he’d found Neil. The poets had collectively adopted him. Todd knelt by his scuffed leather suitcase, unzipping the latch. He pulled out a stack of neatly folded shirts, then paused, his fingers brushing against something wrapped in soft brown paper at the bottom.
It was a copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, a new printing, the cover worn smooth from nervous handling. He’d intended it for Neil. He’d planned to leave it on Neil's desk with a simple card, something noncommittal. But the words had died in his throat every time he tried to think of what to write, and the shame of the gift had made him pack it again.
A blush crept up the back of Todd’s neck. He quickly nudged the book back under a sweater, zipping the suitcase shut with unnecessary force.
He wasn’t a gift giver. He didn't know how to express value, how to risk offering a piece of himself. He lifted the book, taking a shallow breath, and glanced at the empty expanse of Neil's desk.
Flat, waiting, expectant. Now or never. He imagined Neil finding it, holding it, perhaps asking where it came from. The thought made his stomach knot.
It’s too much.
A frantic, uneven rhythm of steps echoed down the hall—Neil. Todd’s entire body unlocked, the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding instantly dissolving. He shoved the last piece of clothing over the hidden book and slammed the suitcase shut just as the door burst open, predictably unannounced. Neil was standing there, the personification of disruption. He wore a ridiculously large, green wool sweater emblazoned with a leaping stag worn with ironic pride and clutched two steaming mugs. His energy flooded the small space, pushing back the shadows.
“Anderson! There you are brooding. I swear, you’re trying to sink into the floorboards again,” Neil announced, his voice bright but edged with a genuine. He crossed the room in three quick strides, placing a chipped mug that smelled strongly of spice and molasses firmly on Todd’s desk.
“Hot cider. Knox’s mother sent a batch. Perfect cure for existential January dread,” he declared, before flopping onto his own, now violently crumpled, bed. He immediately began peeling a small orange, the sharp citrus smell cutting through the stale air.
“Thanks, Neil,” he mumbled, trying to meet Neil’s eyes but looking instead at the leaping stag on the sweater. He looked from his own closed suitcase to Neil’s side of the room, still unnervingly tidy. Neil followed Todd’s gaze, understanding instantly. He waved a dismissive hand, the gesture grand even when sitting down.
“Oh, right. Don’t mind my impeccable sense of order. I dropped my luggage at the main door. My trunks are still making their way up, courtesy of a particularly slow freshman who owes Charlie a favor or thinks he does, anyway.” He paused, his bright expression dimming just a fraction as he looked at Todd.
Neil didn't need words to read him. Todd’s posture was too straight and his grip on the mug spoke volumes. Neil always knew. It was the same look he had in September. That look of a rabbit caught in the moonlight, desperate to bolt but too fascinated by the light to move. Except now, fascination was replacing fear, slowly, awkwardly. Neil took a long, necessary sip of his cider. He wouldn't let him retreat. “Say, I meant to ask,” Neil began again, his voice dropping slightly, “Did you manage to get home for Christmas, after all?”
Todd investigated the swirling brown liquid. “Yeah,” he said simply. He did not elaborate on the sterile perfection of the house or the strained compliments on his report card. “It was… quiet.” Neil’s gaze deepened. His posture shifting, immediately understanding. “Oh. Right. Well. The old man kept me pinned until this morning. Made me review the entire first semester’s organic chemistry. Thrilling.”
He then brightened, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, shifting the focus away from his own anxiety. "Well, forget chemistry. Did you make out like a bandit, at least? What glorious new contraption did your parents bestow upon the esteemed Mr. Anderson for his academic excellence?"
Todd hunched his shoulders slightly, clutching the warm mug tighter. The honest answer felt small and ridiculous next to Neil’s unrestrained energy. "Oh. Just... you know. A new dictionary. And a desk set. Pen, pencil, letter opener. All brass." He paused, feeling the need to validate the boring nature of the gift. "It's... functional."
Neil pulled a dramatic face of pity. "A desk set. How very Welton of them. They couldn't spring for a decent set of bongos or a lifetime subscription to the New Yorker?" He shook his head, then gave a reassuring, lopsided smile. "You deserve a better gift, Anderson." The casual sincerity of the compliment made Todd's face heat up again.
The casual sincerity of the compliment made Todd's face heat up again. Suddenly, Neil unfolded himself from the bed and started toward the door, not with his usual theatrical burst, but a fast, focused stride.
Todd blinked, utterly confused. “Neil? Where are you-”
“Hold that thought, Anderson! Urgent poetry errand, I’ll be right back,” Neil called over his shoulder, already out the door. Todd stared at the empty doorway. An urgent poetry errand? Neil didn't even have his main luggage yet.
Todd felt the familiar anxiety rise, was he supposed to follow? Did Neil need him? He hated being left alone when he didn't understand the assignment. Just as the confusion peaked, the door swung open again and Neil stepped back in, his expression conspiratorial and his hands held behind his back.
He brought his hands out, revealing a perfectly ordinary, deep blue fountain pen, tipped with silver. It wasn’t extravagant, but it looked heavy.
He held it out. “Happy Late Christmas, Anderson.”
Todd stared at the pen, then at Neil’s open, genuine face. His heart gave a startled, almost painful thump against his ribs. It wasn’t just a pen; the cap had been engraved: T.A. “I know, I know,” Neil rushed on, anticipating the awkward silence. “I made an emergency trip down to the station shop. I had them rush the carving. It’s supposed to be better than a desk set.” He grinned, a quick, dazzling flash of warmth.
“Well, technically you do have a pen now, but you should probably just throw the brass one into the lake, because this one’s much cooler. You should write better poetry with it.”
Todd's hand trembled as he reached for it. He took the pen, the metal cool and solid against his palm.
T.A. His initials. Not Jeffrey Anderson’s little brother. Just him. Todd Anderson.
It was the first gift in his life that felt like it was truly for him and not for the expectations placed upon him. A wave of dizzying warmth washed over him. He thought of me. He thought of me while he was stuck at home. He rushed to give this to me.
He managed to look up, holding the pen like it was delicate glass. “Neil… thank you. I—”
Neil waved his hand, already turning away to pick up his orange. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, a poet needs his tools.” Just then, a loud, heavy thump-scrape echoed from the doorway as two large, matching leather trunks were shoved unceremoniously across the threshold. The slow freshman who owed Charlie a favor gave a pained nod and scurried away.
“Great! My stuff’s here.” Neil said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction and hopped off his bed to immediately unpack. Todd watched him, still clutching the new, engraved pen. He noticed the speed with which Neil worked, shoving ties, books, and shirts into the drawers. It was all the same clothing, the same meticulous stacks of textbooks, and the same worn copy of Shakespeare. Neil always came back from break with a fresh burst of energy, but usually, there was a new gadget, a book on acting, or some small, exciting proof of his ambition.
Todd saw none of it.
Without thinking, the question slipped past the gate of his usual reserve. “Did-did you get anything new for Christmas?” Neil paused, lifting the enormous, leaping stag sweater off his bed and folding it neatly, which was highly uncharacteristic. He turned, holding the sweater like evidence.
“This,” he said, nodding toward the absurd garment. “This, from my mother. And… that’s it, really. She thinks it brings out my enthusiasm.” He grinned, but the smile was a practiced mask, not reaching his eyes.
Todd stared at the sweater. He knew Neil’s father had strict ideas about gifts being "frivolous" or "distracting." That’s it? Todd felt the sting of Mr. Perry’s cold indifference toward the boy who had just survived another grueling semester at Welton. Neil had come home with nothing new, no token of support, not even the promise of a future that included his own dreams.
Todd felt a sudden surge of anger and focused on the empty-handed father. The man could not give him a single thing: no book, no trip, no album—only a demanding look across a sterile dinner table. Neil had risked a trip to the station shop and an extra expense to buy Todd a tool for poetry, while his own father offered nothing but a lecture on organic chemistry.
His grip tightened on the engraved pen. He couldn’t give Neil the Whitman, but he could hold onto the silent knowledge that at least he got him something. “Well,” Todd finally managed, pushing the outrage down and finding a neutral voice. “It’s a good sweater.” Neil’s grin immediately became more genuine. “It is, isn’t it? It’s completely ridiculous, which is precisely why I love it.” He tossed it onto the pillow.
Neil picked up the two empty mugs. “I should probably return these cups to Knox. Are you finished with yours?” Todd quickly drained the last sweet sip and nodded, handing his chipped mug back.
“The air down here is too thin for poetry, anyway,” Neil said, his voice dropping slightly as he balanced the mugs. “The others are probably filtering into the attic now.”
He was leaving. They were moving on.
Clarity seized him. If he waited until the Society meeting, or until tomorrow, the fear would win again. Whitman would stay buried at the bottom of the scuffed suitcase forever, an unmade offering, an unexpressed word. He looked at the closed suitcase, then at the bright, moving back of the boy who had seen him.
“Neil, wait!”
The word was louder than he intended that made Neil freeze with his hand on the doorknob and the mugs rattling softly. Todd felt his face instantly drained of color. He was breathing too fast, the air seizing in his lungs. He didn't look at Neil, he just dropped the pen onto the desk and lunged for his suitcase, fumbling desperately with the latch.
“Anderson? What is it? Did you forget something?” Todd ignored him, tearing open the case, his fingers scrabbling under the stack of clothes until they caught the familiar, soft brown paper.
He yanked it out, nearly upending the suitcase in the process. He straightened up, holding the wrapped book like it was evidence of a terrible crime. He couldn’t form a sentence. He simply held it out, his arm stiff with awkwardness, his eyes somewhere else. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him to retract the offering. Neil turned fully, setting the mugs on the nearest desk with uncharacteristic quiet. He stepped closer, carefully taking the book.
“Todd…” he breathed, holding the soft, paper-wrapped block. His gaze flicked to the item, then back to Todd, whose throat was constricted, leaving him mute.
Slowly and carefully, Neil peeled back the paper. When he saw the title, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass—he looked up, and his eyes, usually so full of movement and planning, were utterly still. “Whitman,” Neil murmured, running a thumb over the new cover. “You… you got me Whitman.” Then, without a single preamble, Neil Perry hugged him.
It wasn't a casual, half-hearted pat on the back, or the boisterous shove that Neil sometimes gave. This was a full, firm embrace. Neil’s arms wrapped tightly around Todd’s shoulders, pulling him close, pressing the Whitman between their chests.
Todd was the slightly shorter one well not by much, but enough that his chin naturally rested against the solid curve of Neil’s collarbone, and Neil’s head rested easily atop his own. He was completely enveloped beneath the generous pressure. He could feel the warmth of Neil’s body through the thick wool of the ridiculous stag sweater. He could smell a clean scent of soap, the faint citrus of the orange, and something else, uniquely Neil.
His ear was pressed against Neil’s shoulder, and he could hear the steady thrum of Neil’s heart, surprisingly calm.
For an exhilarating second, Todd didn’t know how to respond. His own arms felt like dead weights, hovering uselessly at his sides. His cheeks were blazing a blush than any embarrassment had ever caused. Slowly, and carefully, Todd raised his own arms until his hands rested on Neil’s back. He squeezed, just slightly, letting the gesture speak the words his throat still refused to form.
Neil held him for another long moment, a shared breath, before finally pulling back. “Seriously. Thank you. This means a lot,” Neil repeated, his voice low, almost a whisper. Just as Todd was finally opening his mouth to try and form a full sentence of reply, the door didn't just open, it was kicked wide by a flamboyant heel.
“Perry! Anderson! You two are dragging your academic, dead feet!” Charlie swaggered into the room, his tweed jacket unbuttoned and his hair already looking creatively disheveled. He was holding a large, rolled-up sheet of paper that looked suspiciously like a banned poster. “Knox is already agonizing over his love life, Pitts and Meeks are arguing about the correct metric translation of some Latin phrase, and I, I am facing a poetic crisis!” Charlie pointed dramatically at Neil. “I need a fresh pair of brains for a rhyming couplet that is going to revolutionize the school paper! You look like you’ve been doing something secret. Spill.”
Neil chuckled, tucking the Whitman carefully beneath his arm.
“We were just discussing the merits of quiet study, Charlie. Something you should try,” Neil replied, scooping up the mugs. “And your poetic crisis can wait. We’ll solve the great ‘agate’ mystery later. We have a meeting to start.”
“Fine, fine. But bring the cider cups, you lazy lackeys,” Charlie muttered, already turning back toward the hall. “I’m seizing the day, I just need a proper audience for the seizing!” Neil grinned at Todd, the warmth from the hug still lingering, but his focus was now entirely external, pulled by the demands of his self-appointed Society leadership. “Come on, Anderson. Let’s go.”
The next morning, the air in the third-floor classroom was thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. The holiday break felt entirely undone by the return to the grind of rote lessons and stiff chairs. Keating stood on his desk, of course. He had started the class perching there, watching the boys ease reluctantly back into their usual postures of quiet dread.
He didn't speak a quote from Shakespeare or Thoreau.
“‘Look stranger, on this island now, the leaping light for you must burn.’”
He paused, letting the unexpected words settle. Cameron frowned, searching his mind for the meter. Neil leaned forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. Todd froze, he knew that line. It wasn't one of the standard anthologized greats. the quiet Englishman whose reputation even tucked away on a Welton library shelf that carried the weight of a brilliant openly gay poet.
It was from W. H. Auden, the quiet Englishman whose poetry often turned on the desperate need for authenticity, even in isolation. Todd had only found it because the library catalog misfiled Auden's collections.
A sudden, fierce blush spread across the back of Todd's neck, hot and undeniable. Why did he know that poem? Was it so obvious? Did the fluency with Auden's quiet, coded longing mean that he was the only one in the room... the only one who truly understood what a life lived in secret felt like?
Keating met Todd’s eyes from across the room, offering a quick, subtle nod that contained an entire, unspoken conversation.
You know this one, Anderson.
You see what I mean.
Todd quickly averted his gaze, his heart hammering against his ribs, and instinctively looked at Neil who was chewing on the end of his pencil.
His brow furrowed in concentration, clearly trying to place the author. Did Neil know? Neil, with his passionate intensity and his refusal to be contained, did his radical freedom extend to that kind of hidden life? Was that part of the tacit bond, too? Todd watched Neil shake his head slightly, frustrated at not recognizing the line. Probably not, Todd concluded, the brief, dizzying hope immediately stifled.
“Gentlemen, you have enjoyed your brief foray into the world outside these walls,” Keating said, hopping down from the desk, his shoes hitting the floor with a decisive thump. “But now, the clock starts again. You are not statues. You have energy. You have the capacity for flight. But what are you doing with it?”
He walked to the blackboard and, instead of writing an assignment, he drew a single, heavy line across the width of the slate.
“For this semester, we shall not just be reading. We shall be creating. We shall be confronting the terrible truth of the blank page,” Keating announced, his voice dropping to an almost reverent tone. “Your first assignment is simple, terrifying, and due at the end of this week.”
He turned back to the class, his eyes sparkling with a familiar challenge. “You will write a letter. A full, honest, unflinching, deeply personal letter to the one person who you believe holds the greatest influence over your life. The person whose expectations you carry like a second spine.”
A hand shot up instantly, not with a question about meter or deadline, but with a brazen, mischievous curl of the lip. “Excuse me, sir,” Charlie drawled, leaning back in his chair. “But if we’re writing to the person whose expectations we carry… do we have to address the envelope to ‘Mr. Keating’ or do we just leave it blank and hope the post office figures it out?”
A scattered wave of nervous laughter rippled through the classroom. Keating only smiled, a slow, knowing pull of his lips.
“A thoughtful question, Mr. Dalton,” Keating replied, his tone dry. “But I assure you, your fathers possess spines significantly more rigid than mine. And unlike me, they have the power to influence your entire financial future. For now, choose the expectation that causes the deepest dread. That is the necessary point of confrontation.” Charlie subsided with a sigh, tapping his pen on the desk, his mind already churning with rebellious ideas.
The bell rang and the room erupted in the controlled bustle of Welton boys. Neil didn’t even wait for Keating to dismiss them. He grabbed his books and immediately darted around the corner of the desk to where Todd was already trying to gather his things and become invisible.
“Anderson! What was that line?” Neil demanded, leaning in close, his intensity bypassing Todd’s need for space entirely. “The one Keating opened with. I swear I've read him, but I couldn’t place the damn thing. Auden, right? He was looking straight at you when he said it.” The directness of the question made Todd’s nerves instantly fray.
“I—I don’t know,” Todd stammered, pulling his notebook close to his chest. “I think... I might have seen it. In an old magazine, maybe. It’s not one of his famous ones.” He felt his cheeks grow hot, the defensive lie already sounding weak and flimsy.
Neil just chuckled, a deep, easy sound that cut through Todd’s panic. He clapped him firmly on the back. “A magazine, sure. You’re terrible at lying, Anderson. But it’s fine. You’re good at poetry, so you must know a good line when you hear one. That’s why I asked.” Todd just stared at him, the compliment delivered with such casualness that it disarmed his defensiveness completely.
“Aha! Todd is blushing!” Charlie suddenly appeared at Todd’s elbow, “Look at him, Perry! That’s the blush of a man who’s been caught with illicit knowledge! Did you and Keating have a secret little poetry date over the Christmas break, Anderson? Was the Auden quote your secret handshake?” “Shut up, Charlie,” Neil said automatically, but his smile was amusing. He grabbed Todd's arm and pulled him toward the door.
The dining room was a loud, steaming, miserable spectacle, but the poets always claimed the same battered corner table. Knox was already there, looking unusually focused and not entirely miserable, usually a good sign. Meeks and Pitts were leaning over a textbook. Neil slammed his tray down. “Gather ‘round, gentlemen! We have a crisis of conscience, courtesy of Mr. Keating.”
Knox, however, barely glanced up from his lukewarm beef stew. “I tried to call Chris this morning,” Knox announced. “Her father answered the phone.”
“I think he recognized me. I could hear the sheer, cold contempt in his voice, even through the receiver.”
“It’s January, Knox, just try again next month,” Meeks advised dryly, not looking up from his calculations.
“No, Meeks! That’s not the point! I need to do something audacious,” Knox insisted, stabbing a piece of potato. “This letter assignment… I should write the letter to her father. An honest, unflinching declaration of my pure, true intentions for his daughter.” Charlie let out a bark of laughter. “You write that, Knox, and the next expectation you carry will be a shotgun pellet in your spine! The letter is for confrontation, not martyrdom.”
As the poets devolved into a chaotic argument over the merits of wooing Chris versus confronting her father, watched them.
Todd carefully arranged the contents of his own tray, making his space neat and controlled. Knox was complaining about a girl, his face twisted in open anguish. The problem was external, visible, and could be poured out onto the table for advice, mockery, and shared sympathy. Even Charlie’s reckless pursuit of notoriety was something the group could rally around.
It must be easy, Todd thought, the cold, bitter kernel of envy forming in his chest. To live a life where the most terrifying truth you have is that you like a girl who is unobtainable.
They were all terrified of disappointing their fathers, of getting expelled, of failing in geometry. But they weren't terrified of who they fundamentally were. Knox could stand up, declare his love for a girl, and be met with a threat of violence or a laugh but never complete, total erasure.
Todd couldn't risk the Auden quote, much less the letter. He already carried the weight of Jeffrey Anderson’s legacy, the suffocating expectation to measure up to his genius brother. That alone was enough to make him silent but beneath that lay a far greater.
He was gay.
His existence wasn't a choice of career or a risk of poetry. it was a total contradiction to the world he was expected to inhabit. If he wrote the 'honest, unflinching letter,' it wouldn't be about college or his brother's ghost. It would be about being gay, about being alone. That truth wouldn't earn him a stern letter or a consequence but it would earn him exile.
He was silent not out of shyness, but out of necessity. It was a hardship that couldn't be shared over beef stew and loud jokes. Neil, catching Todd’s distant look, nudged him gently with his elbow. “Don’t let them drag you into the mire, Anderson. What do you think of the letter? What’s your angle?” Todd looked at Neil, whose eyes were full of encouraging mischief. The question was an invitation, but Todd only offered a safe answer.
“I… I think,” Todd began, his voice barely audible over the din of the dining hall, “We should probably address it to our parents, Neil. Like Keating said.” Neil smiled knowingly. “Right. The practical approach. Always the safe path, Anderson. But we’re poets, aren’t we? We’re supposed to step off the path.”
“Safe?” Charlie Dalton interjected, leaning forward and lowering his voice conspiratorially, though it was still loud enough to carry over the din. He skewered a piece of meat and pointed it at Neil. “Neil, you writing an honest letter to your old man is about as safe as juggling dynamite while riding a unicycle off the Welton clock tower. You know what he wants you to write—Organic Chemistry, Sir, Signed, Your Obedient Son. Anything else, and it’s open war.” Charlie had a point. The others—Meeks, Pitts, and even Knox, whose father was a stern surgeon could write a passionate plea for their dreams, and the worst consequence would be a summer job. For Neil, it could be the complete, irreversible end of his freedom.
Todd felt a cold spike of fear on Neil's behalf. He looked at Neil, expecting him to snap back at Charlie or offer a clever deflection. Instead, Neil simply took a large bite of his sandwich, his gaze holding Charlie's steady. “It’s not safe,” Neil admitted quietly. “It’s necessary.” He looked directly at Todd, his eyes shining with clarity. “The letter is a declaration of independence, Todd. We can’t Carpe Diem if we’re still lying to the very people who built our cage.” He glanced around the table, taking in the worried faces of his friends. “We’re not going to fail this assignment by writing timid letters that say nothing. We’re going to write the truth. And we’re going to deliver them.”
Todd leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Neil, if you’re going to write the truth… does that mean you’re going to tell him about the play? The one you were eyeing to audition for this spring?” Neil’s resolute expression wavered, but only for a fraction of a second. His fingers tightened around his fork.
“Yes,” he said the single word firm. “If I don’t put it in the letter, I’ll never do it. The letter is the commitment, Todd.” Neil slammed his hand down on the table that startled the poets into silence. “We’ll meet tonight, eight o’clock, in the cave. Everyone comes with a draft. We’ll read them aloud. We’ll make sure they’re honest, unflinching, and worth the risk. Understood?” The collective energy shifted from anxiety to rebellion.
Todd, however, said nothing. He stared at the half-eaten beef stew on his plate. Neil had just raised the stakes impossibly high, turning a difficult assignment into a group commitment. Now, Todd was bound to write a truth he could not even articulate in his own head, much less commit to paper for his parents.
The letter to the Anderson family home, he thought miserably. The lie is already written.
By 5:47 PM, the late afternoon light was thin and gray, casting long, stark shadows in Dorm 304. Neil was in the shower, using the shared bathroom before the supper rush. Todd sat at his desk, his history textbook lay open to a random page, an unconvincing prop for anyone who might walk in.
The last hour of the dining hall debate replayed relentlessly in his mind. Todd knew Neil was writing to his father about the play.
Neil had looked at him, inviting him to match the courage. But what was his equivalent? He picked up the pen, his hands steady, though his heart felt like a trapped bird beating against his ribs.
The person whose expectations you carry like a second spine.
He closed his eyes. The letter had two obvious, devastating recipients.
Firstly, his parents. He could confront the decades of expectation they had draped over him. The silent comparison to Jeffrey Anderson, the assumption that Todd was merely the stable understudy for his brilliant older brother, meant only for a career in law and a life without risk. That letter alone would require a bravery he wasn't sure he possessed, ripping open the polite facade of the Anderson family home.
Or, he could write the letter that would destroy everything. The truth that defined the reason he felt such a panicked, proprietary warmth when he thought of Neil. But that was impossible. That letter couldn't be written, much less delivered. He opened his eyes and forced himself to begin. He decided on the "safe" lie, the confrontation about his brother's ghost.
He carefully dated the top right corner: January 7, 1959.
He dipped the pen and began to write, his hand already tight and formal, like his father's script.
Dear Father and Mother,
He paused. The words felt immediately hollow, inadequate. He tried again.
I am writing to you because Mr. Keating has assigned a letter of honest confrontation. I feel compelled to inform you that I do not intend to pursue a degree in law, nor do I intend to spend my life in my brother's shadow.
He stared at the ink. It was the truth, but it was only a fraction of the truth, and already it felt too exposed. It felt like an insult to Jeffrey, a direct act of defiance against the only future he’d ever been offered and it still said nothing about the truth of himself. He slammed the heel of his hand down on the page, smudging the ink. The paper was ruined. He crumpled the sheet and threw it toward the wastebasket, missing by a foot.
I can't do this, he thought, I can't even write the safe lie, much less the truth.
The dorm room door opened with a decisive click.
Neil stepped in, a cloud of steam following him from the hallway. He was wrapped in a towel low around his waist, his chest and arms bare, his hair dark and slick with water, which he was vigorously drying with a second towel. Todd’s breath hitched. He wasn't unfamiliar with Neil in various states of undress this was a boarding school, after all, but the two weeks of Christmas break seemed to have accentuated Neil's height and broadened his shoulders. The lines of his torso were more defined, and the ease with which he moved, casually exposed, was dizzying.
Todd’s cheeks instantly blazed with heat. Idiot, he silently cursed himself, gripping the edge of his desk. Stop staring. It’s Neil. You see him every day.
Neil, focused entirely on his hair, didn't notice Todd's silent, panicked observation. He tossed the wet hair towel onto his bed. “Well, you look appropriately miserable,” Neil said, his voice casual. He walked over to his dresser, rummaging for a shirt.
“Have you figured out the unlucky recipient of your unflinching honesty yet, Anderson? You going with the parents, or are you pulling a Knox and writing to a girl’s disapproving uncle?” Neil turned back, pulling a clean white t-shirt over his head in one swift motion, Todd stammered still reeling from the visual whiplash.
“I—I don’t know. I was just... thinking.” He gestured vaguely at his desk, carefully avoiding looking at the crumpled paper on the floor. Neil grabbed a pair of trousers and sat on his bed to pull them on, his eyes sharp now. “Well, you have about two hours before we’re due in the cave. We need an angle, Todd. And you need to commit. You can’t seize the day if you’re still trying to hide what you want to say.” Todd swallowed hard as he felt utterly lacked.
“I know,” Todd whispered, looking down at his desk. “I just... it's hard.”
Neil paused, the belt to his trousers half-fastened. The playful challenge in his eyes softened, replaced by a genuine, focused concern.
“I know it is,” Neil said simply. He stood up and took a step toward Todd’s desk. “Tell me about it.” Neil stood close, leaning over the desk to better see the blank page and the crumpled, rejected drafts scattered nearby. Todd was sitting, shrinking beneath the sudden, intense proximity. The heat from Neil’s freshly showered skin, the scent of his hair and soap, it all made Todd’s heart thump so loud he was sure Neil could hear it.
Neil placed one hand firmly on the back of Todd’s wooden chair and rested the other on the desk near the ruined paper. He glanced at the crumpled failure on the floor, then at the half-written draft on the desk. He read the exposed words silently: ...I do not intend to pursue a degree in law, nor do I intend to spend my life in my brother's shadow.
“See, this is a start, Todd,” Neil murmured, his voice low and serious. “But you stopped. And this” he tapped the word on the clean paper “this sounds like a formal rebuttal, not an unflinching letter.” He paused, his gaze catching the crumpled paper nearest the wastebasket. “What’s on this one? Did you try the truth?”
As Neil spoke, a bead of water, still clinging to the dark, damp curve of his hair, finally dripped. It landed squarely on the center of the clean sheet, blooming outward and instantly dissolving the faint, private notes Todd had jotted down in the margin notes about the Auden quote, notes about being seen.
The water stain was a strange, sudden signal bleeding onto the safe lie. Todd swallowed hard, the warmth of Neil's presence overwhelming his ability to breathe. He couldn't lie, not when Neil was this close, this focused. But he couldn't tell the whole truth either. He had to give him the acceptable sacrifice.
“It’s about Jeffrey,” Todd finally managed, his voice a painful rasp. “The expectations... they’re not just my parents’. They think I’m supposed to be him. I’m supposed to be brilliant, Neil. And I’m not. I can’t write a letter that says I’m not the son they want, because then... what am I?”
He looked up at Neil, his eyes pleading for understanding. It was the hardest truth he could admit, the only honest fear he could name without inviting total devastation. Neil’s focused intensity didn't break. He moved his hand from the back of the chair and rested it gently on Todd’s shoulder, a direct, comforting weight.
“You’re Todd Anderson,” Neil said, his voice quiet but absolute. “You’re the one who wrote your barbaric yawp on the front page of the world. And you’re the one who got me Whitman for Christmas.”