Work Text:
At first, Neil thinks that Mr. Keating's assignment will be easy.
He sees poetry everywhere: in the drift and tumble of autumn leaves, in the clink of spoons against bowls, in the acrid scent of Charlie's illegal cigarettes. Ever since reinstating the Dead Poets Society, the world has opened up to Neil as a place of tremulous, everyday beauty. Only the thing is, it's all too delicate for Neil to capture. The closest he comes to getting anything real down in words is when he scribbles something about the way it feels whenever he charms a smile out of Todd. The thing is a mess of awful, adolescent devotion. Neil tries to believe that anything written with great feeling is worth something, but he looks down at his sad little poem and knows that he will never be a real poet.
Writing lovesick poems about his roommate should probably worry him more than the fact that said poems are terrible, but Neil has given up trying to make sense out of his feelings. They are what they are, and they certainly make more sense to him than his father's opinions on all things theatrical. Chewing on the end of his pencil, Neil resolves to change the subject of his poem to Aphrodite so he can face reading the thing out loud in class. Even censored for public approval, it's not inspired material, but it won't get him laughed at and Keating is the only one with tastes discerning enough to notice its sub-par qualities, anyway. It still bothers Neil to turn in mediocre work, much less to a teacher he actually respects, but he has an entire week's worth of chemistry homework to finish so that he has enough time for play rehearsal. He consoles himself with the knowledge that he can at least bring another man's poetry to life, and opens his textbook.
Neil is almost finished balancing an enormously complicated equation when Todd enters the room, pausing only to toe off his shoes before flopping onto his bed. Though Todd's sigh isn't loud--nothing he does ever is--Neil sees the dramatic rise and fall of his chest.
"Long day?" Neil asks, finishing the equation.
"Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest." Todd sounds petulant.
"Not in Hellton."
Todd huffs a quiet laugh at that, and Neil's heart skips a beat and then starts up again in weird, lopsided fashion. The only thing worse than having a crush is the urge to act on it. Neil distracts himself with chemistry once more, before he does something stupid like recite his poem to Todd. Better yet, recite something actually good for Todd. Helena's speech to Lysander isn't very dignified, but it certainly hits on the main points: Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, / Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, / Unworthy as I am, to follow you...
Awful, adolescent devotion. Neil heaves a sigh of his own.
Still, at least he has something to read tomorrow.
*
Of course Todd Anderson would turn out to be a poetic genius.
Another boy gets up to read his poem after Mr. Keating pans poetry out of Todd like gold from a river, but Neil doesn't hear a thing. His mind is still reeling from a sensation that feels curiously like elation. Neil is fiercely glad that his classmates had the sense to applaud Todd's poem--glad, and jealous at the same time. He has seen this poetry in Todd all along, though he never expected a display of such unexpected--grace, that's the word for it, though there is nothing less graceful than Todd Anderson trying his hand at public speaking.
It takes an entire class period after Keating's before Neil realizes that there wasn't enough time for everyone to read their poem, that he still has to deliver his monstrosity. For the first time, Neil feels a pang of genuine worry. He wants to impress Todd, wants to talk to him about truth like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold, but he is afraid that he has nothing interesting or original to say.
Nothing to say, to the boy who thinks getting out three sentences constitutes a full conversation. Neil groans and almost flubs a translation in Latin.
Night has long since fallen by the time that Neil is able to return to his room, and he is still no closer to finding the right words for Todd. Between homework and extracurriculars, there is very little time for actual thought. Playing Puck does require actual thought, but also a total concentration that leaves little room for worrying about how to strike up a real conversation with the brilliant object of your affection. Playing Puck isn't a half-bad idea, though: Neil is fairly certain that Puck always has something witty to say.
"How's our Poet Laureate doing?" he greets Todd, who does look rather scholarly with pen and paper in hand.
Todd actually blushes. "Um. Good?"
At Todd's bedside in an abrupt crouch, Neil rests his elbows on the mattress, more familiar than he ought to be, a merry wanderer of the night. "You've been holding out on us all this time at meetings! Next time you'll have to debut some more masterpieces."
"That's, um--I really don't think--" He's reduced Todd to flustered half-sentences, and he really should stop teasing, but Neil is still in character, and Puck would take things further, push beyond the limits in hopes of making mischief and unleashing truth.
"Don't think what, that you're good enough? You're amazing. You make my poem look like child's play." There is too much sincerity in Neil now to keep ahold of Puck, but he presses on with his own sort of reckless courage. "You're amazing, um, and I've wanted to do this forever, so," Neil says in a rush, and then he kisses Todd. As first kisses go, it's really nothing spectacular, as Neil pulls away almost before his lips brush against Todd's. His pulse hammers expulsion as he stares at Todd staring at him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he chides himself through the blaze of terror in his mind.
Then Todd smiles, hesitant as the first light of dawn on a cloudy morning.
"I wrote my poem about you," Neil confesses, and kisses Todd again. This time it's a proper kiss, warm and soft with just a faint harsh promise of teeth. He draws back a second time, prompted by innate honesty to confess, "It's really terrible."
"Your poetry's in doing," Todd says, smiling softly, and Neil could almost hate him, for knowing him so well and saying it in so few words, but he thinks he loves him instead.
Neil doesn't have the words for this, either, so he keeps kissing Todd, knowing that he can decipher the poem there.