Work Text:
“Todd,” Charlie says, nudging the sleeping boy’s shoulder in an attempt to rouse him from his slumber. He can taste the salty tracks of his tears and his voice cracks on the name of his friend, the grief and quiet settling in on his soul becoming too much to bear. And Todd. God he hadn’t a clue, lost to the world in a perfect sleep. In a land of dreams…
“Neil… go back to sleep. ‘s late…” Todd murmurs, not even half-awake and still unaware of everything. Charlie’s heart breaks a little more when he hears Todd mumble, “Sleep, m’kay? Love you.”
Someone sobs and Charlie looks over to their friends, watching Knox put a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and wild and so very sad. His tears brimming in the corners, glassy and unseeing. Meeks sniffles and leans into Pitts, just barely, a silent comfort and unspoken agreement that they are lucky.
“Todd,” Charlie says again, tugging at his shoulder, bottom lip quivering. "Todd."
And just like that, the boy wakes up, blue, sleepy eyes wide and curious, focusing on him. Charlie can’t bring himself to look at Todd. Words roaring in his head but also quiet now. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to tell Todd that he’s sorry. That he wishes it didn’t happen because it should have never fucking happened. He doesn’t know how to even… begin to process what’s happened because his best friend since they were kids in kindergarten is dead.
But that’s not even the worst part: Neil fucking shot himself. He killed himself and Charlie wants to scream at him. Scream and throw fists and papers and tell Neil that he was loved and supported and that the miserable bastard that was his father was wrong. That his performance was amazing and that all the Poets were so damn proud. That Keating was proud. That they were all proud and not only that, they were proud of him.
That Todd was proud and so damn in love with him.
That Neil needed to come back.
“What is it?” Todd whispers, blue eyes searching Charlie’s face for answers. And when he finds nothing there, a dark and cold feeling settles itself into his chest, awful scenarios running through his head. Todd looks to the doorway, seeing the sullen faces of his other friends and oh God something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
“Neil’s dead.”
There. He said it. And it aches, his heart clenching in his chest. Nobody moves when Todd throws himself out of his bed, wrapping himself in a blue bathrobe that Charlie recognizes as Neil’s, not Todd’s, and walking out the door of his room without a word. He slips down the hallway and down stairs without making so much as a sound, the floorboards not daring to creak beneath his feet.
The rest of the Poets look at each other, and in a wordless agreement, they follow him, saying nothing, biting their lips and allowing themselves to be led outside of their dormitories and to the crisp morning, into the fresh snow banks.
As they get farther and farther away from the school building and closer to the lake, Todd stops walking and looks around, eyes full of a mysterious and strange sort of awestruck wonder, the tiniest of smiles on his face and maybe, Charlie thinks, everything will be okay.
“So beautiful,” Todd murmurs to no one in particular, looking at something far off in the distance, watching the snow fall down to the earth and powder the world with white and the wind rustle the trees. Then everything is not okay.
Todd dry heaves, doubling over then falling to his knees, wrapping his arms around his stomach. And everyone runs to him, crowding around their friend and whispering his name as if he were some wounded animal. Really, they all are. Wounded animals, at a loss for what to do without their shepherd to guide them along. They hug him, trying to assure him although unsure themselves.
Through Todd’s broken, muffled sobs Charlie hears, “It was his father. His father did this to him.” He shuts his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat and the itchy, stinging of his nose. Everything hurts. The cold, icy and prickling at his hands, feet, and knees where the snow has melted.
“No!” Pitts says, eyes wide but they all know it’s true. Mr. Perry murdered his own son and he didn’t even need a bullet or a gun to do so… Todd sobs, shaking his head and only repeating his words, crumpling further and further into himself before bursting away from his friends’ embrace and running to the lake, tripping over his feet and the snow and falling with the snow dusting his clothes as he runs to the dock.
Charlie’s lip quivers as Knox and Meeks start to go to him, watching as they stumble forward before he shouts out a word that kills him: Stop.
They look back at him, confusedly before looking at Todd, who’s slipping and stumbling to the dock, feet sliding out from under him, causing him to roll down one of the snow dunes. His wails and his words are covered by a sympathetic yet chilling wind.
“Let him go,” Charlie murmurs, heart in his throat. And they do, even if it pains them all. Watching the heartbreak swallow Todd alive and become pure, unadulterated agony. This open, throbbing wound felt by the entire group, all the Dead Poets present. Their hurt is palpable to any bystander who would look at them afar, from the windows and entryways of Welton. Distress and pain and sadness so potent that it rolls off in waves, growing stronger and stronger in magnitude. The loss of their friend, someone—Neil, not just someone—who was near and dear to them all, grieves every one of the Poets. In a short time, a mere few hours, they have all become walking, exposed nerves acutely aware of the absence of the beautiful and vibrant soul named Neil Perry.
Neil Perry. The boy who was quick to welcome people into his bubble of friendship, smiling so easily with a warmth that was reminiscent of the sun and the sunshine. The boy who was so very intelligent, holding a multitude of answers and questions; who was so quick to offer his assistance. The boy who wanted to act but couldn’t; the actor acting to be something he was not. A dreamer who clung to his dreams like a lifeline, as if they were the rope tethering him to his reality. Whose eyes shone with the light of a million stars and whose demeanor demanded the spotlight.
Neil Perry.
Charismatic. Kind. Passionate.
Respected. Loved. Adored.
Not someone easily forgotten, or anyone who will be forgotten. Neil left too much of an impression on everyone he met, and Charlie would know being his best friend ever since he could remember, it would be impossible to forget such a face, a mind, a soul.
Neil, always set out for greatness with the brightest, burning flame. How right were those poets who wrote that people with the brightest souls and the most to offer the world always sparked out first.
Todd’s cries echo from where he sits on his knees looking out at the frozen lake. They hold testament to the type of person Neil… was, his impression on them all, and how much he would be missed.
The snow falls in crystalline white flakes, dusting the world and all its inhabitants. The world is quiet, at a standstill as if holding its breath.
It’s beautiful. Almost as if from a dream.
Charlie wishes he never woke up.