Chapter Text
Your time at Welton, or rather Hellton, was stressful. The classes were challenging, the teachers were unyielding, and friends were…a luxury. This year, Welton had finally decided to admit girls. It was only a small handful, but you were one of the lucky few who made it in. While the administration tried its best to make you all comfortable, the student body clearly hadn’t caught up. The first few weeks were a blur of whispers, lingering stares, and boys gawking at you like you were a prize to be won. The teachers snapped at them to stay focused, which only made you want to sink into your seat and be sucked up into the floor.
But there was one boy who didn’t make you feel like that.
On the first day, you noticed him in trigonometry—two rows ahead, curly red hair catching the sunlight streaming through the large windows. Large glasses framed his brown eyes, and he was murmuring to the brunette boy sitting next to him. The brunette, much louder and far too confident, turned entirely around when you sat down. He winked. You rolled your eyes and looked past him…straight to the redhead.
He blushed instantly.
You watched him punch the brunette in the arm, mortified, before he glanced back at you. You braced yourself for whatever gesture or comment he was going to throw at you. Instead, he gave you a shy, apologetic smile and mouthed, I’m sorry.
It knocked you slightly off balance. You didn’t expect kindness from the Welton boys. You shook your head with a smile, silently telling him it was fine. He let out a visible sigh of relief before turning back around, his shoulder relaxing.
Later, you found out his name was Steven Meeks.
After that moment, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You saw him everywhere—in the halls, in study period, at lunch with his friends. He was cute, obviously, but also incredibly smart. In every class, his hand shot up to answer everything. He scribbled notes like his life depended on transcribing every word. Occasionally, he whispered answers to his friends when Mr. McAllister wasn’t looking. You started timing your arrival so you’d walk into class right after he sat down, just to catch a glimpse of his smile.
And you were pretty sure he noticed.
During a study hall, you were working on a particularly challenging trig problem, brow furrowed, head in your hand, tongue stuck slightly out in concentration as you scribbled and erased, scribbled and erased. You hadn’t looked up for at least 20 minutes until someone sat down in front of you. You glanced up from your cocoon of work.
“Sorry, this seat’s—” you whispered automatically, then froze.
Steven Meeks.
His curls were a bit unruly, his glasses slightly crooked, and he held his notebook like he was psyching himself up just to approach you.
He leaned in, voice barely audible, “Are you… okay?”
You straightened. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you whispered back instantly.
Meeks raised an eyebrow, then glanced pointedly at your notebook. More accurately, the disaster zone around it. There were eraser shavings everywhere. On your paper, your sleeve, the table, and some stuck to your wrist as if you’d rolled in them. You look back up at him, only to find him raising his eyebrows slightly.
You sigh and close your eyes, “Ok, so…maybe I’m not fine.”
His mouth twitched into an apologetic smile, “Though so.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but you couldn’t stop the smile that was creeping onto your face. You push the notebook towards him.
“Please help me before I kill Mr. Hagar and curse his entire lineage.”
Meeks leaned in and whispered, “Lucky for you, I am very good at stopping academic-based homicides.”
Before you could stop yourself, you snorted, and Mr. Hagar’s head snapped up from the front of the room.
SHHHH!
You both froze.
The moment Hager looked away, Meeks exhaled quietly, whispering, “We’re… really bad at being quiet.”
You pressed your hand to your mouth to hide a grin. “We?”
He gave you a scandalized look. “You snorted!”
“You made me!”
“You cursed his entire lineage!”
You smothered a giggle. “Are you going to help me or not?”
He nudged your notebook back toward you, his knee brushing yours under the table.
“Yeah,” he whispered, suddenly soft. “I’ve got you.”
And even with Hager’s eyes on the room like a hawk, you couldn’t help glancing at Meeks again—just to see the little smile he tried (and failed) to hide behind his notes.
~
It had been a few weeks since your introduction, and you and Meeks had become fast friends. The two of you started sitting next to each other in class, despite the cocky brunette, Charlie’s dismay at losing his seat. You shared notes, studied together, and talked about the books you were reading. He introduced you to his friends, and despite the brief awkwardness at you being a girl, they became a joy to be around. Meeks and his friend, but mostly Meeks, had brightened your life at Hellton.
You walked into your last class of the day, English. It was your favorite from the very beginning because your teacher, Mr. Keating, was utterly different from everyone else at Welton. He was kind and patient but also firm and encouraging. He brought people out of their shells and taught with an excitement that made everyone in the room just as passionate as he was. You take your seat at the front of the room. Meeks walks in a minute later with the rest of the group. They all greet you and take their seats, Meeks taking his right next to yours, just like every other class. Just before you were going to start a conversation, Keating waltzed into class.
“What makes an impactful poem?” His voice booms across the classroom. “What makes a poem stick with you?”
The class went silent, pondering his question. Meeks taps his pen against his notebook before he starts to speak. “An impactful poem…” he says slowly, “One that…changes you, even slightly. Something that makes you look at the world differently, even for a moment.” He pauses, gathering the rest of his words. “It sticks with you…usually because it’s honest. Not sugar-coated. Just…real.”
You caught yourself staring at him in awe when his eyes darted over to yours. The two of you flushed slightly and looked back at Mr. Keating.
“Yes, Mr. Meeks. Precisely. Something that makes you see the world in a different manner. What are some ways a poem can change the way you see the world?”
A few other people raised their hands, but something about what Meeks said stuck with you. So much that your hand shot up. Keating looked over at you from where he stopped between the rows of people.
“A poem can change the way you view your relationship with someone. Like a love confession or an admission of feelings.” Your stream of consciousness slipped out of you before you knew what you were saying. Meeks’ pencil stills against his notebook. It takes everything in you not to look over at him.
“Excellently said,” Keating says, a hint of a smirk flitting across his lips before he turned away and continued with the lecture. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your eyes darted over to Meeks. He was staring at you, wide-eyed, with his mouth slightly open in shock. You fully look over at him and tilt your head slightly, and curl the corner of your lip into a half smile. After a moment, he snaps out of his daze and looks down at his notebook, but a red flush creeps up to the tips of his ears. Your face also feels warm as you look back down at your books and let your mind wander for the rest of class.
~
Your dorm room was silent, other than the occasional page turn of your book or squeak of your mattress. You’d finished with all your work earlier in the evening, so now you’re taking time to finally just relax. You didn’t have a roommate, so your nights were usually tranquil, which you preferred. That was until there was a knock at your door. You weren’t even sure that’s what it was since it was so quiet. Another one followed a few seconds later, and you reluctantly got up out of your cozy bed to see what the intrusion was about. You opened the door, and a head of messy red hair slipped into your room.
“Is everything ok, Meeks?” you ask, concerned.
“Yeah—yes. Everything’s fine.” His voice was hushed but urgent. “No time to explain. Meet us outside in three minutes. Bring a coat and a flashlight.”
“Meeks, what—?”
Before you could finish, he was already halfway out the door again, voice dropping even lower.
“And… you might wanna wear shoes you can run in.”
Then he vanished into the dim hallway, shutting the door with a soft click and leaving you blinking after him.
Three minutes later, you were outside, bundled in a coat with a flashlight in one hand and your heart pounding from the adrenaline of sneaking out. You weren’t exactly sure where you were supposed to go until you spotted Meeks and his friends huddled near the willow tree overlooking the lake.
“This better be good, because if I get caught—”
“Hey, you came!” Meek’s face lit up with an excitement you weren’t expecting.
“You gave me, like, zero context,” you reply, pulling your coat tighter. “The least I could do was investigate before assuming you’d joined a cult.”
He grinned. “Well… not a cult. More like a… club.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We’re having a meeting tonight. I told the guys I wanted to invite you.”
Your breath caught. “The Dead Poets Society?”
He nods, almost proud. He had mentioned it to you a week ago, and you had secretly wanted to be invited.
“Can we trust you that you’re not going to tell ANYONE?” Charlie asks, staring directly into your soul.
“I promise,” you raise your hand and make a motion of zipping your lips shut. “My lips are sealed.” Charlie looked you up and down once more until he finally turned around.
“Alright then, let's go before anyone sees us.”
You follow them through the woods, branches crunching beneath your boots. You were having trouble keeping up with the rest of the boys. They knew the woods way better than you did and didn’t get caught on branches or exposed roots. You had to take it much more slowly and safely. Meeks turned around and noticed your slower pace. He stopped, allowing you to catch up.
“You don’t have to wait for me, I can follow you guys,” you say, eyes trained on the ground in front of you.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” Meeks says, a smile plastered on his face. His smile always got you. You could be angry or annoyed with Meeks, but the minute he flashed his smile, all of it would melt away. In your admiration, you overlook the large tree root in front of you, and your foot gets stuck, causing you to stumble forward. Before your face hit the dirt, you feel two hands wrap under your arms. When you finally get your footing back, you come face-to-face with Meeks. He flashes you a smirk.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Meeks says, but the smirk on his face says otherwise.
You try to step back, but he’s still holding you—his hands warm on your arms, your breath mingling in the cold air between you. The realization hits him a second too late. His expression flickers: smug to startled to flustered.
“Oh—sorry,” he stammers, immediately letting go and raking a nervous hand through his hair. “I just—uh—didn’t want you to face-plant.”
Your cheeks burn.“No, no, it’s fine. I appreciate it, thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replies, softly.
You both stand there for another moment, neither quite sure what to do. The others are already far ahead, their voices faint through the trees.
“You, um… wanna walk with me?” Meeks asks.
“I thought I already was.”
He gives a breathy laugh, then holds out his hand a little awkwardly—like he didn’t thoroughly think the gesture through until it was already happening.
“I mean—just so you don’t trip again,” he mutters.
“Right,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. You reach out and tangle your fingers with his. His hand is surprisingly warm considering how cold it is. The walk is quiet, only the occasional sound of joy coming from the boys ahead cutting through the silent woods. Your eyes are trained on the ground, watching each step as you take it. You look up for a brief moment, and Meeks’ eyes are looking over at you. They widen before he looks forward. You laugh quietly, and from his side profile, you see his lip turn up in a shy grin.
The glow of the firelight flickers between the trees as you and Meeks round the final bend. Laughter echoes faintly from the cave entrance. The others are already settling in, their silhouettes dancing on the cave walls. Meeks reluctantly lets go of your hand as you step inside, though his fingers linger a half-second longer. The warmth disappears too fast, and you’re surprised at how much you miss it.
Charlie looks up the moment he sees you. “Welcome,” he says dramatically, arms spread wide. “To the Dead Poets Society.”
The boys clap softly, a quiet ritual. Pitts passes the worn poetry book to Neil, the one they all treat like a holy relic. You settle on a dry patch of stone beside Meeks. Neil reads the club's introduction, then sits back down and passes the book to Charlie. Meeks keeps stealing quick, nervous glances at you.
Keating’s lessons echo faintly in your memory: Find the verse that speaks to you.
Charlie begins with a short piece, something humorous. Laughter bounces off the stone walls. Then Pitts picks out a longer piece about nature and the trees. It was quite sentimental, not something you’d expect from him, but he did a good job at reciting it.
Then it’s Meeks’ turn.
You feel him stiffen beside you. Charlie hands him the book, teasing, “Don’t pick something with too many big words. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”
Meeks rolls his eyes but flips through the pages carefully, his thumb smoothing the edges. Then he pauses on the one he’d been looking for.
He swallows, glancing at you once, a flick of copper curls and nerves, before standing.
“This one’s, uh… one I found recently that, uh… resonates with me.
He reads, voice low and echoing in the lantern-lit cave:
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
The cave goes silent when he finishes. Your cheeks flush a deep red. Meeks often read things aloud in class, but this was different. There was a passion in his voice that echoed against the cave’s walls. It wasn’t until he was done that the shyness crept back in. He closed the book and cleared his throat awkwardly.
“That’s… that’s it. Thanks.”
He sat back down next to you, holding his breath, waiting for someone to say something.
Charlie burst to his feet. “WOO!” he cheered, giving him a standing ovation. “Look at Meeks! Who knew Stevie had feelings?”
The others laughed and joined in, applauding, hooting louder than necessary. Meeks groaned softly into his hands.
Neil grinned. “Seriously, that was incredible. You should read like that more often.”
Knox elbowed him. “Yeah, who knew our boy was such a romantic? Should we start calling you Shakespeare?”
Todd nodded shyly from the corner. “It was… really good,” he added, which somehow made Meeks even redder.
Charlie slung an arm around Meeks’s shoulder, shaking him lightly back and forth. “What’s next, huh? Gonna bring roses to meetings now?”
Meeks sputtered. “Charlie—no! It was just a poem!”
“Sure,” Neil said lightly, teasing but kind. “But you read it like you meant every word.”
“Because—it’s literature!” Meeks tried, voice cracking slightly. “You’re supposed to!”
Pitts hummed dramatically. “Mhm. Of course. Just literature. Absolutely nothing else.”
Meeks looked like he wanted the cave floor to swallow him whole.
You bit back a smile, clapping quietly.
~
The semester continued, and you continued attending Dead Poets Society meetings, hanging out with the boys, and getting closer to Meeks. You were almost always together, whether it was during class, at lunch, or in the library; the two of you became inseparable. You were either in his dorm or yours, studying, hanging out, or working silently. Any chance to be together, you took.
It was quickly approaching finals week, and it was hell. You studied all day, every day, to prepare, and you were still overwhelmed. Today, you finally hit your breaking point with trig, of course. You stare at the numbers and equations, and all they do is stare back at you. Nothing was clicking, and you were slowly losing faith in passing the final. You were overwhelmed and overworked, and nothing was sticking. Your breath started to quicken, and you couldn’t suck in enough air. Tears began to fall, leaving wet spots on the paper. In a panic, you rush out of your dorm, practically running down the halls, ending up at none other than Meeks’ dorm.
You knock once, trying to keep it together in the hallway. You hear shuffling around before the door swings open. Meeks stands there in his sweater and rolled-up sleeves, pencil tucked behind his ear, eyes brightening—until he sees your face.
His whole expression shifts.
“Hey,” he says gently, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
You inhale to answer, but the moment you see him—really see him, safe and solid and familiar—your throat closes. A tiny gasp escapes you, and then suddenly everything you’d been holding back crumbles in your hands.
Tears spill over before you can stop them.
“Oh—oh, hey, hey,” Meeks whispers. His hands settle, one on your shoulder, the other guiding you inside with careful pressure. “Come here. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Once you make it inside, the hyperventilating starts again, and you crumble. You hit the floor, hands shaking, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“I—I can’t—Meeks, I can’t—” you stammer, words tumbling out too fast. “I’m gonna fail—my parents are gonna be so mad—I don’t belong at Welton—I’m so stupid—I can’t do this—I—I.”
“Hey, hey—no,” Meeks drops to his knees in front of you instantly, gently taking your face in both hands. His thumbs sweep across your cheeks, wiping tears you didn’t even feel fall.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You try—your breathing jagged and uneven—but his steady gaze finds you, holds you.
“You’re not stupid,” he says softly but firmly. “You’re not failing. You’re overwhelmed. That’s all. Breathe with me, okay? I’ve got you. You’re alright.”
His thumbs rub back and forth across your cheeks, soothing you. Your breaths slow just a fraction, enough that your chest loosens enough to suck in a full breath of air.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”
You let your eyes flutter shut, taking bigger, deeper breaths until your heart finally slows down to normal. You press your palms over your eyes and let out a long, exhausted groan.
Then, without meaning to, a small laugh slips out of you. It surprises both of you.
Meeks tilts his head. “What… was that?”
You laugh again—wet and messy and half-delirious. “I just—” You wipe your face with your sleeve. “I can’t believe I’m losing my mind over trig. God, Welton really is just… Hellton. This school is evil.”
He snorts. Actually snorts.
Then he laughs—quietly at first, then harder when you start laughing with him. The two of you sit there on the floor as the panic dissolves into something warm and ridiculous.
“God, I’m having a breakdown over…over numbers! Dumb, stupid numbers.” The laughter continues, replacing the ache in your chest with warmth.
Meeks shakes his head, still chuckling. “You’re… you’re ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous too!” you shoot back, grinning. “I mean, you actually find trig…fun? How is that even possible?”
He laughs again. “I… I don’t. Not really. I just…get it?”
“Oh, Mr. Smartypants just gets everything. Never struggled once in his life,” You mock him, shoving him playfully.
He grins, mock offense flashing across his face. “Hey! That’s not fair—I’ve had my battles!”
“You?” you laugh, poking him again. “You? You’re literally perfect at everything.”
“Perfect? Hardly!” he protests, grabbing your wrists gently to stop you from shoving him again. “I just… I just pay attention. That’s all!”
“Oh really?” you tease, twisting free and lightly flicking his arm. “Sure, that’s all! You don’t even know what it’s like to actually freak out over trig!”
His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Oh, you wanna test me?” He lunges lightly, trying to grab your shoulders. You squeal, dodging him, and shove back, both of you laughing so hard your sides ache. Soon you’re rolling around on the floor, laughing, shoving, and trying to pin each other in a playful wrestle. His hair falls into his eyes, and yours sticks damp to your forehead from laughing so hard.
Finally, he pins you gently. The laughter dies down, and both your breaths slow. You both realize the position you're in. Meeks flushes dark red, lets you go, and sits up, back against his bedframe, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… wow,” he mutters, voice cracking slightly. “I… uh… didn’t mean—”
You grin, still breathless, feeling the teasing tension linger. “Didn’t mean what?”
He looks away, embarrassed, hands fidgeting in his lap. “I… I don’t know… I just… I shouldn’t—”
You sit up and move next to him. You reach out, gently brushing your hand against his. “It’s okay,” you murmur.
His eyes flick up to yours. He leans in slightly, lips hovering just a breath away from yours. You can feel the heat of his cheeks, the nervous energy radiating off him.
“I…I don’t wanna, uh—you were upset and—”
You lean in and kiss him, cutting him off. He’s shocked for a moment, completely still. You almost pull away from fear of reading the situation wrong, until he snaps out of his daze and kisses you back. It's messy and awkward, his glasses hitting your cheeks, and neither of you is quite sure where to put your hands, but it’s perfect. As you continue, the awkwardness fades away, and the two of you get more confident. He pulls you into his lap, his hands resting on your hips. Your hands trail up his neck, tangling in his curls.
“Hey Meeks, I got the radio to—WOAH SORRY!” Pitts says, walking into the room.
You and Meeks pull apart instantly, both of you blinking and gasping. You scramble off of him onto the floor. His glasses are crooked, your hair is sticking to your cheek, and your hearts are still pounding.
Pitts stands frozen in the doorway, holding the radio, wide-eyed. “Uh… I—oh… sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Meeks clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, still flushed. “It’s… uh… it’s fine, Pitts. Just… give us a minute?”
Pitts nods quickly, looking a little awkward but not upset. “Right, right… of course. I’ll… I’ll come back,” he says, stepping back toward the door. “Congrats…uh—yeah.”
“Thanks,” Meeks says, not sure how to respond. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
You lean up against his bed, brushing hair out of your face and laughing nervously, still breathless. “Well… that was something,” you murmur.
Meeks adjusts his glasses, cheeks pink, and exhales a shaky laugh. “Yeah… definitely something,” he agrees, eyes flicking to yours. Slowly, he reaches out, fingers intertwining with yours.
Meeks leans back against his bed, still flustered but smiling gently. “We… maybe should… um… just be careful next time. Maybe your room,” he murmurs, thumb brushing yours.
You laugh softly, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “Next time,” you whisper.
He squeezes your hand, still smiling, his forehead almost touching yours. “Yeah… next time.”
For a moment, it’s just the two of you—safe, warm, and completely together in the quiet of his room.
“THEY DID WHAT?!” Charlie’s scream echoes from down the hallway.
The two of you look at each other, and for the second time of the night, burst into laughter.