𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑

12. 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅

Morning fog rolled over the courtyard and curled in cool ribbons around your ankles. Wet blades of grass clung to the toes of your sneakers and you shivered, taking a step forward every so often when Keating commanded the next person in line with his white plastic whistle.

You were never one to pass up on an extra credit assignment. Not even an extra credit assignment that pulled you out of bed at the first sliver of dawn to punt kickballs back and forth across the lawn while reciting lines from Hamlet. Just like everyone else, you'd been instructed to arrive in your gym uniform. But unlike everyone else, you weren't assigned a gym uniform on account of not being assigned a gym class.

You felt dreadfully pitiful (and chilly) standing alongside the rest of your class in a white pleated tennis skirt that you borrowed from Chris. The difference in uniform never truly bothered you right up until then. In the naked light of the early morning, with the sun barely glancing over the still waters of the round lake, you never felt so unlike your peers, who all wore variants of the same Welton Academy Athletic Department gear.

The ground made a wet squealing sound as you stepped forward. Two boys ahead of you, Meeks was handed a single slip of cream-colored paper and Professor Keating patted him encouragingly on the back with his black leather equestrian gloves. "Time to inherit the world," he said with a knowing wink, stepping to the side. Resting on the bleachers behind him, a portable record player thrummed with the commanding chords of Allegro.

You'd practically been hidden behind Pitts the entire time, but the line of boys ahead of you was now dwindling and the chill in the air seemed to bite even harder at your exposed skin by the second.

The tall, gangly boy stole a glance at you over his shoulder. It was one of many since you all gathered there on the field, but this time you noticed how his fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides, pulling on the sleeves of his grey crewneck like he was trying desperately to talk himself into doing something he may very well regret.

"What's–" Pitts started, then paused to clear his throat when his voice audibly cracked. "What's your line?"

You glanced down at the slip of paper in your hands. It was handwritten, the letters neat but rushed as they spelled out a quotation that you couldn't place. "No clue," you admitted begrudgingly. You were clinging to your title of the top student of the class by a very thin thread and Neil, alongside the other poets, threatened to snip it every day.

Pitts nodded and stepped forward as the boy in front of him bounded off down the field, chasing the cherry-red kickball. "Aren't you cold?" the question left him in a single breath like it was trying to leave his mouth as quickly as possible.

You nodded and shifted your arms so you were hugging your torso even tighter. "Do you think they'll serve hot cider at breakfast again? It's the only thing keeping me alive right now."

A loud honk drew your attention back toward the lake and you watched as a pair of swans descended upon its glassy surface, making the film of mist swirl around the beating of their powerful white wings. You were acutely aware of the commotion taking place in front of you, not giving Pitts your full attention again until he hastily thrust a bundle of fabric in your direction.

His Welton crewneck.

You glanced up at him, just to see that he was turned away, teeth pinned against the inside of his cheek. Dressed down in his white sleep shirt, you could see the hair on his arms rise in protest of the cold. "Here," he mumbled, not dropping his hand until you hesitantly took the bundle into your arms.

The grey cotton was still warm as you shrugged it up over your head and wrestled to fit your head through the neck. "Thank you," you sighed, suddenly overcome with what had to be one of the best feelings in the world.

Without fully realizing what you were doing, you hooked your finger around the collar of the sweatshirt and pulled it up to your nose, breathing in a lungful of subtle peppermint and pine.

Pitts only looked back once he was certain you were done, completing a subtle doubletake and nearly tripping over the wet grass as he moved further up in line. "You're—that's—" he fumbled over his words while you struggled to manipulate the fabric pooling around the hem of your skirt. He gulped and nodded to himself, abandoning whatever it was he was trying to say.

The breakfast bell rang and Keating dismissed his herd of sweaty, exhausted boys along with it. After helping him collect most of the kickballs that were littered throughout the courtyard, you were delighted to find your boys waiting underneath the awning of the dining hall. Charlie was throwing one hell of a pitiful look over his shoulder at the door, digging his sneakers into the dirt. But still, he waited nonetheless.

"There she is," Meeks announced as you skipped toward their congregation, arms crossed over his chest. His glasses had fogged up in the cold but he still smiled when he saw you — though you wondered whether or not he could actually see anything.

"There! We've got all our little ducks in a row. Food? Now?" Charlie gestured desperately toward the door. You could already hear the rest of the student body, freshly awoken and sleepily fraternizing about the week to come. You could smell the hot apple and cinnamon steam wafting through the vents, the aroma alone warming you up.

As the boys turned to walk inside, you pinched at the heavy gray fabric of Pitts' crewneck and gasped. "Oh! Sorry, you can have this back now," you said, awkwardly shimmying your arms out of the cozy bundle of warmth. Your heart protested every move you made. 

You had just wrestled your way through the neck hole when you felt two hands tug down on the collar and expose your head once more. When you shook the hair out of your face, Pitts was standing in front of you, dimples prodding into his high cheekbones as he smiled bashfully. "Keep it. Honestly, it looks way better on you."

Your jaw went slack in an instant. It wasn't very often that a boy offered to let you wear his sweater—let alone insist that you keep it. You would need to scourage for spare change later and call Chris from the pay phone in the professor's lounge. She would absolutely die.

The exchange happened so quickly that you didn't even realize you'd fallen behind the others, who all flanked the grand entryway of the dining hall without hesitation. Only Charlie lingered, as he usually did, hanging from the brass door handle, watching the scene unfold with the hint of a mischievous smirk on his face.

"You starting a collection of our clothes now?" he teased, socking Pitts in the shoulder as he walked over the threshold, head hung shyly from his tall shoulders. "You gonna charm Cameron out of his socks next, ma chérie?"

At the mention of his name, Cameron poked his head back out the door with a hopeful grin misplacing the grid of freckles sprinkled throughout his face. Charlie was quick to shove his face away with a scoff. "Not today, Cam. Keep dreaming."

(A/N: This is super short AND FOR WHAT?? Was originally combined with the next chapter but I decided to splice them up because I didn't like how they shifted into each other. Anyway, I don't even know if people still read this story haha. It's kinda old. I started it when I was 16 I think. That's all for now! Let me know what you think!)