THE LAUNDRY REBEL ✧.*ೃ༄ charlie dalton

Convene with the Dead Poets

The front of the theater was packed was rustling couples, lined up messily to get their tickets. I looked up to the sign atop of the booth, reading A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen. A sudden hand fell on my shoulder, squeezing it lightly. I whipped around, only to see those familiar translucent teal eyes loom over my emerald ones.

"Ah.. I see she got all dolled up for me tonight." James spoke lowly as his other hand cupped my cheek.

I smirked. "Who said this was for you?"

He chuckled, his English accent deep as he spoke. "Perhaps your curious roommate, Diane told me about that glorious mauve color you put on those lovely lips of yours."

I'm gonna make her do my Latin homework when I get back. I suppressed a blush. "You have a way with words, James. Maybe you practiced during the fall break?"

He could do nothing but laugh heartily. "Hm.. well practice does make perfect, love." He slid his hand down my shoulder to my arm, only to gesture to the booth. "We going or not?"

I leaned up, pecking his cheek lightly, causing him to slip his arm around my waist, pulling me close. "Yes... most definitely."

--

That jog was treacherous. Sure, I'm used to running miles, but through a forest in the middle of the night? Damn this meeting.

I made it to the cave first. It was like a warm, humid sauna. I could still feel the air from the day, making me get a few shivers. Meeks trailed on behind me, but not before turning back to the others. He thought he was the first one.

Sucks to suck.

I snuck up behind him, glaring up my flashlight and roared. "I'M A DEAD POET!"

The poor boy jumped out of his skin as he reared around. "Real funny Charlie.. real funny."

~

Neil stood up upon what seemed to be an altar, but was just normal, damp rock and spoke the opening message. "I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life."

I smirked, the now darkened hickey on Victoria's neck scorching in my mind. "I'll second that."

The Dead Poets laughed heartily, before Neil continued. "To put rout that was not life; and not, when I had come to die, discovered that I had not lived."

The message shook us deep in our bones. There was a deep meaning, probably what Mr. Keating was trying to teach all of us.

To live dangerously. To take risks that no one else would take.

A sudden grin grew on my lips as I shone the flashlight on the empty pit between us. "Alright, intermission. Dig deep, right here."

"In the mud?"

I nodded and looked up to Meeks. "Meeks, put your coat down. Use it a picnic blanket."

Various whispers came from the group. "Oh use Meeks' coat." "Use his..."

~

As we told various scary stories and told our different poems, a sudden wash of familiarity came over me. Like... we belonged like this all along. We all, as students, as growing men, deserved this lesson in life.

We needed this to grow.

To blossom.