Chapter Text
“Sir, what is the Dead Poets Society?” Neil Perry asked John Keating precariously. Since the inception of the smoking dawn, him and the other six boys were given a notice separately and indirectly by Mr. Keating, to meet him in this cramped conference room.
The room itself is almost blinding for the unprepared morning eyes; a flash of whites from the fluorescents above, emphasized by the colorless walls filled with whites and adjacent grays reflecting its shines. Laid in the center is a long maple table with black cushioned chairs seated Neil, Todd, Charlie, Knox, Meeks, Pitts, and Cameron. While the standing Mr. Keating stared intently at each and one of them, behind a portable whiteboard with black ink written the words Dead Poets Society.
Then locked at Neil when he asked, still equipped with that beaming energy he’s known for, a contrast to theirs; most of them were still arrayed in pajamas from last night, accompanied by their unbrushed hairs and mushy eyes, and the lack of even the vaguest idea of what’s about to happen.
“I doubt the present administration would look too favorable upon that—this I mean,” replied Keating, pointing at the whiteboard. “But they’ll understand my vision. I’m sure of that!”
Neil looked at the other boys, across from him is Knox one brow raised but looked eager. Same as the one beside him, Pitts, presumably less enthusiastic from his continuous yawns, except those visible creases between his brows.
But notably beside him is Todd. Regardless of their gap with each other, Neil can’t help but notice his agitated pupils, looking in front of the room but never on a particular object for too long, while hugging himself partially from the cold conditioned air with his dark blue sweater he always wears.
Sooner or later, Neil realizing they all had no idea, he took the bait, “Why? What is it?”
Keating paused, the smile remaining on his face—more or less bigger than it was seconds ago. “Boys, can you keep a secret?”
As hesitant as the boys at first, he received everyone’s nods, “The Dead Poets are dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life! A phrase from Thoreau, you’d know him if you paid attention to your English class,” Keating teased, “But the point is that—this is the phrase we invoke every Dead Poets meeting. See, we would gather in an old Indian cave and take turns reading poetry by Thoreau, Shelly, Whitman, all the dead poets you could think of. Even some of our own verses. And in the enchantment of the moment, we’d let poetry work its magic.”
Faces from the table changed to each other’s glances, like trying to solve a puzzle without the pieces.
“You mean… it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?” Knox inquires, hesitant at first, quite unsure.
“No, Mr. Overstreet, it wasn’t just guys or poems—also, you might want to cover that thing in your face! Shooting’s about to start later—but as I was saying… Music is also a form of poetry. Dance, if you think of that way, is a form of poetry. Not only we are romantics, not only performers, we are artists!” He placed his hand on his chest, “and we don’t just read poetry or sing it, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soaring, women swooning, and gods were created, gentlemen. Not a bad way to spend a quarter of your life, eh?”
Everyone stood in their silence, trying to sink in the words spit upon them. At first, all of it seemed like a bunch of nonsense sets of cryptic words Keating “drip out like honey”, a way to make them appease—typical for a first Keating impression for the unprompted. Except for that one specific sentence that lingered in everyone’s consciousness. But one by one, their faces slowly contorted into widened eyes and ajar mouths, from their sluggish nature reformed immediately to an awakened one.
Not a bad way to spend a quarter of your life…
Neil, dazed, dared to initiate everyone’s collective conjecture, “Does that mean we’re…”
Keating straightened his posture, placed his hands on his back, and nodded, “Yes, boys. You’re going to be stars!”
Two years ago, Neil didn’t even envision himself to be a part of a boyband. For him, he thought, the moment when he turns 18 is when he finally embraces the liberty of adulthood. The liberty of being released from the metals binding him from his actual dreams, that every day is the day to be seized by his own hands.
That was not the case, as it turns out.
It was during his graduation ceremony in high school, he was hailed as the valedictorian of their year. Surviving the hell that is Welton (Hellton for short) is one thing, being the top performing student is another form of achievement that one could only wish to obtain without death knocking at their doors.
Not for Neil, though. For him, this is more of just a task that needs fulfilling, rather than an unattainable thing. Everything that was deemed impossible shall be possible, of course it should, when your father is Tom Perry.
“...And here I stand, in front of you, not because I wanted to tell you what you should be—that you should always attain the extreme and be good at everything. No. I stand here to proclaim that graduating here, today, only means one thing: that you are capable. Graduating here means you already know how to face your own fears, your own mistakes, your own demons, and your own obstacles; I believe that mistakes are not a ball that you could just dodge, instead, let it embrace you, be a part of a page in your book. However, it is just as important to remember that you should assert your boundaries with it, too; adjust its faults and shift it into this beautiful thing that you could use.”
He paused, marinating every word he spoke to the silence it envelops, “To end this speech, I must tell to each and every one of you to be your own flesh whose destiny is in your own choosing, whether to be a doctor, a lawyer, an accountant, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you tell people this is who you want to be, that this is who you truly are. Welton is a taste for the inevitable, surviving it only means you are worth enough, strong enough, to be dauntless at the life we want to attain. As a popular Latin phrase tells us: ‘Carpe Diem!’ Seize the day! And I hereby, Neil Perry, congratulate each and every one of you for surviving and graduating from Welton. Give a round of applause for yourselves, graduates!”
Before graduation day, Neil rewrote, rehashed, and rehearsed every part of his speech, paraphrasing every sentence too clunky or too explicit, and generally editing out his thoughts better to, of course, send a specific message.
As Neil made way downstairs from the stage, the whole chapel was still buzzing with applause and whistles. Yet, it’s not enough help to drown out the growing beats inside his chest as he took his seat beside his father, whose face revealed no reaction whatsoever. Did he catch the drift? Even if he did, he never showed it. And not knowing only made Neil’s muscles tensed even more.
Even until after graduation. The Daltons invited the Perrys to join them for dinner, a form of celebration for both families, as Mr. Dalton said. It’s a good thing that Charlie’s presence was within the dinner table—well, until the main course was already half-finished.
Before that was an absolute hell for Neil.
The thing that bothers Neil is the nonchalance of his father. Even before their drive home, where everyone said their last goodbyes with one another, only his mother praised him with hugs and kisses, and not even a little something from his father.
A funny story, he thought, a father who doesn’t speak to his son, a father who never perceives his son’s triumphs when he’s the one who demands it, a father who’s never even heard a single congratulation from his mouth on his high school graduation.
It’s not that Neil is expecting, really. But it does suck when his own father doesn’t even recognize the effort of his own creation.
Is this really the man who’s once known as America’s sweetheart? Tom Perry, once a star exploded into a supernova, faded into dim like dying stars were.
The chattering within the table was not stopping soon, and its participants were clearly occupied with each other’s presence and laughter—as Neil observed—and took no time to take this opportunity by sending a quick SOS message to Charlie.
Quickly and discretely, he put his phone under the table and texted his number.
bitch where tf are you ??
He managed to go back to eating, phone sitting on his lap, until it vibrated after a couple of seconds that felt like excruciating hours.
bitch im driving
im otw dw
And as quickly and discreetly, he put his phone back in his jeans pocket, and resumed his meals as usual.
Words spoken on the table were just background noise for Neil during these excruciating minutes of waiting for Charlie. He didn't even pay much attention to the conversation they’re having, just a buzz of nonsense through his one ear and out of the other. Maybe it’s business stuff, maybe it’s just personal stuff; it’s been a while since the two families met anyway. Instead of dwelling himself to their subjects, he let his mind drift into the future he wanted to attain. It was almost possible to feel the glimpse of it, like an object caught in a short distance, short enough for his arms to reach, but knowing it's not quite there yet.
What would college be like? He can’t even fathom the fact that he’s going to college after a few months. And what major would he pick? His father once said he’d like Neil to pursue the medical field to become a doctor if it weren’t for the current privilege they have. But what would he pick?
He was uncertain.
Theater would definitely be in his choice; he grew up loving it, but of course his father would dismiss that, like he did when he started middle school.
“Shall I say, Neil, that your graduation speech is fantastic!” said Mr. Dalton as he finished chewing his food.
Despite being taken aback by the sudden mention of his name, he managed to put on his actor’s smile, “It was nothing, sir.”
“It’s not nothing, child. You are good!”
“Good indeed!” agrees Mrs. Dalton.
“Have you not seen and heard the applause? They love you!”
He only replied with a smile, subdued tone, “Maybe they do.”
He returned solely focusing on his food and utensils, putting a spoonful of food in his mouth, ignoring the radiating gaze of his father beside him. They flooded the room with silence, except the clashing of metals and china adrift from interacting with food.
“I’m proud of you, Neil.”
He halted. Ears ringed like an induced tinnitus was pressed onto him.
Hearing that sentence with his voice made a chill sent down in his spine. It’s almost uncanny, or maybe because it is.
The food in his mouth urged to spit out, but before it even did its fruition with unkempt results, he managed to swallow it, weakly uttering, “T-thank you, sir.”
Still void of any discernible expression, his father nodded and continued his chatter with the Daltons.
His mouth suddenly felt dry, the mere swallowing of food felt more of a task than a necessity from that point. He doesn’t even know why it affected him that much, and why does it feel empty at the same time? His head spun, almost seeing stars without even hitting his head.
And like the last one, Neil’s attention brought him back to earth when his name was mentioned once more.
“Before I forgot, you should ask and persuade Neil to join Keats,” said Mr. Dalton.
Mr. Perry minutely tilted his head, “Keats?”
Mr. Dalton looked at him in discontent, “Have you not heard the memo? UMG has had talks about claiming Keats Entertainment through Interscope recently.”
“Oh. I did,” replied he, “But why does that matter?”
Mr. Dalton beamed, “John Keating, remember him? An old friend of mine and a colleague. Not sure if you met him already—but I remember him saying to me last year that he wanted to have his own label, I ridiculed him for that. Well, was I so wrong?” He laughed at his own disposal, “Now, he's been living the dream he had since I met the guy. He said it took him eons to negotiate and really convince the biggies to invest in his label and this ‘passion’ of his. I’m quite jealous, honestly. But! This is where it gets interesting, this is what I’m trying to tell you!”
“Well, what is it? Don’t tease!” Mr. Perry said half-jokingly.
“Fine,” he chuckled back, “He's making a special type of project.”
“What project?”
“I forgot what the project is called, doesn’t matter, the important detail here is that he’s been planning to make a boyband. A boyband!” hands dashed through the air like releasing majestic confetti in the air. “It’s been a while since we had a major boyband here in America, this is the chance to change that!”
Neil stopped chewing once again. It’s like the time halted its course. Boyband? He thought.
“You want my son to join in a boyband?” He asked, his smile dropped immediately.
“Hey, it’s not that bad of a deal.”
“I want my son to be a one-man band, not be in a group project.”
“Come on, Tom.” Mr. Dalton’s voice became more gentle than it was a few minutes ago. “Neil’s talented and attractive enough, it sure does make him stand out in a group. Don’t you see that?”
Mr. Perry only stared at him, unreadable.
“It’s a hot market nowadays,” adds Mr. Dalton. “Plus, it’s not a permanent thing. If you really want your son to be a solo artist, he can do that after the contract ends. He’s guaranteed success from that for sure.”
“Mmm…” murmured Perry, still skeptical. “Being a member of a boyband is not on my list of cards.”
“Then add it,” said Dalton, matter-of-factly. “It’s not just any boyband. Neil and the rest are trained like batshit, like the ones that they do in South Korea.”
“You mean like those K-pop shenanigans the executives have been talking about?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Perry hummed in response but seemingly still filled with confusion, “To be completely frank, I don’t understand a single thing about those things.”
Mr. Dalton leaned back on his chair, “See, Tom, this K-pop shenanigans you’ve mentioned is basically a form of a training system within the Korean music business. Their aspiring artists or ‘idols’ as they called them, are trained to sing, dance, and most importantly, both at the same time. They pick the ones who are ripe enough to properly make a debut.”
“Okay. Does that mean my son is not guaranteed to make it in the room?” his eyebrows crashed together.
“No, but—” he points at Neil, “It’s your son, are you kidding me? He’s the package deal Keating has been seeking of. That is an advantage, it makes him stand out!”
“Supposed that’s true…” Mr. Perry said as he scratched his chin, “Continue, please.”
Mr. Dalton grinned from ear to ear, “Their star quality and stage performances are also sculpted into perfection, partially that’s what makes fans go crazy over; labels curate a specific image to their idols. It attracts fans, it makes them recognizable, and above all: it makes money!” He chuckled, “The western industry has been trying to implement this ‘idol system’ here over the past years or so. Look at Katseye, they seem successful with that, and they use that exact methodology—don’t make that face anymore, Tom! The point here is that people are obsessed, and they want more of that! You did mention you want your son to be successful, if not more than you could ever be, right?”
After ending in rhetoric, Mr. Perry, after a silence of contemplations, vanished all skepticisms present in his face with a simple smile returned on his lips, “I’ll persuade Neil to join.”
“Perfect!”
Neil swallowed his food, a little bit too comically. For a man like his father, the semantics of the word persuade connotes the opposite of what it truly means.
Panic raised within him like bolts, he couldn’t help it. “But father, how about college?”
No one spoke. Silence caught in response. Then his laughter came, like he asked the funniest thing he has ever said in his life, laughter that reeked humiliation than actual pleasantry, “Why would you want college given this opportunity?”
His tone is suspiciously more passive than usual, not even passive, zealous maybe? Neil can’t help but swallow down the emanating doubt and dread draining his soul.
Before he could even reply in concede, someone barged into the dinner room, still in his gown from today’s ceremony. “Sorry I’m late, it’s just that—”
“Cut the bullshit, Charles,” Mr. Dalton interrupted, “Sit down.”
Charlie made eye contact with Neil, looking lost, like his eyes are filled with question marks. Regardless, he obliged and took off his gown, placed it somewhere, then sat down beside Neil’s left.
“So,” Mr. Dalton initiated, “we were just talking about the project we’ve already discussed a while ago…”
Charlie was caught up to the past conversations during his absence. With how Keating’s project is an opportunity to declare to the world their talents and potential, and with how Neil is considering joining the training program (not his words). However, to Neil’s surprise, was also caught up with Charlie’s business he didn’t know until now: that Charlie was already in the program a month ago.
“Isn’t that right, Charles?”
“Yes, father,” replied Charlie, shifting his attention to Neil, “It’s not that bad, besides I’m right here with ya, okay?” he gives Neil a reassuring smile, but not just any smile he’s always known for. This one is softer, aided with a genuine sincerity that gleamed once in a blue moon, especially in times like these where he’s in need of that.
He felt trapped, but all that feeling cooled down for a bit, knowing that he's not alone in this.
“Plus, this is your chance to be a star, why not grab the knob?” Mr. Dalton said.
And maybe he’s not going to college after all, huh? Not that he desperately wants it, it’s just that he wants a scapegoat from everything. Be free and embrace it to the fullest, but maybe this would provide him the same freedom from the tight grip of his father, right?
So, he nodded, “Alright.”
On the contrary to the rest of them, Neil did not even need to audition to prove his worth, he was expected.
Still, even if this was against their wishes, he insisted on sending his videotape of his dancing and singing, notwithstanding the fact that this was unnecessary and an overkill at this point.
But this whole deal just felt unfair.
No. This is unfair.
All he wanted was to prove himself, with no pretense, with no backup, no family connections.
And yet, it was an unnecessary act because they didn’t seem to care about it.
Weeks later, from kissing the velvety air of the shifting greens and golden leaves of Vermont, he was to move to the bustling streets and the not-so-great-to-breathe air of New York. Apparently, this was the whole reason why Charlie was missing from most of his classes, and in fact missing within Welton itself, and he had no—or anyone for that matter—had any ideas. And the fact he was able to graduate adds another fuel to the mystery.
Thankfully, he proposed to join him and offered to drive with him.
Moving away from a home you grew up in, not for the reasons Neil expected, still gave that indiscernible feeling that everything is an illusion all of a sudden. Like the walls of your childhood room is just a fragment of a past you couldn’t reach anymore, even if you still see its familiar physical descriptions, he couldn't help himself to feel like these aren’t the same walls he once stared and slept at anymore. Maybe he always felt that way, he just wasn’t sure.
He slowed down from putting his things inside his luggage, feeling the moment for a second as he closed his eyes. He let the approaching air of summer linger for a moment, let it meander in his lungs. Until he felt the lightness on his chest again as he exhaled.
Resuming from his task, he was able to finish it in no time. Looking at his room once more as he stood within the door frame, framed it in the back of his memory, and closed the door. He’s not going back in this house anytime soon, he thought, whether that’s a bad thing or not.
As he went downstairs, his father’s trophies in the wooden shelf and walls decorated with platinums met him, seeping its morning shine of the soaring sun directly at his eyes. He tried to ignore the distracting reflections, painful to even look at them for milliseconds, until his feet landed on the carpet floor of their halls. He said his kisses and goodbyes to his mother, waiting for him downstairs, and went off with his luggage. Mr. Perry nowhere to be seen.
The front door revealed its outsides, standing beside the white sedan is Charlie’s figure, one arm crossed, playing his keys in the other, leaning on his door wearing only some band’s shirt and black jeans.
“Get in loser, we’re going to New York,” his usual smirk drawing in his face.
Dragging along his luggage on the pavement, he snickered, “Not ‘til you pick this up first,”
He rolled his eyes, but the ever-present smirk just intensified, which says otherwise. And Neil helped by opening up the back compartment and helped lift his luggage up.
“Did you bring your whole-ass room in this? It’s so fucking heavy,” he lamented as both of them placed Neil’s stuff inside beside his.
He shuddered, “Maybe.”
Charlie sighed and stretched his arms and back, “God, I will not miss this place,” and closed the compartment.
“Ditto,” replied Neil, though he’s not so sure about that.
Both entered the car simultaneously. Neil in the shotgun, and Charlie in the driver’s seat. Letting their last taste of normalcy seep in their senses as they took off their journey.
There’s something about the morning of Vermont that soothes the psyche. Maybe it's the lush color of trees from spring resuming its journey to the warm, beachy summer. Maybe it’s the people walking with their dogs on the leash, or the ones that do their morning jogs, whose presence is always present in this familiar gray pavement.
He believes that life should feel this way, a calm, innocent, and beautiful thing.
A smile managed to creep into his face as he felt the breath of the warm sun, welcoming the voice of Robert Smith blasting in Charlie’s car in his ear.
Even if this is not the path he chose, and maybe, just maybe, somewhere along the other side of whatever awaits him is the day he envisioned for so long, close enough to feel it in his reach. A utopia of some sorts where finally he has full control over his own grip, where the rain finally stops and reveals a rainbow hidden within the mountains. While birds are dancing in the sky singing and flapping their wings, as if the world is in their feathers. He clings to that vision like it’s reality; the day where maybe life is more than just blood and his father’s orders, the day where life is now something that is worth fighting for, something that is worth seizing.
But for now, the only thing he can only do, as he closed his eyes to sleep, is hope.