secret admirer - dead poet's society

Chapter Three

Y/N approached the bespectacled boy before they could lose their nerve.

"Hey—Meeks, right?"

"Yeah," he stumbled a bit, surprised to be approached by his usually reserved classmate, "you're Y/N."

Y/N chuckled, "that I am."

He signaled to the taller boy waiting for him by the door—Pitts, Y/N remembered—before he gave them an easy smile, "what can I do for you?"

"You tutor Latin, right? I could use a study partner that actually knows what they're doing," a laugh, "if you have the time, of course."

"Oh, sure," he glanced at his watch, "Pitts and I are going to the library during common hour if you want to meet us there."

Y/N touched Meek's arm briefly, "thanks, Steven. You're a lifesaver."

The boy turned a shade of red that rivaled his hair and excused himself.

Relief bloomed in Y/N's chest as they released a breath they didn't realize they were holding. Their half-cocked plan was in motion.

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"So much for 'we're just going to have to wait and find out' huh?" Quinn mocked Y/N from their seat at the lunch table.

"Well I can't just let him be the only player in this whole thing," Y/N shook the latest letter around, "if he wants to play a game, I want to be the one winning."

"Y/N, the man is infatuated with you. I wouldn't exactly call it a game."

Y/N huffed as they shoved the letter back into their bag, "these things are starting to get annoying."

"Oh, yeah," Quinn rolled their eyes, "it must be such a burden to have Whitman reincarnate writing you love letters."

"Whatever."

"So, what is your plan, exactly?" Quinn asked around a mouthful of pasta.

Y/N was suddenly bashful, "I honestly didn't think I would get this far."

Quinn stared blankly back at Y/N.

"This is the part where you tell me what to do, Quinnie."

"Torture. Medieval style. Get your answers."

"You're truly unbelievable," Y/N ran a hand through their hair and stood from the table, "I'm going to be nice, and I'm going to study latin. Roll with the punches."

_________________________________________

Meeks was mildly surprised when Y/N actually showed up at the library. He was well aware that Y/N wasn't struggling with the subject matter—Welton made sure that its students knew who was at the top of the academic food chain. He was one of the rare lucky ones to be among them. He was curious why Y/N sought him out, but he knew better than to push the subject.

It took nearly all of common hour before Y/N started to feel at ease around the two boys. It seemed the feeling was mutual.

"So, Y/N," Pitts started, looking bored by his trig homework, "have any hobbies?"

"A few," Y/N muttered as they finished their last verb conjugation, "I like to read and write. I used to draw, but I barely have time to breathe outside of schoolwork."

The boys shared a glance that Y/N couldn't quite decode.

"Welton isn't exactly a breeding ground for creativity," Meeks sighed.

"That's an understatement," Y/N scoffed, "Welton is where creativity comes to die."

Another look between the boys.

"Touché," Meeks drawled, "so...you're roommates with Quinn, right?"

Pitts grinned as a blush tinted Meeks' cheeks.

Y/N raised their eyebrows, breaking into a cheeky smile, "yeah, I am."

Meeks was suddenly very interested in the wall, the bookshelves, his textbook—anything other than Y/N, really.

"Are they...seeing anybody."

Pitts laughed, earning a scolding hush from the librarian.

"No, they're not," Y/N smiled, "I'll put in a good word for you, Meeks."

Relief flooded the boy's features and he was finally able to look at Y/N again, "thanks. I—"

"Like you could pin down someone like Quinn."

Charlie Dalton had a habit of showing up at the worst times.

"Very nice, Dalton," Y/N closed their book and slid it into their bag, "that's my cue to leave."

"Oh, please. I—"

"Don't let him get in your head, Meeks," Y/N looked between their study partners, "see you two around."

Before Y/N could leave, Pitts called out, "we're usually here during common hour," he laughed and nudged Meeks with his elbow, "maybe you could bring Quinn next time."

Meek's head turned to Y/N so fast they thought his neck would snap, "could you?"

They grinned, "I'll see what I can do."

Y/N could hear the three boy's rushed whispers as the door closed behind them.

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"So you don't think it's either of them? Why?"

Y/N turned onto their side in bed, facing Quinn, who was doing the same.

"I don't know," Y/N looked at their nails, "I could just tell they weren't interested like that."

Quinn scoffed, "well, we've established that you aren't exactly aware when people are interested like that."

"Well, they gave me a pretty open invitation to join them again," Y/N smirked, "maybe you could come and run interference."

"You're not taking this seriously enough, Y/N."

"Whatever," Y/N flipped to face the wall, "goodnight."

Y/N couldn't fall asleep, though.

The issue with infatuation is that it's nearly impossible to not let it consume you at all times. It burrows deep into the fibers of your very being and suddenly you're fully engulfed by the idea of that person.

And that's all this was, really—an idea of a person. Y/N didn't know what their admirer looked like, how they acted, or even if their proclamations were truthful. Could reality meet the expectations being set by the letters? Y/N didn't want to admit it to themselves, but they were afraid to find out.

Y/N dreamed of a faceless poet that night.

Their heart ached in the morning.