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There were a handful of poems about flowers in the Five Centuries of Verse book that had become the Dead Poet’s modern bible. Todd Anderson had read them all, because there was something so inexplicably poetic about sitting wistfully on a windowsill, staring out at the flowers persevering and blooming in the cold autumn months, and reading poems from hundreds of years ago by men who saw the same beauty in them.
It wasn’t often Todd felt like a poet, but when he was able to see the same things as Shelley or Keats or Wordsworth, it sparked something deep within him that refused to be snuffed.
It helped during those times when he felt that all too familiar drive within him to write, to create. He wondered if this was the same feeling that made men go off to war, or people to dramatically profess their love, consequences be damned; the primal urge to take action. When Todd felt that need to create poetry because of the sheer beauty of the sights around him, it was nice to know that if what dripped from his fingers was less than satisfactory, he could always open the Five Centuries of Verse and listen to men older and wiser than him put to words what that urge sought from him.
Flowers were poetic for more than just their beauty, though. Todd learned this very early on into his dabble with floristry. Flowers have poetic meanings, too. Each variety of flower had its own association, and on top of that, every colour, too. Even numbers of flowers had meanings, depending on how many were given in a bunch.
Hyacinthus orientalis, or just Hyacinth, were flowers that the Greeks often associated with sorrow or apology. The tale goes that supposedly Apollo, God of sunlight and, coincidentally, poetry, accidentally murdered his male lover Hyacinthus while throwing a discus. The flowers were said to have grown from Hyacinthus’ blood, and Apollo named them after him to forever capture his beauty, and to apologise for his fatal mistake.
Purple Hyacinthus orientalis are said to represent apology, like the apology of Apollo to his lover, while yellow Hyacinthus orientalis represent jealousy, like the jealousy of God of the West Wind, Zephyrus, who—in certain retellings of the myth of Hyacinthus’ death—is said to have grown jealous of Hyacinthus’ favour for Apollo, and killed him out of anger by knocking the discus off course.
Hyacinths are a pretty flower without the meaning, but Todd had always found that knowing of their poetic meanings made them all the more beautiful to spot in the wild, rare as they were at Welton.
All this to say, giving flowers was no easy feat for Todd. It was a declaration, and an incredibly passionate one at that, and not one he wanted to take lightly. Giving someone flowers was an act almost too intimate for a man of his unsteady confidence, but he’d been heavily informed of the social conventions after a play, and so it was that spectators were to throw flowers onto the stage to celebrate the actors.
Todd wanted to celebrate Neil. He wanted everyone to celebrate Neil. But throwing flowers at him from a crowd? Horrifying. Mortifying. Humbling.
“Just go with a rose,” Knox shrugged as he reclined on Neil’s bed, taking advantage of the fact that he could sit with his shoes on the sheets now that Neil was preoccupied at a rehearsal. “Everyone throws roses. It's normal.”
“Well, what colour?” Todd pressed.
“Red.”
“Red roses mean love,” Todd immediately protested. “I can’t give Neil a red rose.”
“But it’s not just for Neil,” Meeks chimed in, standing from his position leaning against the bottom of the bed frame. “It’s for all the actors. You throw flowers at the end, when all of the actors take their bows, so as to celebrate all of them.”
“But I don’t know the other actors,” Todd frowned. “Why would I give them a flower?”
“Because they’ve just performed a show for you!” Knox laughed, exasperated at Todd’s unfounded stress. “If you’re so worried, don’t throw a flower. It’s honestly not that big of a deal.”
“But if I don’t throw a flower, he’ll think I don’t appreciate him. And I, I really do appreciate him.”
Charlie knew what that meant, and he rolled his head to face Todd, who was sitting beside him on his bed just opposite Knox, before adding with a smirk, “so give him a red rose. Show him how much you appreciate him.”
Todd bit the skin of his bottom lip until he tasted blood, and he briefly wondered if there was something wrong with him.
“Are you going to throw roses?”
“I was planning on throwing my bra,” Charlie grinned. Pitts, seated just in front of Charlie on the floor, punched his leg as it hung off the bed by his head.
“Gross, Charlie.”
“Your bra?” Knox laughed.
“Well, I’m not gonna throw someone else's,” Charlie deadpanned.
Todd fumbled with his books as class ended, deliberately waiting until most of the other students had wandered out of Keating’s class before stuffing his things into his book bag and awkwardly approaching his desk.
The last of the class left, and when it was just the two of them, Keating looked up, a half smile playing at his lips.
“Something the matter, Mr Anderson?”
“Oh, no, no, I just had a question,” Todd answered, awkwardly clearing his throat. “About social conventions.”
“Another one?” Keating nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Well, I was talking to Knox and Charlie the other day, and they said to me that people usually throw flowers at the end of a play.”
“Red roses,” Keating nodded. “A beautiful way to express gratitude, isn’t it?”
“Yes, well, actually, I was just wondering, I mean, is—is it always red roses?”
Keating raised an eyebrow. “You had another flower in mind?”
“I have every other flower in mind,” Todd forced a laugh, but it came out dry.
“What’s your concern about roses?” Keating asked, before motioning for Todd to draw up a chair by his desk. It wasn’t often he saw Todd so chatty, so he may as well get comfortable and enjoy the inner workings of a future Walt Whitman or Oscar Wilde.
Todd dragged a chair closer to Keating’s desk and sat down, hands in his lap. “Red roses mean love,” he began.
Keating raised a brow. “Todd, there isn’t a world I can imagine where anyone would question you giving Neil a red rose.”
Todd knew he was supposed to feel embarrassed at that, but instead he smiled and looked down at his lap, trying not to show too much. “I know. It’s not that they’re not appropriate, but they’re so…”
“Forward,” Keating finished for him, beginning to understand. Todd was relieved he didn’t have to explain himself any further. “What other flowers did you have in mind, then?” Keating continued.
Todd reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, folded note. He opened it and flattened it on his knee before beginning to read.
“I was stuck between lavender, pansies or carnations,” he frowned. “But I don’t know where I’d find any of those in Welton.”
“Forget where you’d find them,” Keating dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Tell me why you chose each of them.”
Todd looked up and met Keating’s gaze for the first time since he’d walked over. Keating was the smartest man Todd had ever met, and he truly aspired to be even a fraction of the man he was; so it made absolutely no sense for him to pretend not to know something like the meanings of flowers. Keating was a poet and a genius. He had to have known. He was asking to hear Todd say it aloud.
“Uh,” he stammered, gaze averted. “Well, I like to think I’m quite calm, so lavender seemed—“
“Todd,” Keating laughed. “Don’t bother trying to fool me. All you have to do is tell me the meaning. You won’t be telling me any more. No assumptions, no judgement. Just the meanings.”
Todd swallowed thickly and looked down once more at his paper.
“… I chose lavender because it symbolises devotion,” Todd mumbled. “To me it’s a gentler love. It’s not as loud as a rose.”
“You could turn that into a poem with not much effort,” Keating hummed in approval, and Todd felt his ears buzz in excitement. “Okay, and carnations?”
The paper shook slightly in his hands as Todd tried to force out the words from his throat. They were so heavy that they hung low in his larynx, refusing to come out.
“They… Well, carnations, th… they can…”
Keating just tilted his head, encouraging Todd to keep trying.
“… Green carnations,” he finally cleared his throat, evoking a knowing nod from Keating, “can mean… forbidden love.”
Keating smiled. “Like the love Neil has for acting.”
Todd felt the pit in his stomach begin to slowly unfurl, and he just smiled. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“Those were Oscar Wilde’s favourite flower,” Keating added casually. Todd just whispered back a small,
“I know.”
“And pansies?”
Todd slipped the paper back into his pocket now that he felt the weight of the world fall off of his shoulders. “Pansies symbolise thought and love. It’s said that if you pluck one and hold it to your ear, you can hear your lover’s thoughts.”
“Flowers tell a person’s thoughts through their connotations,” Keating continued. “Giving Neil a pansy is like allowing him to hear your thoughts.”
Todd’s mouth went dry. “Yeah.”
“So, those are the three you’re considering?” He continued. “And you’re certain a red rose isn’t right for you?”
“Too loud,” Todd protested. “Too dramatic.”
“You are going to be watching a play,” Keating smiled. “Maybe dramatic is appropriate.”
“I feel more appropriately represented when I’m subtle,” was Todd’s curt response. Keating understood and leaned back in his chair, taking a second to mull over the options.
Lavender, green carnations, or pansies.
“There’s a florist in the town centre,” Keating responded after a moment’s consideration. “I’d suggest you go and see what they have. Maybe they’ll only have one of your flowers available, and then you’ll know it’s fate you choose that one.”
“You believe in fate?” Todd pressed.
“I would like to,” Keating admitted. “I’m still waiting to be convinced.”
A stillness hung over the almost empty classroom before Keating leaned over his desk and urged with a wink, “go convince me, Todd.”
“Can’t you borrow someone else’s bike?” Knox complained. “I was planning on cycling down to Chris’ school today. She’s cheerleading, and if I leave just before lunch, I can make it just before they all finish for the day.”
Todd grabbed him by his arm to stop him just before he started to queue for the showers. “Please, Knox. None of the other boys would let me, and Charlie doesn’t own a bike because his parents drive him everywhere. Please.”
Knox took one look at Todd, nails digging into his white button up shirt and those big blue eyes staring up at him like a husky, and he caved. He swatted the boy’s hand away and conceded with a huff, “fine, but try to make it back before lunch, okay?”
Todd was already halfway down the hall before he could hear Knox’s cried, “if it comes back with a scratch on it, I’m gonna kill you, Todd!”
Todd had only ridden a bike once before, and he’d fallen off almost as soon as he’d started pedalling, but he needed to get to the town centre and he wasn’t able to walk there and back all the way from Welton. If he wanted to grab his flower before the play on Saturday, he was going to need to do it today.
So, he stood there at the entrance of Welton, both hands holding the handlebars of Knox’s bike, and he forced himself to sit down. With one leg on the floor and the other on the pedal, he familiarised himself with the controls. He just had to move his legs in a circle, right? It couldn’t be that hard.
He felt like a baby bird taking flight for the first time as he pushed his feet off the floor and felt himself slowly beginning to inch forward, rapidly approaching the muddy slope that connected Welton to the main road. He pushed the foot on the pedal forward while his other flailed, trying to find the other as it swung. He was wild and uncoordinated, and before he knew it, he was speeding down the slope before he’d even gotten the hang of pedalling, unable to slow down.
He searched for the brakes and prepared to pull so hard that he flew over the handlebars and landed on his back like an idiot, but then his other foot met the pedal, and then he was moving forward. The chain clunked into place underneath him, and with every full rotation of the pedals, he was one step closer to the florist.
And so he took flight, growing bolder, the wind tousling through his hair and making his eyes water as he accustomed himself to the power that came with being able to use so much of his energy to move inhumanely fast. This must be how horses felt, he supposed, when they were free to gallop at immense speeds without once looking back. He felt unstoppable and he soared past traffic lights, darted between cars, and raced down hills without a fear in the world. He was a force to be reckoned with as he pulled the brakes, coming to a halt just outside of the florist Keating had told him about, tucked away beside a bakery.
He leaned the bike against the window and wandered inside. A bell chimed above him as he opened the door, fading away into the soft sounds of a melody playing on a record player in the back.
Immediately, the scent of roses and lavender filled the air, much to Todd’s excitement. That was one flower checked off the list. If Keating were here, he’d probably have said something about the fact that he’d immediately registered the scent must mean that it was the flower he was supposed to pick, but Todd wasn’t as easily swayed. Flowers were laid out in bouquets all around him, some monochromatic and all of the same flower like the rows of just red rose bouquets, while others contained many, multicoloured flowers. The walls of the shop were painted black which made the roses seem all the more pretty, their colours filling the room almost like smoke.
“Can I help you with something?” A woman at the counter asked, and Todd must have visibly flinched because she held out a hand to soothe him and continued. “If you’re looking for something specific, I’m sure I could help you find it.”
Todd’s hand instinctively reached into his pocket, fumbling with the note. All words left his mind, all syllables fell from his mouth lamely. He needed a reminder of what he was looking for, and he read from the paper like a script.
“G… green carnations… lavender… pansies?”
The woman hummed and motioned for him to come closer, before taking the paper from him and looking it over.
“Well, we’re all out of green carnations,” she sighed. “We had to stop selling those after they became a symbol. You know how it is.”
Todd swallowed hard. He still couldn’t speak, now more than ever.
The woman looked down. “Well, we have lavender, I know that for sure. Pansies, I can check for you,” she agreed, before sliding him the note. “Wait here.”
Todd took the note and stuffed it back into his pocket now that he couldn’t use it as a lifeline and willed the words to seep back into his brain. He was just thankful people assumed his silence was shyness and not stupidity.
The woman eventually wandered back through, holding two flowers.
“We have one pansy left, you’re in luck,” she smiled, placing them both on the counter before him.
The lavender strip was fragrant, and had many smaller branches of lavender growing from it in all directions. It was an exceptionally pretty flower, but he wasn’t sure how good enough of a symbol it was when laid out across a stage littered with red roses.
The pansy, however, was much bolder. It had white petals that melted into a deep, rich blue at the ends. The veins in the centre of the flower were a dark blue, interrupting the white with little lines of colour that ran through each and every petal like a string. The stem was thick and had no leaves, but was significantly shorter than the lavender. He stared at the two of them, as if trying to look through them for their real meanings, as if trying to discern which was more authentic, which more deserving.
Todd cycled home with one flower that day, tucked away in his blazer so it wouldn’t fly away in the wind as he soared home once again, enjoying the feeling of the cold air on his skin and the way his hair flew back out of his face. For a moment it felt like freedom, and Todd made a mental note to thank Knox for the experience later.
He reached Welton and put Knox’s bike back with the others, reattaching the chain before he ran inside, flower concealed under his blazer. Once he reached the dorms, he asked Charlie to keep it in a glass of water until the morning since he couldn’t risk Neil seeing it until the play the next day and ruining the surprise.
Charlie, albeit confused, took the flower and slammed the door in Todd’s face.
So, it was about as productive as a conversation with Charlie Dalton could be.
“Did you find your flower?” Keating asked as the group all queued up to enter the auditorium where Neil was performing. Todd hadn’t seen him all day, and he was starting to feel homesick, which was strange, because he’d never felt homesick before, not even when he moved into Welton.
“Yeah,” Todd smiled, patting the inside of his blazer pocket and smoothing down his sweaty palms. He and the boys had gotten all dressed up in suits to go see the play, and for a moment, Todd felt a little like he was going on a date. His hair was brushed neatly out of his face so he couldn’t hide behind it when the time came, he was dressed in a suit so uncomfortable it made his skin itch, and he was hiding a flower practically up his sleeve.
Charlie and Knox had a rose in their pockets, but none of the other boys were throwing flowers. They were content to just sing Neil’s praise after the show— and roses were surprisingly expensive.
Keating led the boys down a row of seats, and Todd was between him and Cameron. Keating reached over and just for a moment he rested his hand on Todd’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. As he let go, the lights dimmed, the curtain fell, and the play began.
Todd found himself silently mouthing along with Neil during scenes he remembered rehearsing, eyes locked onto his friend as he performed. He remembered saying the lines of the other characters over and over down by the dock while Neil cursed at himself for forgetting his own, and Todd was always there to prompt him. The lights illuminated Neil as if the light of Apollo were bathing Hyacinthus, the mortal prince he loved more than Godhood. His brown hair was an orange golden colour under the spotlight, and his eyes gleamed with passion as he uttered every word. He would occasionally skim the crowd as he spoke, as if searching for the boys, and when his eyes locked with Todd, mouthing the lines of the other actors, Todd was practically there on stage. The two boys locked eyes from halfway across the auditorium, performing the play to each other and no one else, until Neil was forced to lock eyes with the girl beside him, albeit with less enthusiasm.
Neil delivered the last line and took a step back to allow the other actors to file in beside him, and every hair on Todd’s arm stood on end. Clapping wasn’t enough. He needed to be there, to hold Neil by his shirt and stare at him and spill the passion in his heart, the same passion he’d felt a few days ago when he’d gone to write a poem about the flowers at Welton. The same feeling overtook him. A call to action.
All of the actors stood on stage, before linking hands and bowing. The Dead Poets took to their feet and all cried in unison, “YAWP!”, much to the amusement of Mr. Keating, who turned to the others, surprised to see Todd among them. Charlie and Knock drew their roses and flung them on stage, and the audience followed. Red roses were tossed and littered the wooden panels, but Todd held back. He waited, and waited, despite the little voice in the back of his mind, terrified he was missing his chance, crying, “go, go!”
He waited until he saw Neil begin to stand from his bow, and only then did he act. He was the last to throw, and his white and blue pansy flew through the air, landing by Neil’s feet. A few people turned to give Todd a slightly confused glance, but their stares didn’t matter.
Only Neil’s.
Neil met his eyes and then looked down to the floor, a single flower standing out, right by his feet. As the curtain began to fall, Todd saw him crouch to pick it up, and then hold it beside his ear to listen.
“NEIL!” Charlie cried as soon as he was out of the door. He grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him into a hug, more earnest than Todd had ever seen from Charlie. It lasted about a second or two before Charlie was pulling away and crying out, “good for you, man! Bravo!”
Pitts and Meeks patted Neil’s back and ruffled his hair, murmuring their praises over the sounds of voices from all around. Even Mr. Keating took his time to congratulate Neil and very sternly award his praise, his hands coming to cup just under Neil’s jaw, fingers resting against his neck.
“You were incredible,” he beamed. “A born showman. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Neil was visibly overwhelmed by the response, clearly trying to be grateful while he processed the hands all over him, ruffling his hair, patting his back, and lifting his head. His gaze skimmed over everyone while they talked, but it always led back to one person.
Todd stepped forward. His fingers were buzzing with excitement, and the need to communicate the passion within him was overwhelming, but the words never came. He just stared up at Neil, dry mouthed and teary eyed, before collapsing into his chest.
The other boy’s awwwed and ooed, but Todd tuned them out, hyper focused on the way Neil’s hands automatically came up to curl around his head and his waist, pressing him closer. His head came down to rest against Todd and they stood in that position for much longer than they probably should have, and significantly longer than Charlie’s hug to Neil.
Nobody told them to stop. And so, for a while, they didn’t.
When Todd pulled away, he looked down at Neil’s hand and noticed him still firmly holding the pansy. Neil caught his stare and gently pressed the bud of the flower to his ear.
He leaned his head down to whisper into Todd’s other ear, “I like your hair like this.”
Todd curled his fingers around Neil’s hand and pushed the pansy to Neil’s ear, before doing the same trick. He hadn’t said a word to Neil all day, and the first words he whispered to him were, “I like you like this.”
Neil laughed and leaned back. “What, acting?”
Todd shook his head. “Happy.”