Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or the poem. I only own my slash-lovin' imagination.

"I'm sorry."

Neil looked up from his book. Todd's eyes were fixed on the notebook in his lap. He was writing. "What?"

"I'm sorry, you know, for…before. I'm – Good luck, with the auditions. I'm happy for you. Sorry."

Neil blinked, then smiled, uncertainly. Todd was still scribbling in his notebook. "That's OK," he said, trying to sound reassuring and not utterly relieved. "Thanks for looking out for me. And I can understand why you wouldn't want to deal with my dad, either." Todd nodded; his pen paused, but he didn't look up.

Neil went back to his book. He turned a page, continuing to watch the words blur and melt together. He couldn't even remember what subject he was studying. He turned another page.

"Todd?"

"Hmm?" and still he didn't look up.

"I'm not trying to make you like me. I don't want you to be. But I bet if you talked, people would listen. I would."

Todd's eyes flickered upwards, met Neil's, then shot back to his notebook. Neil had seen the panic, and understood.

He moved to the edge of his bed, put his feet on the floor, directly facing Todd. "Tell me what you have to say. And I'll listen."

Todd looked up again, and didn't look away. The panic was gone; he looked desperate, questioning, not afraid but uncertain. He passed his notebook silently to Neil.

We are dreaming of a new day

When a new day isn't coming…

We are waiting for a battle

We are already fighting

We are dreaming of yesterday

When yesterday is already here…

Neil finished the poem. He asked Todd for his pen. He wrote quickly in the notebook.

He returned Todd's notebook, then held out the pen. He dropped it, and his fingers tangled briefly in Todd's. He dragged the tips along Todd's palm, and returned to his bed and to reading his book.

Todd didn't speak, or move; he may not have even breathed. He looked down at the page.

I am dreaming

I am waiting…