A/N: I've always wondered how it was that Charlie found out about Neil's death. It's been done here before, but here's my take on it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.

The radiator was warm as he sat upon it and outside the snow fell gently. Cameron snored slightly from the bed across the little room and Charlie smirked. What a guy, Cameron. So bent on being intelligent and conservative he came off as a pompous idiot who merely followed rules for lack of a sense of anything else but obedience.

Charlie sighed and pulled his knees up so that he could rest his chin atop them and gaze out at the grounds of the school he so desperately loathed.

Despised. Reviled.

He did not "really hate it" he detested it as Mr. Keating would say. Charlie had found a love for synonyms this year—something he would have found preposterous or ludicrous before his present English class.

He was just contemplating whether or not he should go back to bed. His eyelids had began to grow heavier and he'd yawned three times in the last minute…Classes would go on as usual tomorrow and-

-A knock at the door.

Charlie looked up, a faint frown on his face. Who the hell was knocking at their door at four A.M.? Half curious and half annoyed, Charlie slid off the radiator and padded across the floor—stealing a glance at the still-snoring Cameron.

He cut off a second knock by turning the knob and swinging the door open, revealing one of Mr. Nolan's assistants. "Um?" he said quietly, completely baffled as to why he was being woken up so late—or so early, as some would say—by a teacher.

Mr. Keating he could sort of see…As a kind of unique lesson, perhaps, but by one of these old, grey stiffs? Charlie shifted awkwardly; something was up.

"Mr. Dalton," the man at the door said, voice sad. Charlie swallowed thickly, a little seed of trepidation beginning to blossom in the pit of his stomach. "Follow me, if you will." He turned slowly, watching the student almost sympathetically.

Charlie obeyed, for once, but only because he sudden had a desperate, knowing need to know what was going on. Flashes from Neil's play earlier that evening whipped through his mind…Neil being half-dragged to the car by his angry father…Neil's face as the car pulled away from the greatest few hours of his life…

Five minutes later they reached the main office. Charlie had always hated this place; in a lot of ways it was the ultimate embodiment of everything he hated most: conformity, order, and the stopping point of any sense of individuality.

Mr. Nolan sat behind the desk, and it looked as though he'd gotten dressed in sort of hurry. He looked flustered, stressed…As though something very annoying had just happened and he was left to pick up the pieces. Charlie sat where he was directed; in one of the chairs before the desk.

"Good morning, Mr. Dalton,"

Charlie nodded slightly, eyes narrowed and a faint frown still frozen on his face. Apprehension filled him, and he shook slightly. Something bad had happened. He could feel it.

"What's going on?" he asked blatantly, getting straight to the point.

Mr. Nolan sighed and signaled to his assistant to close the office door and leave the room. Charlie watched him go, eyes wide.

"I have some very unfortunate news, Mr. Dalton," Mr. Nolan called back the young student's attention and Charlie turned back to face him. He was beginning to get a bit angry—if something had happened why would they just tell him already!

"What is it?" Horrible scenarios sped through his mind like wildfire; His father had died…His mother was ill…Mr. Keating had turned up missing…Neil-

"-This evening," Mr. Nolan started, cutting off Charlie's despondent thoughts. The man cleared his throat deeply and Charlie wanted to shake him out of impatience. "This evening it has come to our attention that Mr. Perry has…died."

Charlie stared back numbly. Blood roared in his ears and he lost all feeling of his body. He began to shake violently, his head moving back and forth…back and forth because none of this could be true!

"What?" he whispered. "What d'you mean-,"

Mr. Nolan sighed. "He committed suicide with his father's gun after being told that he was to attend t-,"

But Charlie heard no more. Shaking uncontrollably he shot back in the chair, scooted violently away from the desk, bolted from his seat and wrenched open the heavy oak door. And then he was running…running…running…Ignoring the muffled cries of several informed teachers and caretakers…Seeing nothing but-but-

-Neil.

H-how could this have happened? How could his-his oldest friend be dead by his own hand! Neil, whom he had grown up with, whom he had spent countless summers with, whom he had shared secrets and dreams and crushes and heartaches and whom he had come to think of as a sort of brother.

He was dead.

As Charlie rounded the corner into the familiar hallway where he spent every night at this place of hell he could take it no more and with a sharp intake of breath he collapsed against the wall next to one of the closed doors. At first the tears wouldn't come, and he was left gasping and dry heaving, eyes wide and unfocused and face as pale as the moon that shone outside.

And then he began to sob.

They came gently at first…Quiet little fingertips that sunk into his skin like raindrops…Reminding him of the times where he'd been scared or sad or lonely or angry, and who had been there to calm him but Neil. And that time when he was fifteen or sixteen and half delirious with pneumonia. Terrified at the prospect of his father thinking him weak because of it, Charlie had kept it a secret for too long and Knox and Meeks and Pitts and Cameron and Neil had been there through the worst of it…He'd been helpless then, but few other times.

He was Charlie Dalton. He was strong. He was the fearless, dauntless, rebellious version of Neil Perry, except now he was nothing but a seventeen year old child drowning in his own tears as he hugged his knees to his chest and tried to muffle his cries.

He must not have been altogether successful, because the door next to where he had fallen opened quickly, and through his tears Charlie recognized the figure as Knox, and this only made him cry harder.

"Jesus, Charlie!" Knox said, mouth agape as he fell to his knees besides his friend. "What's wrong?"

But Charlie couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but shake his head and try to choke back his sobs. After moments of tense fighting with himself Charlie managed to hiccup back his grief, and sniffing loudly he took a quaking breath.

Knox was patient and waited for his friend to get a hold of himself. When it appeared as though he finally had, Knox whispered the inevitable. "Charlie," he said softly, gently. "What happened?"

Charlie swallowed the last of his cries and wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to control his heaving gulps for air. "N-Neil-," he started, before his voice broke and he had to cough to try and gain control again. When he spoke again his voice was small, tentative, not the voice of Charlie Dalton. "He-he-,"

Charlie couldn't seem to finish, but Knox, miraculously, seemed to understand. Gasping almost silently he reached out to grasp Charlie's arm. "Is he-is he dead?"

Charlie nodded brokenly, beginning to sob again. Knox closed his eyes and blew out his breath slowly before grabbing Charlie in a tight embrace, holding him as he cried. For minutes they sat there, both grappling with shock and horror, and both finding comfort in each other's presence.

After his sobs had quieted back down to faint hiccups, Charlie whispered in a shaky voice, "We have to tell the others,"

Knox nodded, mind still reeling with unanswered questions. Tears burned the back of his own eyes, but Charlie had always been the strong one for him and now he had to be there for Charlie. "It's going to be okay, Charlie," he said in a hushed voice, and even though he wasn't sure if he believed his own words he knew it was probably the right thing to say.

Charlie didn't answer as he staggered to his feet and wiped his arm across his face. Tears still fell slowly from his dark eyes, but he put on a brave face as he walked slowly towards another room. Knox followed silently, biting his lip to keep from crying.

"Why-," Charlie began, stopping at the door and turning to look at Knox with a look of complete and utter grief that it nearly stopped Knox's heart. "Why would he do it, Knox? Wh-why would he kill himself?"

Knox tried to not to show the shock and dismay he felt as hearing such news. "I don't-I don't know," he whispered, shaking his head helplessly.

Charlie turned back to the door and reached shaking hand to turn the knob. "Meeks is a genius," he said, voice thin. "Maybe he'll-maybe he'll know-?"

Knox knew he was kidding in that Charlie-way, and smiled slightly, sadly.

Outside, the snow fell like roses upon a darkened stage.

It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.