Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: So I'm not entirely sure this makes sense. Let me know if it doesn't.

Todd, Neil begins, eyes bright with affectionate exasperation. Todd, doesn't it mean anything? Any of this, doesn't it strike a chord, make you feel something?

Todd has heard this many times, and his response is ever the same. He shrugs uncomfortably, ducking his head as his bangs slide forward and cover his eyes.

Gah! Neil, throws his hands up, gabbling frustratedly and furiously, and when Todd can't cover a grin in time, Neil looks at him from the corners of his eyes, and his lips slide up into a smile as well. Neil drops a hand onto Todd's head, ruffling his hair with a look that says he'll try again some other time, and leaves the room.

When he's gone, the room feels empty. Some great presence has left, and Todd finds it hard to go back to poring over his homework.

Neil just doesn't get it. Todd isn't unaffected; poetry does excite him; it leaves him breathless and wordless, and it leaves him feeling melancholy and tragic and helpless, and it leaves him feeling too much and not enough...

Neil doesn't get it, and Todd has no way to put it into words of his own.

He doesn't need to go to every Dead Poets meeting; he doesn't need to read aloud and speak up and make his thoughts known. The others--they're searching for something, something indescribable to make them feel proud and strong and whole.

Todd has found his poetry in Neil.