SYMPHONY; dead poet society one-shots

war: stephen meeks

tw: death

to my dearest,

times are getting a little difficult. i can't even remember when it was the last time i had an actual bed to sleep in. i'd say i'd be home soon but if i'm being completely honest, i think this is just the beginning.

so, sit back, and let me tell you all the wonderful things you've done for me. and all the things i have loved doing for you. because if there's even a slightest chance this goes longer than i was told it would, i want you to know how much i care about you.

do you remember our high school days? you know, when i would make silly little radios and we'd dance on the rooftop with gerard just to get a little thrill in life. there wasn't plenty to do, so little things like that really became core memories. i remember the first time i spun you into my arms. it was so funny because you went beet red and freaked out so much you punched me.

it didn't hurt much but now part of me wishes it did so i could remember it better. do you remember when we went on a bicycle ride together out into town. you got me those goofy little blue dangly decorations for my bicycle and people thought i had stolen my sisters bike for the date. and we stopped by a little stop and shop just so i could get you a little basket with a teddy bear on the front. i remember how much you love teddy bears. anything stuffed for that matter.

i got you a teddy bear for your birthday. a stuffed cow for valentine's with heart marks, and a baby lion right before i left. i could buy you the entire zoo if you let me. and trust me, i know that you would.

there's few things i was allowed to bring here with so i'll make a short list. pen & paper (duh), monoculars, and when i go back to rest, a picture of you framed in a ivory that makes your cheeks blush a little more cutely than usual. but in case i'm mistaken and it's a sunburn you should've gone to go check that out.

they told me my round here would last two more weeks. so i'm hoping—no, begging, that it stays that way. i can't wait to see you and make more memories. I can't wait to see you and make days with you.

i have so much planned for us. we could move to massachusetts and get a house with a porch like you've been writing just so you could read outside or which the rain and feel the coldness on your skin. and i could get back into gardening so we could have some orange trees our neighbors could pick from. we could paint the rooms and remodel it to make it a forever home.

and a forever home needs a dog, or a cat, or a horse. whatever you'd let me keep. a forever home needs our hands on the cement on our pavement so people know our home is our home.

i can't wait to get home to you soon.

i love you,
stephen, yours.

Two days before his day of arrival he walked with the intention to pack his belongings. Which considerably weren't much but he was far too jittery to care. A clouded mind of excitement and joy was upon him. So, about a mile away from his post he bent down to pick a dandelion and wish.

A wish he knew would come true which would be to go home. But when he bent down he heard a click. And soon a rip against his skin.

He had stepped on it.

And he was afraid to move.

Two days later, his belongings had arrived back in Vermont.

Everything except the person who inhabited them.