Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic. Otherwise, I'd have Charlie all to myself! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

"Mr. Dalton?" Mr. Crocelli's voice made Charlie jump out of his seat.

"Yes, Mr. Crocelli?"

The elder gentleman smiled as he handed Charlie a small brown package. "Mr. Keating asked me to give this to you."

Charlie looked up at Mr. Crocelli. "Thank you, sir. He told me to be expecting this." Charlie couldn't help but smile. He carefully tore open the paper and stared hard at the book in his hands. Five Centuries of Verse. "Mr. Crocelli, did you know?"

Mr. Crocelli laughed. "I must admit I did. He said to tell you that it is to be used for good and not for evil, Nuwanda." The teacher laughed.

Charlie opened the book and read the words on the first page. In Mr. Keating's distinct writing was Henry David Thoreau's words.

I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

H.D. Thoreau (1817 – 1862)

Charlie couldn't help but be excited. He tried not to run to English Class. He sat behind David Peters. "Psst. Peters." He whispered.

Peters looked behind him. "What, Dalton?"

"We gotta talk, man." Charlie's face lit up.

Peters had never really talked to his well-admired roommate and was intrigued by whatever it was that not only made Charlie smile, but also made him want to talk. "About?"

"Later." Charlie looked to the door and stood as Mr. Evans entered the class.

Mr. Evans sat his books on the desk. "I trust each of you did your assignment." He looked at the back. "Mr. Dalton, I assume you will read yours first."

Charlie sighed. Teachers hadn't picked him on this bad since freshman year. He stood at the front of the room and read his poem.

We were given an assignment

To write a poem according to Pritchard

This was a stupid assignment

That bored me and I found hard.

How do you treat poetry

As though it were some sort of pipe?

Isn't poetry perfect as it is

A glimpse into someone's mind?

This poem, I promise

Will score negative on Pritchard's Scale

And I know Mr. Evans will frown

And I will this assignment surely fail.

Mr. Evans sighed. "Mr. Dalton, you will stay after class today and write a new poem. Understood?"

Charlie took his seat. "Yes, Sir."

Peters looked up as Charlie entered the room. "Everything okay?"

Charlie smiled broadly. "Yeah. Hey, listen. I've got something that might be of some interest to you." He knelt beside Peters.

"What?" Peters was now intrigued. Charlie Dalton was not only talking to him, but also claimed to have an item of interest to him. Charlie held up the book and Peters hesitantly took it, examining it. "Jesus, Dalton. Where'd you get this?"

"Doesn't matter." Charlie took the book back and hopped on his bed. "But here's what does. Dead Poets."

Peters shook his head. "Dead Poets?"

Charlie jumped up and down on his bed, trying to figure out if he should start a new Dead Poets Society and if so, who would he trust enough? "Yeah. The poetry of the dead poets."

"I don't get it."

Charlie jumped off the bed, landing close to Peters. "Women swoon." He smiled in memory of Knox. Why do they swoon? Tell me why they swoon.

Peters looked at Charlie, wondering what was so funny. "Why would I want women to swoon, Dalton? I have too much school…"

"Read the words in the front of the book, Peters." Charlie stood up, wondering why he was even bothering. As Peters took the book, Charlie quoted the words. "…when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." He looked at Peters. "Come on. Suck the marrow of life. Carpe Diem! Make your life extraordinary!"

"How?" Peters sighed. "No one likes me much and you know better than anyone that I'm not exactly a public speaker."

"Neither was Todd." Charlie lay back on his bed. "But don't you see that's the beauty of this all." He suddenly shot up and knelt next to Peters, his hand on Peters' shoulder, and whispered. "In the Dead Poets Society, we were all equals. Except that boot licker Richard Cameron, but that's beside the point. Peters, isn't there anyone you want to swoon over you?"

Peters looked at Dalton and smiled. "There is this one person." Peters sighed.

"Tell me about her." Charlie pushed.

"So full of life and energy. Almost like nothing in life can bring her spirit down." He smiled as he looked back at his book and then suddenly frowned, lowering his voice. "The sad thing is that she wouldn't ever look my way."

"Why not?"

"Not her type." He looked at Dalton. You like women and I find that I really like you and not just as a friend. "She likes guys like you, Dalton." Peters watched Charlie as he paced the floor. There's something about you, Charlie Dalton, that makes me want to kiss you. I don't know what it is. "You say something?"

"Yeah. Let's do it."

Peters choked. "Uh, yeah sure." He was hoping Charlie Dalton was not a mind reader.

"Yeah. I'll find a few more guys that we can trust."

"What will they say?"

Charlie shrugged. "Not sure, but if they like the poetry of the dead poets and want women to swoon, they'll be in!" He laughed as he raced out the hall.

Peters now understood what Charlie was talking about. He turned back to his writing. With Charlie gone, Peters could now pull out his private journal and write in it. He paused a moment before writing.

Charlie Dalton is an addiction. We have so few of those in life and I find mine in my very room. I can't stop thinking about him and his vibrance for life and, as he stated, sucking the marrow out of life. I am unsure of what happened at Welton, but I know that it was not an easy leave for him, and yet, as he talks, walks, writes…lives…you begin to wonder about the power of living life. I know that the papers talked about the young man from Welton that killed himself and it was shortly after that, that Charlie Dalton came to Albany. He was, admittedly, a little withdrawn, but as we divulged more into poetry in English class, Charlie Dalton began to come alive and I loved to watch as his eyes sparkling and to hear his voice nearly sing as he recited some works.

Now, he talks of dead poets, handing me a book of Five Centuries of Verse, Henry David Thoreau's words written in the front cover: I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, with when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Is that what Charlie Dalton is doing? Living so that when he comes to die, he finds that he lived?

So what am I doing? Am I not living? Was the tragedy at Welton designed in such a way that I would get Charlie Dalton as a roommate, teaching me about life? So I could learn how to live? Until I know how everyone will respond to the fact that I am attracted to men, especially Charlie Dalton, I fear I will never live.

He lives by the phrase 'Carpe Diem', which literally means 'Seize the day'. He has it written in all notebooks and books of his. He even has it scribbled on a sheet of paper that hangs near his bed. And there's another poem. One by a John Keating. He's a poet I've never heard of, but I will write the poem in here because it is lovely and I do enjoy it and when Charlie leaves me, it will be a reminder of him and I shall smile each time I read these words:

'Only in their dreams are men truly free

T'was always thus and always thus will be.

J. Keating.'

Isn't that lovely? But, I hear Charlie's lovely voice coming down the hall and I must put this away before my secret is revealed.

Peters managed to get the journal safely in his desk before Charlie pounced in. He looked at Peters with a smile. "It's on." Charlie lay back on his bed. "The Dead Poets live again."