Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic…except for Neal, Dean, Haldon, Peters, Mr. Crocelli, Steven, Jeffery. If I DID own the characters (Uh, DPS ones, obviously!), I'd have Charlie all to myself! And the things we could do in that Indian cave! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Get hankies ready! Sad needing comfort Nuwanda ahead.

"I call this meeting of the Dead Poets Society to order." Charlie blew his saxophone in an off key note, sending the others in fits of laughter. "Who wants to go first?"

Jeffery stood up. He was tall and lanky like Pitts, but a little more sure of himself. "I found this poem of W.B. Yeats." Peters glanced over at Charlie, who seemed unfazed by it. White 'ahemed'. "'The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart' by W.B. Yeats.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,

The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,

The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,

Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;

I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,

With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold

For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart."

Jeffery finished it with a flair and a bow, while the others cheered and clapped.

Charlie blew hard and off key again on his saxophone. He found himself lost in another time, at another school. As he played erratically, he paused, just as he had at Welton, speaking the same poem. "Laughing, crying, tumbling, mumbling. Gotta do more. Gotta be more." He played more erratic sounds. "Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming. Gotta do more! Gotta be more!" And, as he had that day long ago in the old Indian cave under Knox's nose, he played a real tune under Haldon's nose.

Peters glanced at Charlie, awed by what had just transpired. Charlie Dalton was hard to figure out and he made sure that he let everyone know that Charles Rutherford Dalton was not an easy man to peg. Once someone thought they had him pegged, Charlie would change with an unpredictableness of an earthquake. Charlie didn't want to be pegged as anything. He wanted to live and as he played that saxophone so beautifully, with fingers of an expert, Peters felt that Charlie was indeed living.

Haldon Brooks and Neal Henry clapped and whistled while the others still sat in shock over Charlie's performance. Neal stood up, hitting his head on the low roof, causing Charlie to laugh. If it hadn't been Charlie, Neal would have been angry, but there was a sinister innocence to Charlie that made it impossible to be mad at him, so Neal joined in laughing. He rubbed his head and stopped laughing long enough to speak. "We have a musical virtuoso in our midst, gentlemen. I think…" The alcohol the boys had been sharing was starting to take its vicious grip on Neal. "I think…" Neal suddenly burst out laughing hard. "I think I forgot what I was gonna say."

Peters laughed nervously. He hadn't ever really drank alcohol, minus the night he made out with Charlie. "How come none of us ever knew you could play the saxophone?" Charlie merely grinned. And so the enigma of Charlie Dalton goes on. Peters thought.

We snuck away Friday night for a meeting and discovered things we didn't know about each other and ourselves. Neal Henry can't handle whiskey very well. He was trying to say something after Nuwanda's poem, but forgot what he was going to say. White…what do you ever say about him? He's a good kid. One that we should be proud to call friend. Singleton…none of us really care for him. I think he's there just for us to pick on. And Charlie. Charlie Dalton plays the saxophone. He plays it so beautifully, so magically. When he was playing it…even when he was playing haphazardly in the cave the other day, reciting that poem…he was…I only hope the others didn't see my want. I was so entranced by the spell he was weaving with his instrument. It was hard to not imagine that his fingers were that…well, that gentle touching me. Will never happen, but I can still dream and I can still taste his alcohol induced kiss. Peters looked up from his journal when he heard the bell dismissing them from second study hall ringing loudly. He quickly closed his journal and made his way to his room to catch up on Latin and Trig.

He opened the door and saw Charlie already sitting at his desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper. Nuwanda looked up and painfully grinned. "Hey."

Peters put his books on his desk. "You okay, Nuwanda?"

"Yeah. Just trying to do this assignment that Mr. Evans gave us."

"How long you been sitting here?" Peters sat on Charlie's bed, looking at him.

"I skipped second study hall. Well, not skipped, exactly." Charlie expanded no further.

Peters said nothing. Charlie was dealing with something and he wasn't going to talk about it. Somehow, the boy that Charlie was when he showed up at Albany was not the boy that was sitting at his desk. He was withdrawn and private. Peters moved to his desk to start his assignment. He heard rapid scratching of pen against paper and the door slamming. He looked over, only to see Charlie gone, but his assignment on his desk. Peters knew he shouldn't read it, but the temptation to see what was hurt his beloved was too much.

Neil,

I wanted so much to tell you these words while you were alive, but couldn't. You're my best friend and I never got to tell you. Perhaps I already felt you knew. Perhaps you already did know. After all, you knew me better than anyone, including myself. I think I would have pulled more idiotic stunts if you were never my first roommate. You always had…Neil, you always had ways of being who you wanted to be while still being what everyone else felt you should be. You never let them bring you down. You still dreamed and you dreamed big.

To see you on that stage as 'Puck', I was proud. So proud I nearly burst. You were fantastic and now I'll never read that play again without thinking of how brilliant you were. You deserved the standing ovation. You deserved our 'yawping'. You deserved to live. You deserved to be happy. You didn't deserve to be a prisoner to your father's dreams for you.

You certainly didn't deserve to die. We, your friends, didn't deserve it either.

When you died, Neil…rather, when you killed yourself, it killed us. Todd. Knox. Pittsie. Meeks. Mr. Keating. Me. Each one of us died with you that night. You meant something to us, Neil. You weren't just a friend. You were our unspoken leader. None of us would have done anything unless we felt you would do it or it met with your approval. The class may have collectively called Mr. Keating 'Captain', but you were the true 'Captain', Neil.

Each of us asked what we could have done to have protected you that night. Should we have ripped you from the car? Should we have called you? Gone to visit you? Could we, the Dead Poet's Society, your closest friends, have done something to save you?

Couldn't you have talked to us? Couldn't you have come to me and talked? I would have conned my parents for some money to get you to New York or Los Angeles or where ever you wanted to go to get away from your dad's influence. ANYTHING, Neil. All of us would have helped you if you had only asked.

But you never did.

Now…now I'm here…writing a letter to someone who influenced me for an English assignment (which I'll never read. I'll say I didn't do it and get a flunking grade because no one here understands)…at another Prep School because…because…Shit, Neil. Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore? Without friends, nothing matters. Without hope…without life. Nothing matters anymore, 'Captain'. NOTHING!

I've tried to maintain the whole happy-go-lucky-fuck-the-rules Charlie Dalton that you knew. But, dammit, Neil. It's not easy. Yes, I've made friends here, but none like you. None of them know me. I intend, 'Captain', to keep it that way.

And, oh yeah. Just so you know…I hate you for doing what you did. It solved nothing, Perry. All it did was bring an emptiness that should never be. But, I have forgiven you. I don't know how you saw it as your only way out, but who knows what any of us may have done had we worn your shoes that night.

I talk to Todd every once in a while and he's not doing so well. Sure, he's got Knoxious there, but still. It's not the same is it? Your final act tore us apart. None of us will ever be the same.

We loved you, Neil. And now, none of us can ever tell you.

How could you be so selfish?

Nuwanda

Peters sat at Charlie's desk, trying not to cry. He didn't know who Neil Perry, but apparently whoever he was had a big influence on Charlie. He finally understood why Charlie had been acting withdrawn since the assignment had been handed out. He sat on his bed and stared at the empty chair. He hated this Neil Perry for hurting Charlie this bad and if he wasn't already dead, Peters felt he would have killed him himself for hurting his roommate.