poeta nascitur, non fit ~ steven meeks x fem!reader

noble pursuits do not guarantee happiness~

"After so many years, you'd think my hands would stop shaking before I stepped foot in the halls of Hell-ton." (y/n) laughed musically before agreeing.

"I don't think one ever escapes anxiety-inducing Hell-ton, sir." 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Thankfully, the day passed quietly for (y/n) and without incident, unless her un

godly amount of homework was considered an incident. Finally, it was time for English, her favorite part of the day! Sure, Latin with Meeks was an exceptional riot, but she'd always felt at home in Mr. Keating's English classroom, regardless of the material they were studying. Cowper, Whitman, Frost - she loved them all. The students settled themselves down, surprised that their teacher began the class from his heavy wooden desk at the front of the room.

"Gentlemen and lady," he winked at (y/n) "Open your text to page 21 of the introduction. Mr. Perry, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface titled 'Understand Poetry'?" Neil fiddled with his quite round reading glasses before clearing his throat and beginning. 

To (y/n), Mr. Pritchard's essay was the most boring thing she had endured that day, and she survived Chemistry earlier in the morning with Cameron, of all people. The gentleman explained that poetry was given a score on a graph, which resulted in a total yielding area. She scoffed and looked at Meeks - only to discover he was furiously scribbling notes down as if he truly believed what Neil had been reading. 

Mr. Keating on the other hand, had stood up and began drawing on the blackboard his rendition of Prtichard's "poetry scale".

"Excrement" the teacher begins, turning to face them with a bold smile on his face "That's what I think of Mr. J Evans Pritchard. We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry! I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it." he mocks while the students laugh. 

"Now, I want you to rip it out." (y/n) blinked, more surprised at Mr. Keating than she had ever been. Surely, he'd done some interesting things at Chester, but never vandalizing a published book! She looked at him with shock on her stunning features, to which he simply replied,

"Go on, rip out that entire page. You heard me; rip it out! Rip it out!" he commanded the student, who simply sat around the room as if Mr. Keating had suddenly gone insane before their very eyes. However (y/n) knew better. It was Keating who taught her society's definition of insanity meant the passionate artists of the world, the free-thinkers. 

Slowly and probably more dramatically then she needed to, (y/n) ripped the entire page out of her textbook. Meeks looked over at her, as if Keating's supposed insanity was contagious, and she had the plague. 

"Thank you, Ms. (y/l/n)!" Keating praised, beaming even more when Charlie Dalton followed suit "Thank you, Mr. Dalton as well. Following our little Joan of Ark! I want to hear nothing of ripping of Mr J. Evans Pritchard!" (y/n) looks over at Meeks.

"C'mon Steve, carpe diem, remember?" he gulps, still staring at his book. 

"Carpe diem." he agrees, his left hand taking its time to move and grab the page. Before the poor boy had time to react, (y/n) had grabbed his elbow and jerked it towards her, resulting in a satisfactory screech. 

"(y/n)! Are you crazy?!" he whisper-shouted. She winked

"Why, yes, thank you for asking! Now, darling, rip!" he grins, feeling more alive at (y/n)'s touch than he had in a while. He continued to tear out pages, making Mr. Keating clap his hands. 

"It's not the Bible, you're not going to go to hell for this. Go on, make a clean tear, I want nothing left of it." He reasons with the group, a twinge of disappointment at seeing Cameron refusing to rip snagging at his heart. 

"Rip! Rip! Rip!" Neil, in all his glory, cheers. The sound of ripping fills the air, and with it, (y/n) suspects, trapped minds starting to strain against their cages laid in place by this hellish place. Mr. Keating grabs a wastepaper basket from his office, coming out to discover Mr. McAllister demanding what the hell is going on. Keating smiles politely

"Yes, I am." Almost embarrassed, McAllister backs out of the room like a puppy whom had been swatted. As if nothing has happened, Keating goes around the room collecting the discarded papers from scholars with various emotions plain as day on their young faces. 

"Armies of academics, going forward, measuring poetry. No, we will not have that here. No more of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. Now in my class you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I see that look in Mr. Pitt's eye, like nineteenth century literature has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school. Right? Maybe. Mr. Hopkins, you may agree with him, thinking "Yes, we should simply study our Mr. Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions." I have a little secret for ya. Huddle up. Huddle up!" 

The man gathers each study in the center of the room, somewhat awkwardly forming an academic circle that painfully resembled a football team huddle. (y/n) cringed, but rested her head on Meeks shoulder to peer around him to get a better look. 

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life." The students look around at one another, each lost in their own thoughts and the sound of his voice ringing through the air. 

"But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." 

These words stuck out to (y/n) the most. In the girl's mind, hundreds of connections between expectation set for her and her happiness(or lack thereof) through themselves around in the most beautiful way she'd ever thought possible, however chaotic and disorganizes they seemed. 

"To quote from Whitman: "O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." The students held their breath, anticipating what astounding and wonderful advice he would give to them next. 

"What will your verse be?" (y/n) notices that Mr. Keating looks at Todd as he says this, right into his gorgeous colored eyes. Little does Todd realize, that Neil is staring at him in adoration that (y/n) could tell stretched far beyond friendship. 

In fact, she was paying so much attention to Neil and Todd, she failed to subject her gaze to the boy whose shoulder she rested her chin on; who was gazing at her like she was a Van Gogh, and the rest were pictures drawn by children.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

a/n: omg that chapter with 1.8k words i'm so sorry but i mean come on, it's the little things!