𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴 ೃ⁀➷ 𝘴. 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴

(𝑰𝑹𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑰𝑩𝑳𝑬) 𝑷𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑺

"I have drunken deep of joy, and I will taste no other wine tonight."

After the curious and engaging call with Jeremey, Iris led the group back onto the sun-brushed lawn. Boys swamped through the pathways, pushing and shoving and laughing about things nobody else would understand. Games of frisbee and football commenced, which served as a distraction for the stressed students.

Mr. Keating strolled through the grass, whistling a somewhat familiar tune. The group picked up their pace, calling out to their teacher to no avail. Iris's hair was swished around by the crisp, late autumn air, creating a mesmerizing aura around her wind-whipped body. Todd was beside her, confusing and tripping himself up as he tried to match their footsteps together. It was no secret that the two had taken to each other, seeing as they were the newest transfer students Welton had to offer.

The slapping of rubber soles softened as the group neared their target. "Mr. Keating?" Neil called, earning no response. "Sir?" Their pace slowed to a walk.

"Say something else," Charlie hissed.

Rolling her eyes, Iris pushed her way into the front. "Oh Captain my Captain?"

As soon as the words left the girl's lips, Mr. Keating spun around to face the group. "Miss Westworth, Gentlemen," he acknowledged. Knox scoffed jokingly, nudging Cameron's arm. Todd made his way around to the front, following Steven, who stood proudly next to Iris.

"We were just looking in your own annual," Neil explained, handing the teacher his class book. The man's face visibly dropped, causing Iris to stifle a giggle. Steven raised his eyebrow, gazing down at the shorter girl's antics. His face reddened as he felt a warm hand snaking it's way into his grasp. Iris smiled when she noticed the boy lacing their fingers together; the familiar sensation of butterflies flooding through her veins.

"Cool the PDA, you two," Pitts smirked. The pair's cheeks blushed a crimson red, though their hands did not fall. Iris sent the giant-boy a pointed glare, causing him to playfully throw his hands up in surrender.

Eyes trailing over the page, Mr. Keating whispered an "Oh, my god." The man chuckled and continued to read from the leather bound book. "No, that's not me. Stanley 'the Tool' Winston. God." He had now squatted down, getting into a position that couldn't have been very comfortable given the shoes he had been wearing.

Looking at the others for support, Neil stepped forward and asked the question. "What was the Dead Poets Society?" He sunk into the same position, meeting Mr. Keating at eye level.

Sighing, the man gave him a wistful look. "I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that."