charlie dalton had never, not once in his (admittedly short, as of now) life, looked forward to an english class.

he'd been barely scraping a seventy since he was fifteen- the only reason he had even gotten into welton was because his father was a banker that funded the school like a mother bird vomiting into its chick's mouth. it was safe to say english was not his subject, and as far as he was concerned, never would be.

until john keating had arrived. he was young- far younger than any of their current teachers were, tousled brown hair in a way that wasn't unsimilar to charlie's own. and he'd called the school hell-ton. that had sealed in the boy's curiosity, and he found himself almost anxiously awaiting the next class day.

how old do you think he is? he'd asked you, grinning that broad grin of his from the spot on your bed he'd decided was suitable. if he weren't your closest friend, you weren't sure you'd have been able to stand him as a roommate. carpe diem. that's- i like this guy.

he liked a teacher. god knows all too well how rare that occasion is for almost any student at welton, and for charlie dalton? unheard of.

he spent the rest of the week jabbering about it just about as much as neil jabbered over todd, and had this morning- tuesdays and thursdays were double english, and it was thursday- been practically vibrating in his seat- even more so than was typical.

he walked into the rather dim, average classroom, clutching your arm with significantly more fervor than was typical for the first thursday of the semester. he excelled at math, he was going to be a banker for godsakes.

"think he's gonna drag us out again?" he mused, words spoken closely to your ear. and then, in the best impression he could- he gave the low, ghoulish whisper of carpe diem keating had so graciously stuck into each and every one of your heads this week.

he broke off with a laugh, though, before you could comment, giving you a grin that most outsiders would call dickish, but you knew it to be an almost childish plea for you to tell him he was funny- snicker at his joke, give him a smile, something.

at the exact moment he smiled, keating walked in. his steps were quiet- practically inaudible in the ruckus of the room, but a hush fell over everyone there. charlie wiggled his eyebrows at you.

the lesson was painfully ordinary for the first fifteen minutes- something about poetry, shakespere, j. evans prichard can shove it up the-

and then it was not, in fact, ordinary.

"-i want you to rip out that page," keating was saying, a pleasant expression still spread across his face.

the room was still. neil, who had been reading the paragraph, looked up, nose wrinkled in confusion.

"go on, rip!" he urged, giving them a look of bemusement. "rip it out, come on, boys."

charlie had sat up by now, eyes slightly wide, the beginnings of a grin forming at his lips. he slowly, deliberately, ripped out a page. "like that?"

this was going to be fun.