SERIES: "Seize the Day" (1/4)
FIC: (Part One) "The Male Prerogative"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: 1989
FANDOM:  "Dead Poets Society"
PAIRING: Charlie Dalton / John Keating
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Touchstone Pictures, director Peter Weir, writer Tom Schulman, and to the respective actors who played the roles. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS: Slash, sorta, but not graphic. Really, this is about young love, meaning the warning should state "underage."
SUMMARY: Charlie Dalton wants to make an impression on his teacher, Mr. Keating.
AUTHOR NOTES: One of my favorite concepts in myth and literature is the love between the younger man and his male mentor or teacher. From the first time I saw "Dead Poets Society," I saw this possibility between the rebellious character of Charlie Dalton (Gale Hansen) and the inspiring English teacher, John Keating (Robin Williams). This is Alternate Reality; the story has the same characters but is set the second year of Keating's tenure at Welton; Neil Perry did not commit suicide in the first year, so the Dead Poets go on as before.

The Male Prerogative

Charlie Dalton studied his face in the bathroom mirror as he carefully combed his hair. His straight nose looked longer than ever to him, and he scrutinized his profile as best he could from out of the corner of one eye. If Meeks was right and your nose kept growing until you were 25, this could get out of hand soon. At least his nose was fine and straight and not hooked like Knox or pug like Cameron.

Charlie liked the way he looked, in general, although he didn't consider himself a great beauty or likely to ever be found handsome. Everything about his features could be called very clean and straight, just like his nose. His teeth were small and straight, with a straight gash of a mouth covering them. Charlie thought it was too bad his lips didn't betray his sensuality by being more fleshy and voluptuous, but the mouth really fit the rest of the face. Light brown eyes under long straight eyebrows, which curved and arced with every expression. Even his hair fit the picture, being brown and straight, straight to a fault, Charlie believed. He kept the top rather long and parted it on the side, to add some decoration to his face. He was thankful he was blessed with good, clear skin, even if his complexion was a little light. He didn't even mind that his chin was a little too pointed. He could have fared far worse. Just look at his roommate, red-headed Cameron!

Charlie did wish his eyes were a different color. If only they could be the light, clear blue of his English teacher, Mr. John Keating. Just the thought of Keating distracted Charlie's work on his hair, and he stared into the mirror without seeing. Keating's blue eyes, so full of emotion, understanding, compassion, intelligence ... they haunted Charlie. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, more beautiful than any girl's. Charlie thought them even preferable to Todd Anderson's gray eyes that could appear very blue or very green, or a combination of both. He sighed out loud.

"How can you just stare at yourself like that all the time?" asked Charlie's roommate, Richard Cameron. "Let me tell you, I see you every day, and it's not that fascinating."

Dalton scowled in Cameron's direction. He was blessed with an impressive scowl, by virtue of his fine brows. He Cameron his best sneer / stare.

"You are weird," Cameron said, shaking his head while he washed his hands. "But we all know that already."

Charlie sighed again and let up on Cameron. He finished combing his hair and left the bathroom without commenting, brushing past two fellow students as he walked out. He grabbed a sweater and pulled it on over his shirt, messing the hair he had so carefully combed. He put it back into place with the brush of a casual hand.

"Where you off to?" asked Neil Perry, sitting on the bed in the open room across the hall from Charlie's.

"Just a walk," Charlie answered. "I need some fresh air."

"You'll get it. It's pretty chilly out there."

Dalton shrugged and headed toward the back stairs. There was still an hour of daylight left, and he could get a good walk in before he had to be inside. He hopped down the stairs and burst out the door, the cool autumn air greeting him. He would have to keep moving to avoid chilling in just his sweater. Still, the cold never bothered Charlie too much. He was used to early morning rowing in freezing temperatures, and his body temperature was usually quite warm.

Charlie loved autumn. He didn't really mind the fact that it meant the return to school, which at this point in his life meant strict Welton Academy. In fact, Charlie preferred being at school to being at home. Although the schoolwork didn't thrill him, Charlie enjoyed being with this friends in an atmosphere that encouraged rebellion. His own home was far too stultifying, too grim, too musty. The Daltons were old money, longtime bankers, a stiff, humorless lot for the most part. That long, straight Dalton nose could be quite frightening on certain faces, such as Charlie's deceased grandfather or his maiden aunt, his father's older sister. Charlie remembered looking into Aunt Grace's face, trying to see something other than that imperious nose. Luckily he was unable to clearly remember that Aunt Grace had his same gash of a mouth and expressive brow. The thought was somehow too horrid.

The Welton campus was truly beautiful most of the year, but especially in the fall. The wealth of deciduous trees indigenous to New England added such a riot of color to the campus, Charlie was surprised the strict, humorless headmaster didn't forbid the entire season. Charlie scuffed through the leaves in the courtyard, sending them flying. Try as they might, the two groundskeepers could never quite keep up with the leaves.

"Out for a stroll, Mr. Dalton?" called a familiar voice. The sound of that voice made Charlie's heartbeat pick up, and the corners of the sparse Dalton mouth turned up in a grin. How could Charlie know that the sparkle in his eyes and shine of his skin so totally belied the Dalton features? He didn't care as he slowed up and watched his teacher, John Keating, approach.

"What a beautiful day!" Keating said passionately. Keating said most things passionately, when he wasn't speaking softly to give something poignant meaning. Charlie Dalton had never met a grown man with such youthful passion and emotion. He liked to study Keating and just drink it in, so he did now.

"So," Keating continued, "thinking about that essay I assigned today, Mr. Dalton?"

Charlie nodded. "Exactly, Cap'n. I thought the fresh air might inspire something really extraordinary. Sitting in a room full of boys just wasn't doing it."

Keating wore a cap and scarf, as well as a thick sweater. His cheeks were flushed, as though he had been outside for a while, and the hair that showed under his cap was tousled. Charlie thought to himself without articulating it that Keating looked delicious. Although the man was not tall -- as he approached he ended up eye to eye with Dalton -- he gave off such an air of exuberance and masculinity that Charlie could hardly fail to notice the difference between them. This was a man who was completely satisfied and at ease with himself. His physical attractiveness was a given, because it was simply one part of the impressive whole. Charlie knew for a fact that many of the other boys felt the same way about Mr. Keating. The man was practically a magician in the way he could weave a spell, and he was caught up in it himself.

"I don't know, Mr. Dalton," said Keating with a smile. "I usually find myself very inspired by a room full of boys. If not, I wouldn't be much of a teacher, would I?"

Charlie smiled a little uncertainly. It dawned on him that he hardly ever interacted with Keating in a one-on-one situation, without at least three or four other young men around. He found himself suddenly tongue-tied.

"Enjoy your walk, Charlie," Keating said, continuing on. "I'll look forward to reading that extraordinary essay tomorrow."

Dalton followed Keating with his eyes, then haltingly began to walk again. He thought about how Keating's face had been within a feet of his for an instant, and Keating's eyes had stared directly into his own. The warmth of a blush started on Charlie's cheeks, but could have looked like the flush of exercise to a casual onlooker. It suddenly occurred to Charlie that the unexpected meeting lasted less than two minutes, and the two had hardly even exchanged more than greetings. At this thought, Charlie balled his hands into fists and thrust them into his slacks angrily. He had acted like a foolish boy and wasted one of the important moments in his life. He hadn't seized the day at all!

John Keating's philosophy of 'carpe diem' and sucking the marrow out of life had so greatly influenced a handful of his students that seven of the young men even met once or twice weekly in an old cave by the stream or in an attic room in Welton Academy to continue the tradition of the Dead Poets Society, created by Keating more than fifteen years earlier, when he was a student at Welton himself. Keating was an inspirational figure to the boys; they used his club not only as an outlet for the normal frustrations of facing the constrictions of a school like Welton, but as a headquarters for their 'passionate experimentation' with life. That Keating was merely a wonderful teacher who had chosen to return to the prison-like atmosphere he had escaped years earlier instead of traveling to romantic cities around the world to become a poet, philosopher or some other notable being was inexplicable to the boys. They believed for some reason it had to do with them. Charlie believed, in particular, it had to do with him. It was fate. Keating had surely come back, for one thing, to make sure the Dead Poets Society was continued. But what more came out of his decision to teach at stuffy Welton Academy was up to fate. And up to Charlie, maybe.

The sun was turning orange and beginning to sink as Charlie walked slowly back to his building. Long shadows crossed the lawn with him and he tried to hurry his pace. It would be time to get ready for bed any moment, and Dr. Hager was a strict house master. Charlie couldn't afford any more demerits; as usual, he tottered very near the limit. He still felt angry with himself for failing to say anything witty or meaningful to Mr. Keating. He definitely needed to be more prepared for their next eventual meeting. Still, if they'd never really been alone in more than a year, when would that next meeting be? Charlie knew he needed to help fate out with the next meeting -- and be ready for it himself. "O Captain, My Captain," he whispered to himself as he neared the building. If Keating were to truly be the captain of Charlie's life, Charlie would have to head his sails in Keating's direction more often.

Boys were bustling about in the bathroom, preparing for bed, as Charlie headed to his room. He quickly threw off his clothes, settled them in the small closet, and pulled on his pajamas. Then he went to the bathroom, still deep in thought, and brushed his teeth and washed his face. When a stall was free, he completed his preparations for bed by emptying his bladder. No urinals for Welton Academy; that would be too much of a temptation for boys to look at one another. Charlie believed if it were possible for clothing to be stapled to their bodies, the administration would do so. The entire school philosophy was as prudish as Charlie's Aunt Grace.

Charlie didn't acknowledge the greetings of his chums as he headed back to the room he shared with Cameron. He was wondering if the teachers had their own bathrooms, or if they had to shower and shave with other teachers bumping into them. It would be hard to imagine this situation, but it seemed harder to imagine Welton paying for the plumbing facilities for that many bathrooms. Charlie wondered how he could find out. He put it on his mental checklist.

"What's with you tonight?" Cameron asked, studying Charlie.

Charlie sighed as he sat down on his small, stiff bed. "Cameron, nothing's 'with me.' Can't a guy have something on his mind?"

"Sure, Dalton, 'a guy' can have something on his mind. But you couldn't. So what's up?"

Charlie stretched out on top of the bed. "Nothing's up, Cameron."

"Did you get your essay finished? It's due tomorrow."

Charlie sat up quickly. "Damn! You're right! I haven't even started it."

Cameron grinned. "You'd better get with it, Charlie. Mr. Keating's not going to care if you had 'something on your mind.' You'll be in trouble."

"How am I going to write it after lights out?"

"Use a flashlight. Your handwriting's so bad, anyway, Mr. Keating wouldn't notice if you wrote it in bed."

Charlie rose and grabbed the flashlight he kept handy in the closet, ready for late-night Dead Poets meetings. "I hate to admit you're right, Cameron, but you're right. It's this or nothing. Where's my notebook?"

"On your desk?" Cameron asked sarcastically.

"No, under the bed, I think."

Cameron shook his head in disgust as he carefully removed his robe, laid it across the bottom of his bed and then climbed under the covers. "Turn out the lights, Charlie. And try to write quietly. I need my rest." With that, Cameron turned toward the wall.

Dalton gave his best scowl to Cameron's back. Then he snapped off the light and climbed under the covers with his notebook and flashlight. He still had no idea what he would write about, no particular inspiration. Keating liked the boys to come up with their own ideas for essays and rarely gave but the vaguest hint of a theme. Charlie could understand why some of the boys had so much trouble with the concept. Even he, with his active imagination, was occasionally stumped for a topic. He stuck his pen in his mouth and stared into the dark room. He wondered if Ralph Waldo Emerson had felt the same before he had penned his Essay on Self Reliance. He thought about Emerson for a moment, then about Emerson's friend Thoreau, then he started to grin. He switched on the flashlight and bent over his notebook, ready to write.

His neck would be stiff tomorrow!

"Essay on the Male Prerogative"
by Charles Dalton

'When a man asks which came first, the chicken or the egg, the answer must be, whichever is male. Even in this enlightened world of 1959, men rule, just as they did in Ancient Rome or in medieval England. While the female sex believes they approach equality, men allow them to think so because it serves a purpose. Yes, women were finally given the vote in this century. But they were only given this privilege because it hardly counts for anything. Does this mean women are just inherently stupid?

'While men continue to lord it over the weaker sex, they also continue to need women more than they need anything, including food and water. It's strange to see a sex as contrary as man, who likes to think he is self-sufficient and self-reliant, when he is actually trained from birth to want and need the opposite sex. While many claim this attraction is instinctive and natural, it seems obvious that it's really the result of sensory brainwashing. Who is doing the brainwashing and what's behind it? If this goes on, making man -- the master of the world -- the slave of a weaker sex, does it mean that men are just inherently stupid?

'A school like Welton Academy, which forces young men to co-habitate without ever looking at each other as anything but rivals or teammates or buddies or pains in the neck, is a perfect example of sensory brainwashing. When you see nothing but short haircuts, bad complexions, muscular necks and bony feet day in day out, where is there magic but in long curls, fluttering eyelashes, painted lips and rounded bosoms? When you know perfectly the look, the sound and the smell of men, isn't it natural to long for the opposite . . . just as we here at Welton long for a hamburger with cheese, a television set, a sloppy sweatshirt or a visit with our mothers, of all people?

'I have even heard one teacher claim that language was developed to woo women. If this is so, why bother with it at all? If there were no language, wouldn't a meaningful glance, a tenderly placed hand or even a large club serve to win the affections of the opposite sex? Cave men supposedly mated like rabbits; they served to populate the world, didn't they? If men aren't inherently stupid, as women must be, then why wasn't language developed to woo them?

'It has been my experience that language only serves to confuse the issue of sex with a woman. When a woman is moved by beautiful words and verse, she wants to hear more and more. While a man might have an immediate physical reaction to a certain set of words, a woman can only react intellectually. The only way moving lips can woo a woman is if they are moving on her person!

'Plato believe that women made lesser lovers than men because you couldn't talk to them after the 'act of love' was over. Plato is also considered one of the most notable philosophers of the Western World. Why, then, does modern man continue to accept the brainwashing techniques that have been fine-tuned over the centuries?'

'Can a man with words, with poetry, with reason, with song and with eloquence convince another to betray this conditioning? It seem to me that this is the male prerogative, the one totally ignored by most men.'

Charlie read over his outrageous words twice before he put the notebook aside and turned out the flashlight. His face burned as he read, and he tried to imagine the look in his teacher's eyes as he, too, read. This was the kind of essay that could get a student expelled from a school like Welton Academy. It was just the kind of convoluted reasoning that Charlie enjoyed. And Mr. Keating would not turn the essay over to Mr. Nolan. He would probably enjoy refuting it and poking holes in the flimsy fabric of Charlie's logic.

Charlie looked forward to that moment. Because Mr. Keating would not dare even describe the essay to the rest of the class, he would have to discuss it in private! And by then, Charlie would be ready.

Tired by his mental and physical exertions, Charlie pulled the covers over his face and dropped to sleep without 'beating off' even once. He was disappointed the next morning not to remember his dreams.

The End, Part One