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

a worthy adversary~

song of the chapter: 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

*3rd person pov*

After school hours, Mr. Keating could either be found doing one of two things. One, he could be in his faculty office, located at the back of the English classroom, smoking cigars and drinking tea with his fellow educators. Or, two, he could be found curled up in his charming apartment grading papers, reading, or entertaining (y/n) when she chose to visit it. 

Headmaster Nolan, as one might expect from an employer, learned the romantic's daily habits and took note of where he might be at any given time. And so, it was on this day that he put that knowledge to good use after the discussion he had with the young (y/n) in his office merely a half hour before. 

By this point, the girl had returned to the chess game, and she lost. Not on purpose to spare feelings, but because she was all too wrapped up gossiping about what occurred in Nolan's office. 

"May we have a word, Mr. Keating?" Headmaster Nolan was not quite asking for a word, although his choice of words certainly made it seem so. No, he was in fact using his power to interrupt a rather lovely gathering of friends and demand it. 

"Certainly." The younger man mumbled, setting down one of (y/n)'s prized teacups and adjusting his tie to put on some semblance of airs of professionalism. 

"This was my first classroom, John, did you know that?" Nolan swept a finger along a wooden desk in the room, reminiscing. His plan however, was that of a game of cat and mouse. And yet, Keating knew far early on in the interaction he was the mouse - but that would not stop him from being fierce, oh no. 

"No, sir," he admitted, following the man tentatively. "I didn't know you taught." 

"English. And it was hard giving it up, I'll tell you." Keating smiled at this notion, for he could never imagine giving up such an endearing and beautifully raw subject. Nolan took a few slow steps towards the blue-eyed man, sick of tip-toeing around the subject. 

"I'm hearing rumors, John," he let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. For the theatre, of course. "about some rather unorthodox teaching methods in your classroom. I'm not saying they had anything to do with Dalton's outburst, but I don't think I have to warn you boys his age are very impressionable." 

Mr. Keating did not let any emotion slip by his face, like a shield, so not as to betray how he really felt about what the headmaster was saying. 

"Well, your reprimand made quite the impression, I'm sure." Keating noted, words that seemed like he had been pointing out a fact, but the undertones were like daggers even Macbeth would fear. 

He knew what Nolan had done, the bitter taste of it lying on his tongue. How Charlie Dalton had been beaten on account of a silly newspaper article published not very widely, and using a young man's humor. 

Oh, how cruel the world could be to a young person; he knew. 

This had Nolan stumped, because no other faculty under his watch had dared speak out about his punishments that he doled out regularly to various boys. For a second, he contemplated arguing, but thought better of his time. 

"What was going on in the courtyard the other day?" he asked, trying to once again peg Keating as a villain. This launched them into an unnervingly polite conversation about the dangers of conformity, education curriculums, and how Mr. Keating was intentionally spoiling the perfectly good prospects of these boys - simply because he dared to let them think for themselves.