Tragic Kingdom (80s/90s imagines)

107: Gerard Pitts (Dead Poets Society)

"You like poetry?" The book in his hand surprised you to say the least. You were never a great judge of people anyway.

The lanky boy hadn't expected you to speak to him at all, so that made at least two confused teenagers in the waiting room. "I appreciate it."

Your eyebrows raised as you nodded. "Interesting. I, personally, could never get into it. How do you find stuff you'll like?"

"If I'm being honest, I just pull things off the shelf at the library and hope for the best," he shrugged. "My friends and I... well, we had this club, sort of, where we read poetry." A blush smeared across his face as he saw your hardly contained expression. "In a cave."

"Neat," you commented as you sat back. You never meant to seem like a jerk. "Sounds like fun."

"It sounds kind of dumb when I say it out loud."

"It's a 'you had to be there' type of thing," you suggested, hoping you didn't embarrass him. "No, I get it. Me and my friends used to have themes for certain days of the week, so we had to dress up according to the theme. Of course, we didn't tell anyone else, so everyone gave us funny looks when we'd show up to school in crazy outfits and costumes."

He smiled along. "I don't think I could ever do that."

"I don't think I'd do it now," you agreed. "But it was fun." A moment passed. "So what are you here for?"

"Routine checkup. You?"

"I have a weird growth on the bottom of my foot, and it's starting to hurt when I walk. There's also this rash all over my back. I think it's spreading."

He blinked a couple times, appearing to be sorry he had asked.

"Just kidding," you laughed nervously. "My mom has an appointment, and she doesn't drive."

Relief washed over his face as he laughed a little too. "Oh. I was worried there for a second."

You poked his arm from across the chair between you two. "You afraid of catching something?"

"I mean, I'm not a germaphobe," he defended. "But I'm not crazy about getting sick. Especially not from a stranger at the doctor's office."

A shared smile passed just as a nurse appeared in the door of the waiting room.

"Gerard Pitts?" she called, and the dark haired boy perked up.

He lifted his hand before turning back to you. "Good talking to you..."

"Y/N," you offered. "Ditto, Gerard. Hope you're not sick."

He smiled again—possibly more to himself than at you—as he got up to follow the nurse.

Ah, Pittsie, my underrated baby. I love him. Anyway, this is so short but I wanted to write something so this is rlly just a piece to get over my writer's block.  I promise I'm getting to the requests, but I'd rather give y'all a mediocre imagine no one asked for than do that w a request. M'kay.

~Mariah