The barrel of the gun brought Neil out of his reverie; cold and weighty and tasting of metal, like sucking on an oiled penny. The inexorable moment to which he had been driven faded, no more than fairy magic in the face of cold iron. The glamour of death fell from him as he sat in his father's chair, his father's gun resting on his teeth, bare to the waist and shivering slightly in the darkness.

He lay the gun on its swaddling cloth, regarding it coolly for a long moment. It gleamed dully where moonlight picked its way through the curtains. A scrap of something he'd read came to mind suddenly; a bold rejection of tragedy;

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;...

And his resolve failed. Not a loss of courage, but of certainty; a sudden stab of forethought, the recognition of what he would be leaving behind him. The grandiose vision, the exit at the pinnacle of his life; a defiant and heroic refusal to succumb to his father's demands; it faded, leaving a confused boy sitting in a dark room, not as ready to die as he had thought.

"To strive, to seek, to find..." he murmured, running a finger down the length of the weapon before him, making up his mind. "And not to yield." He left it where it lay, abandoned intention exposed, and crept back upstairs. Gingerly he avoided the creaking steps, placing his weight with careful deliberation.

It was winter in his room, northern winds and drifting snow spilling over the open casement. Outside lay a world unknown, silver curves and violet shadows transforming the familiar view into something new and promising. For a moment he stood enthralled, chilled by the possibilities stretching before him. But time; time was against him. Taking a deep breath he turned, shutting the door with a hushed click, and bent to his task, rifling through his belongings as though they were a stranger's, pulling on the warmest garments he could find, picking out more to pack.

He laid the wreath of slender, brittle twigs he'd worn as Puck atop his clothes and fastened the bag, slipping back down the stairs and into his father's study. Neil felt bold and remorseless, cheeks flushed with the cold and the thrill of escape. Not an hour ago he'd been focused and certain, ready to die to escape a future he couldn't face. Giving up everything and going was nothing, in comparison. Carpe diem. His father kept some money in one of the drawers, just in case of emergency; Neil didn't like theft on principle, but it seemed a necessary evil. And besides, he rationalized-- they'd save a fortune in the long run, all that tuition they wouldn't need. Next to the kitchen, to add some provisions to his pack. And then...
Freedom.

He stepped out into the night, pulling his woolen coat tight against the wind. The thought of going by himself had never occurred to him; the moment he set the gun aside, choosing escape over death, he'd known his first stop would be Welton. Neil took it for granted that his roommate would come along; driven by a sublime sense of destiny, he was fearless. A free force cutting through the evening on his bike.

It wasn't long before he was standing beneath the window of his room-- what had been his room, at least-- gathering a handful of small stones to toss up at the panes, and hoping Todd wasn't too heavy a sleeper.