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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 1 year ago

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QTA: Together

Hello! It's the time of year again where teachers talk about what to do in case of a school shooting, which is a big trigger for my anxiety, and when I'm anxious I like to project on Virgil, so I was wondering if you could do something with that — maybe in the homophobia ft. queer teacher alliance universe because that one already has the right set up. Sorry for rambling, and as always: I love your writing and feel free to ignore this. – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: discussion of school shootings

Pairings: none

Word Count: 2702

Sometimes, there are things that surprise Virgil with how much they make him freak out. These can come in the whoa-didn't-know-that-was-a-trigger variety, the holy-shit-wasn't-expecting-that variety, and the for-fuck's-sake-how-are-you-people-this-awful variety. Unfortunately, lately, most of the things have been that third kind, because this is high school and apparently pretty much everyone else got the 'we're gonna be racist, homophobic, and otherwise bigoted now' memo and Virgil was skipped.

Sometimes, though, he knows exactly what's going to set off his…everything, and boy howdy, is today no exception.

Mr. Everheart gathers them all in right before classes start and Virgil can just tell that something's about to go horribly for him. It's a skill, honestly, something he's honed over the past few years of having his brain be an absolute nonsense machine that insists on being a shit. Mr. Everheart clicks a few things on his computer before he wheels his chair out to speak to them and yep, oh no, shit's about to go down.

"I won't keep you for long," he starts, and his voice is serious enough to make even the most rambunctious kids from interrupting, "but I've been informed that the next topic I have to discuss in these little homeroom talks is what to do in the event of a school shooting."

The room goes dead quiet.

Ooh, bad choice of words.

The room goes awfully quiet. Virgil swears he can feel the temperature drop a few degrees. He risks a quick glance around and sees that everyone's looking at Mr. Everheart, even though a few of them are still on their phones under the table. Across the room, he sees two of them reach out and hold onto each other, another few shuffling closer to each other as if the proximity will help keep the worst of it at bay.

It won't, his brain whispers, you know it won't.

Shut the fuck up, you.

While he's scolding his brain for being rude, he realizes he's missed a good part of Mr. Everheart's talk. A sinking feeling takes hold of his stomach when he tunes back in to realize that he doesn't need to have listened this time; it's exactly the same one they had last year. Some hysterical part of him wants to laugh; how rote have these fucking tragedies become that it's now rote? Like it's something to be read off like a fucking lesson plan, like it's something they just do now, just casually prepare for one of the worst things that can happen in a school, just accept that one day they all might walk in and not all walk out?

He squeezes the keychain on his backpack a little tighter and takes a shuddering breath.

"Mr. Everheart?"

Virgil looks up as Lily raises her hand. Mr. Everheart nods. "Yes, kiddo?"

"How likely do you think it is that a shooting will happen in our school?"

They all turn to look at him expectantly. He taps his fingers against his knuckles where his hands are folded in his lap. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I made a promise to you, didn't I, when these homeroom talks started?"

"Yes, Mr. Everheart."

"And that was that I would never lie to you, even if the curriculums tell me to say something different, I will do my best to be completely and totally honest with you."

The air conditioning hums and rattles in the background.

"I don't know, Lily," Mr. Everheart says after another moment, "I'd like to say I do. That I could read you some statistics and put your minds at ease, that I could say with confidence that I know that none of our students would ever do something like that, but…"

His voice cracks slightly on the last word and to Virgil's horror, he can see him hold back tears. A few other students aren't so lucky and sniffles come from the corners of the room.

"I don't have an answer for you," he says and it's the best and worst thing he could have said, "I'm sorry, Lily."

Lily shakes her head. "No, thank you, Mr. Everheart."

A small chorus of thank you, Mr. Everheart goes up around the room and Virgil watches his face crumple for a moment before manages to smile again. He frowns, wondering why it took him a moment, before the horrifying truth crosses his mind and he almost gags from the sudden sickness in his stomach.

In a school shooting, the teachers are prepared to die for the students. Mr. Everheart just had his homeroom thank him for being ready to die for them.

Holy fucking shit.

It's hard for him to tell who breaks first but then Virgil blinks and half a dozen students are up out of their chairs and hugging Mr. Everheart. He gets up with everyone else, crowding around to just be like I'm here, I'm with you, thank you, I'm sorry, I'm scared too, will you be scared with me? The horrible air conditioning buzzes and a few people sniffle and everybody just stays quiet until they feel like they're not about to be forgotten the moment they pull away.

"You're all wonderful," he hears Mr. Everheart manage, his voice slightly too thick, "you're all such wonderful people."

"You too, Mr. Everheart."

"You're the best homeroom teacher ever."

Please, they're all saying to each other without the right words, please don't die for me, I couldn't take it.

The bell rings a few moments later and regretfully they all pull away, swiping tissues from tissue boxes and patting shaking shoulders. Mr. Everheart ruffles hair and gets in one last hug here and there before sending them all off to class. Virgil manages to make it through the hallway without having a breakdown and all but collapses into his seat in the next classroom. His hands are still trembling.

For better or worse, it seems like the whole school is getting the school shooting talk today, because no one puts a fucking toe out of line for the rest of the day. There aren't any bullies or homophobes or anything, not even when things come up in class or he sees a few of them shooting looks at him. But nothing comes of it; he offers an awkward wave and they just nod back. Someone accidentally slams a locker and everyone in the hall flinches. A chip bag pops and the student next to Virgil starts crying. He sees one of his teachers pull their phone out and explain their saved information to a student who starts to make their own list. The buzz never leaves its place just under Virgil's skin and he drifts through the school.

Three days later, they have a drill.

He's out in the hallway. He's not supposed to be out in the hallway. He's supposed to be in class. But he had to use the bathroom. Now he's in the hallway. His classroom is on the other side of the school. The locks start buzzing all around him. The doors are locking. He can't get inside. He can't run. They'll think he's a shooter. He can't bang on the door. He can't get in. What if the shooter finds him?

"Virgil!"

He turns. Mr. Mackenzie waves at him. Mr. Mackenzie's door is still open. It's Mr. Mackenzie.

"Come on!"

Virgil blinks. He's inside Mr. Mackenzie's classroom. The door closes. The lock buzzes. He's huddled on the ground behind the desk away from the door. Mr. Mackenzie does something and then he's right next to him. Mr. Mackenzie is safe, right? He's been kind to him, he's been nice, he hasn't minded when Virgil gets all messy and upset, he's—he's good, he's fine, he's—he's—

"Shh," Mr. Mackenzie murmurs, his voice pitched low and his hands quiet in front of him, "it's alright, Virgil, you're alright. Can you look at me?"

Virgil looks up. His chest hurts. Why does his chest hurt?

"You're having an attack, Virgil," he says in that low, soothing voice again, "that's it, stay with me, now."

"I'm s—I'm so—"

"Shh, shh, don't apologize, it's alright, you've not done something wrong." To his horror, he feels tears start to well up and Mr. Mackenzie lets out a sympathetic noise. "What do you need, Virgil?"

"I can't—can't feel my hands."

"Here," and Mr. Mackenzie offers him a small teddy bear cold pack, filled with beads, "squeeze this, try and move the beads around. The feeling will start to come back."

Virgil looks at it blankly.

"Can you squeeze the bear's ear for me?"

Fingers that should be Virgil's that don't quite feel like they belong to him move to the black outline of the bear's ear and squeeze. The light brown beads move away from the pressure. One of them gets a little stuck and pops out later.

"Very good. What about his nose?"

The fingers move to the bear's nose and squeeze. It's in the center of the cold pack, so there are more beads that have to move out of the way. A few of them bump into the fingers. The top of the pack bulges out a little bit from so many beads filling it up.

"Excellent. Can you squeeze his left eye?"

The bear's eyes are closed. Why are his eyes closed? Is it dead?

"Stay with me, Virgil, squeeze the bear's left eye."

He moves his hands and squeezes. The beads squish together and move under his fingers. He does it again, watching them move around. And again, just to feel it on his other hand. Then his hands start to hurt, probably because he couldn't feel them for a long time, and he keeps going, pressing and squeezing parts of the bear's face. Belatedly, he realizes he's not following Mr. Mackenzie's instructions anymore and he looks up, only for Mr. Mackenzie to smile and shake his head.

"Go on, it's alright. That's what it's for."

He looks back down at the bear. He squeezes his ears, his nose, his eyes, his mouth. The bear is smiling with his eyes closed, maybe he's happy. He looks a bit like a children's book character. What's the last children's book he read? Was it one with a bear? Probably not. He did see a kid's cartoon show with a bear in it though. That bear was light brown too, just like this one. Did it wear a hat? Why does he have a memory of a bear wearing a hat?

He lets himself follow the train of thought through a weird fever-dream-like memory of a show he used to watch—or at least, a show he thinks he used to watch, until his hands aren't as sore anymore and he can take a deep breath without his chest feeling like it's going to explode. He lets his head tip back to rest against the wall, taking one big breath after another. After a moment, he feels the cold pack start to slip out of his hands and he sits back up. Mr. Mackenzie is still crouched in front of him, watching him carefully, but he smiles when Virgil manages to look up at him again.

"There," he murmurs, voice still barely louder than a whisper, "that seems like it's better, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Of course, Virgil." He glances to his left—the door, that's where the door is—and comes to sit on Virgil's right.

Between him and the door.

Right.

"Hey," Mr. Mackenzie whispers, "stay with me, now."

"I'm here, I'm here." He shifts to ease a cramp in his leg. "How, uh, how long has it been?"

"About five to ten minutes."

"How much longer will this take?"

"I don't know."

He looks around the science classroom. Beakers stand on the side, ready to be cleaned. Three measuring cylinders still have a solution in them. One of the sinks has a thermometer balanced on the very edge. Several desks have bunsen burners set up in the middle, ready to go. Mr. Mackenzie's lab coat is still hung neatly over the back of his chair.

This should be a normal classroom. There should be students in here, messing about when they think Mr. Mackenzie isn't looking. There should be some people taking notes and some people playing with the spare test tubes. There should be someone miming pulling the emergency shower only to be cowed by a single raised eyebrow. There should be some people freaking out about open flame in a school and Mr. Mackenzie should be assuring them that it's perfectly safe, that he's taught them all how to deal with it and do experiments safely. There should be one time where someone turns the gas tap on a little too much and there's a moment of panic before calm is restored. There should be bad jokes and dramatic groans and the general hubbub of students learning in a school where that's all they're supposed to do.

But instead, the sink drips thunderously in a silent room and the only people here are him and Mr. Mackenzie.

"How are we supposed to do this?"

"Hm?"

"This," Virgil whispers, gesturing between them, the bear hanging lifelessly from his fingers, "how—how are we supposed to focus on learning like this?"

Mr. Mackenzie sighs, and it's the same weight as Mr. Everheart's was too. "I wish I had an answer for you."

"The counselor keeps saying that we just need to be smart and keep an eye out for each other," Virgil continues, "but how are we supposed to do that when we're so scared all the time?"

The bear twitches in his hands.

"I'm so scared," he admits, bringing it back to his chest and squeezing it again, "I'm so scared all the time. Do you have any idea how tiring that is? I'm supposed to—I'm not supposed to be scared for my life every time I want to go to the bathroom, I'm not supposed to know how to text like, 20 people my emergency info in three seconds, I'm not supposed to have a list of who I'm ready to die for."

Mr. Mackenzie is quiet for a long moment. Then he shifts and turns to look down at him, a solemn expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Virgil, I wish…I wish I could say something to make this better."

"Having you say it sucks helps too."

He huffs a small laugh. "It does suck. It's an awful situation, Virgil. It shouldn't be like this. And I'm sorry I can't fix it."

Virgil scoffs, leaning against the wall. "You can't be expected to fix this whole fucking mess by yourself."

"I suppose I'm not used to that either." He leans back too. "I'm used to being able to have an answer for everything in here, I have to be. When I have students handling dangerous things like open flame, or corrosive chemicals, I have to have an answer. But I can't have an answer for this."

The sink keeps dripping.

"My apologies," he murmurs after a moment, "it's not your responsibility to deal with my own emotional troubles."

"No, that was—it helps to know I'm not alone in feeling totally helpless, you know? So, thanks. It, um, it made me feel a bit better."

Mr. Mackenzie looks over and smiles at him. After a moment, he raises his arm and Virgil scoots close enough for him to lean against his side. He's given a gentle squeeze side hug and let go again, but they stay sitting close to each other.

We're here, they say to each other, I see you. I'm with you. We'll get through this, together.

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