AN: While I've been reading fan fiction for years, this is the very first story I have ever written. It all just kind of poured out as a post-ep to "Shooting Star," and as such contains spoilers for that episode. Please be gentle. Also, aside from giving a name to an unnamed character, nothing here belongs to me. Thank you for reading!
...
Greg Mercer adjusted the tassel on his hat for the seventh time since he put it on. It kept falling into his face and it was making him crazy. He stood in the hall outside the auditorium surrounded by 200 of his classmates and was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He swallowed hard and pulled at the collar of his bright red polyester gown, then turned and started off down the hall. Not too far, just enough to separate himself and get some air.
Why can't we just get this over with, he wondered once again. He couldn't wait to walk out of this school for the last time and never return. He wished he could say he'd never look back, but he knew that wasn't true. There was no way to forget the things that had happened to him here.
The details of the bullying would fade. He'd been small for his age the first two years of high school, is all. A physical growth spurt junior year - and an accompanying emotional one for his tormentors - had mostly put an end to that.
The claustrophobia was another story. Being shoved into lockers was never fun, but it was an eternity spent hovering over a toilet in a tiny stall in the girls' bathroom that flashed through his mind daily. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe deeply, slowly. Failing. He opened his eyes and realized he'd drifted farther down the hall and was now standing in front of the choir room door. Of course. He began to breathe easier, then rolled his eyes at himself. You're ridiculous, he thought. Such a drama queen.
Nothing had really happened that day, after all. Sure, he was scared. Everyone was scared. They had a right to be scared. But he was fine. They were all fine. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, he reminded himself over and over in his mind. It's fine.
It was silly, really, that he thought of the choir room as his safe haven. He'd never had a class there. He didn't sing or dance or play an instrument. When Mr. Schuester led him in there with the two Cheerios on THAT DAY, as he thought of it, he'd never entered the room before. He'd never felt such a deep and abiding sense of relief before, either, but just passing the room now brought that feeling back, as real as if it was happening right then, not two years prior.
And with it came all the other feelings from that day, and he felt his breathing speed up once more. He tugged again at his collar. It was strangling him. He couldn't breathe and he thought his knees might just give out. No. NO. You cannot collapse on the floor of the hallway thirty seconds before graduation, he thought. You've made it this far without too much notice or ignominy; you do not want to be remembered by your classmates as that guy who passed out at graduation. They'd probably think you were drunk or hungover, which is better than the sissy victim of a massive anxiety attack, he supposed. Whoa, his mind was running off on tangents. Can't be a good sign. His vision started to blur and he could feel himself swaying. Oh no.
"Greg!" A familiar voice broke through the fog, and he felt a firm hand on his right shoulder. He was startled, but startled was good. His head began to clear.
"Uh...hey, Mr. Schue," he croaked out. Look normal, he thought, and smile. Come on, you can do it.
The teacher's quirked eyebrow told him he hadn't succeeded. As he opened his mouth to speak, though, his wife walked out the choir room door behind him.
"Hello, Greg! Are you ready for graduation?" the cheerful redhead asked. He gave her a smile, more convincing than the last, he hoped, and nodded. Mr. Schue's hand still weighed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him.
"Emma, I'll catch up in a minute, OK?" The guidance counselor raised an eyebrow of her own at her husband's request, but nodded, smiled at Greg again, and walked off toward the auditorium.
The teacher turned to Greg then, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Greg felt himself do the same thing, without meaning to. Then another. He felt better, but blinked several times, embarrassed that he'd been caught in this position again. Mr. Schue just smiled at him and tightened his grip on Greg's shoulder for a second, before releasing it. His hand hovered near his student's back, ready to help if needed.
"You OK?"
Greg tried to answer, but he couldn't get the words past the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat. He sucked in a breath and looked down quickly, not wanting anyone to see the tears forming in his eyes. Damn it, he thought. This is mortifying.
He felt Mr. Schue's hand return to his shoulder, and the next thing he knew the older man was pulling him into a one-armed hug. Greg tried to keep breathing deeply and pretend this was totally normal. Nope, sorry Dude, he thought, not at all normal to break down in tears in the middle of school and have your history teacher wrap his arms around you.
Not the first time, either. Back then, THAT day, he'd never met Mr. Schuester before. Seen him in the halls, heard he was an OK teacher, sure. But he took French freshman year and Mr. Schue's history classes were all juniors and seniors, so their paths had never crossed.
When he heard the bathroom door swing open and those footsteps fall in the bathroom, he thought his heart was actually going to explode before the gunman could get around to killing him. He had never felt so frightened, so vulnerable, so powerless. There were no words to describe the relief he felt when he saw Mr. Schuester's face, much less in the moment when he heard the lock on the choir room door slide shut behind them.
And when it was all over and Mr. Schue beckoned him into the giant group hug with the Glee kids, Greg felt enveloped in a warmth and love of a kind he had never known before. It was the adrenaline and the shock of the situation, he knew, camaraderie with those who'd been through the same terror, but it was more intense and more encompassing than even his mother's childhood embrace.
...
That day, Greg Mercer became one of Will Schuester's "kids." Will wasn't sure where the line was between his students and his kids. The Glee members throughout the years had made the cut, of course, and plenty of Spanish and History students, too. He didn't know the short, wavy haired boy's name yet, but he knew they had shared something profound and life-changing, and he knew he loved that kid then and there, the same as he did the others.
When the SWAT team finally arrived to clear the choir room and move them all to safety, Will was the last to leave, watching his kids as they all fell in line behind the officers. He touched a shoulder here, a head there, trying his best to give the terrified teenagers some comfort and enough strength to hold it together until they were reunited with their friends and families outside. Will was proud of them, as he'd told them, but concerned for them, too. They didn't know yet what had happened in the halls and other classrooms while they were hunkered down in the choir room, and no matter how good or bad the outcome, he knew that his kids' lives had been forever changed that day.
It soon became clear that no one was injured, and though the events of the day were only becoming more confusing, the lack of bloodshed lightened most of the students' moods. Will watched them all as they waited for their parents, broken into small groups, hugging, talking excitedly, some even laughing. His gaze fell on a lone head of dark wavy hair. The kid he'd found in the girls' bathroom was sitting by himself on the grass, his head in his hands between his knees.
Will made his way over and settled himself on the ground beside the boy, then nudged his shoulder with his own.
"Hey," he said softly, not wanting to startle the kid. "I never caught your name."
The boy took a shuddering breath without looking up, and Will realized that he'd probably put his head between his knees for a reason. "Are you going to be sick?" He asked the question quietly as he placed a hand on the back of the boy's neck. The brunette head shook back and forth, answering in the negative, then whispered something.
Will missed the words, but as he leaned in closer to hear, he realized the kid was breathing too fast, his chest rising and falling in a jerky, uneven rhythm. He ran through his scant first aid training in his mind. Hyperventilation. He didn't have a paper bag. He looked around for an ambulance crew member, but most of the first responders had packed up and left by then.
He didn't really know what to do, so he inched in closer and started speaking in the calmest, most soothing voice he could summon after the wrenching afternoon they'd just experienced.
"OK, kiddo, we have to slow that breathing down. Just...breathe with me, OK? In...and out," he said, drawing in a slow, noisy breath and holding it several seconds before blowing it out through his mouth. He did it again, but it didn't seem to be having the desired effect.
"Hey," he said, a little firmer. The boy looked up for a moment, but when he tried to look back down at the ground, Will caught his chin in his hand, forcing him to face him. "Hey, look at me. What's your name?"
The kid stared at Will a second, drew in another shaky breath, then breathed out, "I'm Greg." Will smiled. "That's good. Greg, I'm Mr. Schuester. Listen really carefully, all right?" Will waited for a nod from the boy, and then continued in a calm, deliberate voice, "You're going to be fine. Everyone is fine. I know you were scared. So was I. But it's going to be OK."
Greg gave him another nod. "OK. Now let's breathe slowly. Do that for me?" Another nod. And they breathed in...and out. Again, and again, until the younger man had calmed.
None of the other kids had ever said anything to Greg about his breakdown on the lawn. He was surprised - he was usually such an easy target. He supposed they were all freaking out that day, each in his or her own way, and probably hadn't even noticed his panic attack in the midst of the chaos.
He wished that had been the end of it. He really thought it should have been. No one was hurt, no one was even threatened, really. It was all a big misunderstanding. He never fully understood why that day stuck with him, why it had affected him as deeply as it had. But now he avoided confined spaces like the plague, for fear the walls would start caving in around him, crushing his chest until it felt like he would never breathe again.
Somehow he managed to hide it from others. He'd always been something of a loner, so it wasn't surprising he shied away from big crowds. And there was no way for anyone to know that he only used the big new bathroom near the main entrance - the wide open men's room with high ceilings and few walls. He still got in and out as quickly as possible for fear of getting trapped.
But a few months later, early in his junior year, Greg needed to discuss a paper with Mr. Schue, who was now his history teacher. He went to the teacher's office at the appointed time, but when the door closed on the tiny room, Greg felt himself start to sweat. He couldn't hear anything the teacher was saying, only the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. His vision narrowed until it was a tiny tunnel and all he could see was the shiny knob on the closed wooden door. If he hadn't been so lightheaded, he'd have jumped up and ripped it open, but he felt paralyzed, like he couldn't move without passing out.
There was suddenly a hand on his arm and he vaguely heard someone calling his name. He couldn't remember how Mr. Schuester figured it out - had he spilled his guts or pointed at the door? Was his history teacher a mind reader? Greg didn't know, but within a few moments the door was open and Mr. Schue was helping him out of his chair and into the hallway.
They sat on a bench in the corridor in near silence. It was the middle of a class period, so the halls were empty. Greg felt his teacher's hand on his lower arm and closed his eyes. "Just breathe, Greg," the older man instructed quietly before drawing in a slow, deep breath of his own, encouraging his student to follow his lead. Within a few minutes, Greg's breathing had evened, and with a big gulp, he haltingly started talking about his history assignment. Thankfully, Mr. Schuester followed his lead. And every time they needed to talk after that - about a paper or anything else - Will made sure to be waiting for him outside in the blessedly open hallway.
Greg was grateful.
...
Will felt his student shudder slightly against his chest, and tightened his arms around his shoulders for a second before pulling back. He waited for Greg to pull himself together and straighten his graduation gown, then gave him a small smile.
"They're waiting for us. You ready?"
Greg stared at his teacher for a few seconds, and realized that he had never thanked him. Not for saving him THAT day, or for saving him so many times since. How do you go about saying something like that?
"Mr. Schue...I just...Thank you. For...well, for everything." He cringed. It sounded so hollow, so inadequate. But before he could say more, his teacher cut him off.
"No, please. Greg, it's been a privilege. I've been honored to know you and to watch you grow up. You are so strong. I'm really proud of you." Greg could feel the tears welling in his eyes again and shook his head, trying desperately to clear them. He wanted to tell his teacher he was wrong, that he wasn't strong, that he couldn't even speak a coherent sentence without bawling like a little girl, and all because of one day when nothing bad actually happened.
Will just smiled as he nudged him forward, shepherding him down the hall toward his classmates. They stopped at the back of the pack of seniors, and Greg took another deep breath, preparing to enter the crowd without Mr. Schuester's reassuring hand on his elbow. But it didn't move. Greg looked over at his teacher, a question written on his face.
"I'm going to walk back here with you."