gala_apples

Title: Perils of P.E.
Pairing: Mikey/Brendon
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 1648
Warnings: guns, hostage situation.
Summary: This is the kind of thing that happens in gym class. Gym class draws misery to it like a butterfly net of pain and horror. Mikey's certain it wouldn't happen in English class.
Prompt used: captives for hc bingo.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author's Notes: hopefully this tides you over until your RL present arrives.


The worst class in the history of mankind is gym class. Mikey would rather be taught self-circumcision sans anesthesia, or taxidermy, or how to literally shit an actual brick. A 2 x 4 x 8 rectangle out his ass would cause him less pain than gym class does.

Luckily, thank fucking god, he was born with a defect. If the air is too cold he gets short of breath and needs his inhaler. It’s purely a temperature thing. He’s smart enough to not let anyone know that. Only his parents and Gerard and Brendon and Ray and Frank know, and only the latter three are still in school with him. Mikey knows they would never betray him. For that matter, he’s sure his parents would back him up if it ever came up, not that they’re itching to go to a parent-teacher.

Mikey’s a pretty good actor. It only takes a few warm up jogs in which he slows to a halt and wheezes to have Mr Batt scared into believing he’s got an illness. A few conversations with Ray that are easily overheard and he’s got him believing forced action upon illness might result in a lawsuit. It’s all very nice.

And then they come back from spring break and Mr Batt is gone. No one knows what’s happened; if he’s got cancer or went crazy or touched a freshman. They have exactly one library class before Mr Reeve comes storming in to replace him. He’s so laden with testosterone Mikey can see it pouring out his pores when he sweats. Which is often, because he has some kind of sick fetish for joining them in their forced exercise.

The worst thing about Mr Reeve is he doesn’t buy the asthma thing. Mikey gets around the stark disbelief and rude sneer for one day by not changing. The next day Mr Reeve institutes a new rule. Three unchanged days in a week, or five in a month, and it’s an automatic failure. Mikey’s not sure if he can do that, if he can make up policy without having a school board meeting or some shit like that. Mikey puts the fucking shorts on anyway. The last thing he wants is to have to take phys. ed. again next semester. Or fuck, what if they try to make him take gym in summer school?

In some ways he’s not surprised when some man brings a gun. Well, he’s surprised as fuck, of course, because you don’t get halfway through the five minute warm up jog and have a man with a gun run in and not be surprised. Still, it figures that it’s gym class. Shit like this wouldn’t happen in textiles or media production.

“Everyone on the floor!”

They hit linoleum. Except for Reeve, who is completely fucking failing at being a hero. If he wanted to rush the gunman he should have done it ten, eleven, twelve seconds ago.

“Son, where are you?” The man wags the gun vigorously, like it’s a flag. “On the floor!”

Mikey’s fucking certain no one would even think about getting up off the floor. For a million bucks he wouldn’t as much as kneel. If Reeve is being a man about this he’s gonna get shot, and Mikey’s not going to cry for him.

“Crosslegged, like the Boy Scouts. Faces up, I want to see everyone’s face. Son, you can’t hide from me!”

Well there he goes, ruining Scouts. The part of Mikey’s brain that’s acing psych points out he must be desensitized as fuck if all he can manage is dry wit. Probably better that though, than Micah three bodies -fuck, not bodies, people- three people over. Mikey can smell piss. If they survive this, everyone is going to rip on him.

“Where is Steve?” A nervous giggle bubble into Mikey’s mouth. He holds his breath so it doesn’t come out. He doesn’t know any Steve. Do people even name their sons butch things like Jim and Chuck and Steve anymore? Everyone’s, like, Austin and Jason and stuff. “Someone tell me where Steve is!”

Holy fuck. They’re all getting shot. Gerard almost got shot that one time, but this is way worse. He is definitely going to get shot. Fuck, and he’s only had sex like five times. No one should die before double digits.

“He’s skipping, okay?” Mikey doesn’t even know the name of the boy that shouts it out, he’s the exact opposite of the kind of boy Mikey would hang out with. He’s obviously terrified to call attention to himself. Mikey hopes he doesn’t get shot, but he doesn’t close his eyes to avoid seeing it. That might get him shot.

“He said he had a doctor’s appointment,” Mr Reeves blusters, authoritarian fury at being lied to momentarily overtaking terror. Mikey nearly giggles. If by some miracle he gets out of this, he’s totally telling Gerard how testosterone filed and ridiculous Reeves is.

“No one is going to leave this room until someone brings my son to me.”

Mikey would scoff, if he wasn’t scared of getting his scalp shot off. Anyone that watches anything cop related knows police aren’t going to bring more hostages into a room with a man with a gun.

“How the fuck is anyone supposed to know you want your son? Did you even tell anyone you were doing this? Because I don’t hear any sirens, and you’re wearing a jacket. Did anyone even see your gun?”

The attention swings to Jamison, and twenty two people hold their breath as they wait to see if the crazy fuck shoots him. It comes as a huge shock when instead of seeing the indie kid Mikey could almost like if he wasn’t so arrogant’s brains splatter over the linoleum, the father agrees he has a point. Any relief, or hope that he’s listening to reason crumbles nearly immediately though, when he shoots three shots into the bleachers. Mikey doesn’t know anything about guns. For all that he likes video games, they’re not exactly realistic. Call of Duty used the wrong language on the street signs for fucksakes. He can guess that the gun only has three bullets left, but he doesn’t really know, and the guy might have more under his jacket anyway.

Things get slower then. They try to talk to him over the intercom, but there’s no way for him to talk back. Unless he wants to play Morse code with bullets. Mikey bites his lips until it’s bleeding so he doesn’t giggle. One of the jock clones has to offer his cellphone. Mr Reeve actually glares. Mikey’s pretty sure ‘no phones in class’ shouldn’t count in captive situations.

Eventually they coax him out with promising Steve is right outside the door. Mikey doubts it, but Crazy Dad doesn’t ask him.

Mikey doesn’t know how long it’s been. Long enough for the school to be evacuated. Either short enough that parents haven’t come yet to pick up their un-hostaged teenagers, or long enough that the entire city has found out and gathered. Whatever it is, there are a fuckton of people on the lawn, not all his age. A cop is saying something to him. He probably wants a statement. Mikey’s not listening, only scanning the crowd.

Really, he’s not surprised that only Gerard and Frank are there, beyond the yellow tape. Dad’s got the kind of job that doesn’t believe in family emergencies, Gerard probably didn’t even call him. They can’t afford for him to be fired for rushing off without permission. And with Grandma house-bound, nearly bedridden, Mom would have stayed to make sure she didn’t have a fit about her grandson. For his part, Ray probably wasn’t very happy when Lou dragged him away. And it’s not really fair to ask Brendon to stay.

It’s hard to run to them. His legs are cramped from sitting crosslegged so long. As soon as he’s past the tape people are asking questions. He doesn’t care, doesn’t listen. Gerard is holding him, unwashed hair tickling his nose. Frank is behind him, hugging from the back. His exhalations are warm against his spine.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Gerard mutters into his ear, contrary to the cluster of eavesdroppers around them. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He doesn’t. Not really. But, “he shot into the bleachers, Gerard. I mean, twenty minutes before that I was sitting there.”

“Well, don’t let it scare you into participating.” His voice breaks on the last word though, he starts crying against his shoulder. A second later the sound is echoed as Frank sobs against his back. Mikey bites his lip.

They stop, eventually. No one is watching them anymore. The cameras are on Keith and his clone football players. Someone should call Mom and tell her he’s okay. He doesn’t want to move to get Gerard’s cell. His backpack is still in the locker room.

“Ray was furious,” Frank says into his t-shirt, voice thick with snot. “He punched Lou when he told him he had to leave. Lou punched him back though. He’s gonna have a black eye.”

“Frank? Call Brendon.”

Frank peels away to make the call. He only moves about a foot away. He’s staring like he thinks Mikey will suddenly be riddled with bullets if he looks away. Mikey bites on his upper lip. That one’s not bloody yet.

Gerard explains, “he wanted to stay, he just couldn’t. His sister wouldn’t let him. He was freaking out. Thought that once you got out you’d dump him for not caring about you. You shouldn’t dump him, he does care.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Wasn’t planning on anything, really, except maybe screaming and crying and nightmares. He can pretty much guarantee those are in his future. For now it’s easier to just bite down.