Chapter Text
John Keating woke up with a sneeze. It was a little thing, barely a chuff of air, unnoticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for it. He hummed softly, resigning himself to a bad day. Whenever he woke up with a sneeze, it only got worse as the day progressed.
A bad time to have a flare-up too, he thought, when the kids have been terrified by the torture Hager imposed on them, when he caught a cold a week ago.
He eyed the bottle of antihistamines sitting on his desk, wishing for the comfort it would provide. He knew he couldn’t take it though – you don’t survive Hellton by muddling your brain. He learnt this the hard way.
His morning routine was sporadically interrupted by a small chuff of air, not really affecting him anyhow, yet inevitably stopping his movements. He put on a scarf, as even though it wasn’t especially cold, his throat always felt raw when he had a flare-up.
He sat down on his bed, head in his hands as he took several deep breaths, mentally preparing himself for the day.
At long last, he reluctantly stood up. Hugging his coat close, he shuffled along the hallways with his head down, the bright fluorescent glow of overhead lights, and the loud overlapping chatter of prepubescent boys aggravating his already aching head.
Grudgingly, he made his way to the teachers’ table, opting to sit at the very end.
“Good morning, George,” Mr. Keating greeted, nodding politely as Mr. McAllister took the seat next to him.
Mr. McAllister made a noise of acknowledgement, turning to the other side and making conversations with the rest of the table.
At first, Mr. Keating tried to nod along to the chattering around him. But as time passed, he realised no one actually paid attention to him. Turning to his plate, he rested his head on his arms, gently rubbing his temples to ease his headache, to no avail. His breath hitched uncomfortably every time he sniffled, and several times he had to stifle his sneezes in the crook of his arm, shooting sharp, piercing pain into his chest.
No one asked if he was alright. No one asked about his scarf in the relatively warm weather. No one pointed out how glaringly empty his plate was. All he got was a short but stern reprimand from Mr. Nolan to sit up straight.
He excused himself from the table the moment it was socially acceptable.
He knew none of his colleagues cared about him – that much was obvious. The only thing they cared about was whether he set an example for the students. On the bright side, they didn’t care that he was feeling unwell. On the down side, they didn’t care that he was feeling unwell.
He didn’t know if he was relieved or upset.
He quietly shuffled along the walls of the hall, trying to make himself as small as possible, gaze fixed on the floor.
He didn’t notice how a group of poets watched his every move like hawks, waves of concern rolling off of them.
-
“Good morning, boys,” Mr. Keating greeted his first class softly, slumped in his chair and a tired smile on his face.
Sure, he wasn’t feeling well, but there was no reason to treat his students differently, especially since they were only Year 7s, wide-eyed and still scared from how Mr. Hager treated them when he was ill.
The usual bubbly boys silently echoed the greeting, sitting up impossibly straight, terrified and hyper-aware of Mr. Keating’s every move.
John smiled sadly, trying his best to keep his voice light through his persistent sniffling, even though he felt anything but.
Slowly but surely, the young boys started to regain some of their usual energy, livening the classroom.
Yet, as prepubescent boys do, they quickly forgot why they were quiet in the first place, and their volumes rose.
Normally, Mr. Keating wouldn’t mind. In fact, as long as they were respectful towards each other and stayed on task, he encouraged the boys to talk to each other. After all, two brains are better than one.
However, he was already light-headed from the constant sniffling since he woke up. The bright morning sun slipping through the cracks of the blinds, and the loud, incessant chatter only worsened his headache.
A soft, involuntary groan escaped him as hid his face behind his hands, attempting to even out his breaths and suppress the pain. He didn’t know how long he stayed there – could be seconds, could be minutes. All he knew was he needed to control himself – being in pain didn’t justify him lashing out at his students. He would have never forgiven himself.
At long last, Mr. Keating raised his head to complete, pin-drop silence. Still coming out of his stupor, he hastily reassured the boys that it wasn’t their fault, that he had encouraged them to talk, but his apologies fell on deaf ears as the rest of the class passed in awkward silence.
Blowing his nose gently, he tried his best to compose himself as his Year 9 boys rolled in.
“Good morning, boys,” Mr. Keating started softly, fist in front of his mouth as he cleared his throat quietly.
“Is it not too warm for a scarf, sir?” One of the more extroverted students piped up, his tone was polite, respectful, and without judgement.
“I run cold,” John replied meekly. As if on cue, his nose started to run. He gave a few half-hearted sniffles, knowing nothing he did would truly soothe his flare-up.
The boy next to him nudged him discreetly, eyes fixedly staring at his book.
“Well, I hope you feel better soon,” the student replied, quickly ending the conversation and following suit, burying his head in his book.
“Thank you,” Mr. Keating said gently, a soft, tired smile gracing his face.
The boy briefly looked up at him, then immediately dropped his head back into his book.
John sighed softly, keeping his frustration in check. He understood why his students were terrified – after all, the place was called “Hellton” for a reason. Yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty for making his students scared.
He knew logically it wasn’t his fault – he had never treated his students with anything less than respect, and he didn’t choose to feel unwell – but the tense atmosphere in his classroom was making everyone anxious.
Running his hand across his face, he took a deep breath and used whatever was left of his limited supply of energy to make his class as light-hearted and fun as possible. He managed to receive a few sympathetic smiles.
He didn’t even realise how much energy he had exerted until the loud ringing of the bell nearly blinded him with pain. Murmured waves of “thanks, sir,” and “finally, lunch,” were muted as the floor swayed beneath him.
The last thing John remembered was collapsing in his bed, succumbing to a restless slumber.