Notes: I came up with a couple of new names out of necessity, because the show doesn't give a lot of named jocks to work with. First time writing Glee. I'm not sure yet whether this will stand alone or be afforded more chapters.

Story dedicated to Spider, who has been an excellent guinea-pig.

.

At the heart of harassment there is the vindictive belief that you are right. It's not an opinion, it's a fact - solid and irrefutable. You're not unfairly biased. You're not a racist or a sexist or whatever PC term it is they're throwing around, pretending they don't secretly think the same things. You're just stating a fact.

And if they don't want to face facts, fine. It's only fair that you show them how they're wrong.

.

.

He stood on unsteady legs, off-balance and full of aches. His vision was blurred, the flesh around his eyes and nose a mess of throbbing hurt. He could taste blood. It hurt to breathe.

It wasn't that bad. It could have been a lot worse.

The first thing to go was the music. He had to pause after bending down to unplug the player, the blooming bruises across his abdomen protesting their unfair treatment. He took a few deep breaths, gathered his bag, and turned off the lights on his way out.

The hallway was totally empty and that was a good thing. He didn't know how well he could keep his composure if someone happened to see him like this, with the telltale drips from a bloody nose dotted across his shirt and the beginnings of a set of impressive black eyes.

At least his nose wasn't broken.

All in all it looked a lot worse than it actually was. A heat pack, a good night's sleep... and he'd look absolutely awful in the morning. If the bathrooms were still unlocked he could at least clean himself up a bit before going home. He didn't want to have to do it in the car with nothing but the rear view mirror and whatever supplies he had in his bag.

.

.

There's a set of Rules.

They're not written anywhere, not official because they don't have to be. Everyone just knows them, like they were born with the knowledge and never had to be handed a piece of paper with the Rules written in a neat little list. You follow the Rules and everything is ok. Everyone is happy and everyone is equally offended.

You don't follow the Rules.

You don't follow and that's a different story.

.

.

Oh, he thought to himself as he felt the impact, and the next – this time to his stomach. My nose is bleeding. And, That will bruise.

He felt a strange detachment though every burst and flare of pain, as if it wasn't really his body in the middle there trying to curl in on itself. His arms were being held behind his back by strong, immovable hands. He could feel the blood dripping down his chin and the impact of bare knuckles through two layers of wool and cotton but couldn't see their faces. Not seeing didn't matter, considering he knew exactly who they were.

He tried to remain as limp as possible, as if playing possum would make any difference at all. He wondered if he should pretend to faint, whether it would scare them. Or maybe they'd just feel like big tough men.

The sharp punch to his kidneys was the last one.

He was dropped, limp and uncooperative, to the floor. Curled into an odd shape and wasn't sure whether or not he was crying. He watched them leave, keeping an eye on the door long after it had shut.

Blood dripped sluggishly from his nostrils, an odd tickle that layered over the throbbing. Slowly, gingerly, Kurt swiped under his nose with the back of his hand. The small bump sent a new stab of pain through the bridge of his nose.

Oh shit. He thought, simultaneously biting back a whimper. My nose.

And that's when he knew he was crying.

.

.

You don't follow the Rules.

.

.

The auditorium was mostly dark, the seats empty and the tech booth free of operators. Most of the lights were off, only a few fresnels lighting up the stage. The music was turned up as loud as the CD player would allow, haunting orchestral harmonies alight in the air. When Kurt closed his eyes he could almost see the orchestra right there, could imagine an audience with their breath caught in their throats and their eyes all on him.

Sometimes, for songs like this, he would sing with his eyes closed and it was as if it focussed the sound somehow. Without sight it was just him and the music and the emotion. He wasn't out to impress anyone by himself, performing to his own imagination, to an audience where sound was the only thing that mattered.

Celene Dion.

The range of vocals was perfect for emoting, even more so for showing off the full power of his voice. And even better – this being after school and not a day for practice, there was nobody here to listen. No pressure.

.

.

It's against the Rules to be so unrepentantly individual. It says you don't want to be a part of the team, a part of the wheels and cogs that turn this small society. It says you don't want to be a part of something bigger and more important than yourself.

You don't function like a normal person, like you would if you just kept your head down.

.

.

"Now if you could just play like you practice we might actually have a chance of winning this year."

It wasn't the most encouraging thing for a coach to say, but considering the team's illustrious career of losing it also wasn't the most depressing thing to have said. In fact, it sort of let the practice end on a high note. It had been a good practice, the team had been working better than ever before. If it wasn't just a fluke brought on by lingering summer break endorphins things might actually be looking up for the Titans.

The atmosphere in the locker room was surprisingly cheerful.

"We might actually have a chance," Phillips repeated the coach's words.

"Yeah," the sarcastic drawl came back to him from the other side of the room, "a chance in hell."

"A snowball's chance," another voice answered. A locker slammed and a backpack was dumped on the ground.

.

.

You keep your head down, you act like everybody else, and this wouldn't be happening.

This is the price of standing out. This is what it affords you. Can't you see it would be so much easier to just give in? Can't you see that - in a roundabout sort of way - they're only trying to help you? And if you won't accept the help, if you won't take the hints, the only choice left is to remove you.

Be what you want to be when you're at home and out of sight.

This is the real world. There are Rules.

.

.

Donahue, Robinson and Phillips. Everyone else was gone, begged off to various activities – work, girlfriends, family stuff, whatever. Robinson and Phillips caught the bus to and from school which meant they left later than everyone else anyway. Donahue had a car, but no obligations and a predisposition towards doing things slow and methodical.

"Let's face it," Phillips said as the three of them walked through the empty hallways towards the parking lot. "This team is going nowhere fast."

Another step or two and the boys walked into a swell of slow music. While the doors to the auditorium were closed, the wood and glass couldn't quite block out the sound of a canned orchestra and the muffled notes of a powerful voice. Phillips wrinkled his nose. "And speaking of going nowhere... That shit's just wrong."

Robinson stopped by the doors, listening for a moment to the muffled music. "Isn't that some super-girly song from that super-girly chick flick about the boat?"

"Jesus, man. Why do we have to put up with this?"

"We shouldn't have to put up with this. Man, it's frickin' sick. I mean, you do what you wanna do when you're in own home, right? That? That shit is like walking around nude outside your living room, like outside your house. Nobody wants to see that."

"Unless you're Mrs. Ryder," Donahue joked, smirking to himself. "Then it's cool."

.

.

You know there are Rules. You weren't born without the knowledge of them. You defy them knowingly and it grates against society's machine. The cogs and gears chew you up and spit you out, leaving you alone on the floor in a puddle of useless liberation.

Liberals use words like Racism. Sexism. Homophobia.

.

.

"Yeah? Well that is not Mrs. Ryder." Robinson jabbed his index finger towards the auditorium doors for emphasis. "That is a dude."

"That shit does not fly," Donahue agreed.

"The fag needs to get it through his thick head that this kind of thing doesn't happen at McKinley."

"Like it's going to stop," Phillips pointed out, voice dry. "The kid's a total numbskull. Slushies, dumpster-dives, water balloon drive-bys... Dude, someone even stole that prissy man purse and he didn't get it."

"So maybe it'd take something bigger."

"Something that sticks."

"Something painful."

.

.

Hate Crime.

.

.

The momentary lull in conversation was just long enough to hear the swell of a beautiful high note. Donahue's face clouded over. "Fuck it. I'm putting a stop to this." He pushed the doors open and stepped into the darkened auditorium. The music covered the sound, the dark covered his approach. He could sense rather than see the other two boys following him, and he gestured for one of them to take the other side of the stage and cut off any potential retreat.

The singer was oblivious, eyes closed as he belted out the last verse before the repeated chorus. He looked natural, comfortable, even a little bit beautiful. It was only when Phillips grabbed his arms from behind that the eyes snapped open. For just a moment Donahue was faced with a pair of icy blue eyes, pale and intense. He threw the first punch to shut them.

.

.

It's only a part of the Rules.

.

.

Afterwards, with knuckles bruised and egos pumped, the boys parted ways. Donahue got into his car and started the engine. He was half way home before an odd sort of thought occurred to him. Somehow he'd forgotten just how much trouble they could get into if anyone knew that it was them who beat up the queer kid.

He glanced at the slight swelling, the red of the knuckles on his right hand, and frowned. They hadn't beat him up that bad. Just enough to teach him a lesson. And it's not as if anyone had any proof. In a contest of his words against theirs, the Hummel kid would come out the loser.

Donahue started thinking about what his mother would be making for dinner.

.

.

It's not a belief. You are right. You did the right thing.

So why are you hiding your bloody knuckles?