Hello.

I'm fairly new to this, so please bear with me.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.

"Bro, cut it out."

The remark was simple, harmless even, but it drew the attention of the fragile being in the fourth row, third seat from the left. His shocking azure eyes locked with Finn Hudson's fist as it balled up, swung back, then made contact with Puck's arm, all in one smooth, swift motion.

These actions weren't uncommon; if anything, it was a rarity to see Puck and Finn sitting solemnly in class, devoid of their usual habit of trading punches and juvenile sense of humor.

So why had this action attract the attention of Kurt Hummel?

Any observant soul would have found Kurt's behavior peculiar, and been able to come up with an answer instantaneously. His fidgety nature that wracked his body, rims of red that bordered his eyes, slender fingers that grappled at loose strings, fumbled mindlessly with buttons, tugged persistently at the cuffs of his sleeves.

But let's be honest. What high school student is able to tear the focus away from themselves for a brief moment to occupy their concern with that of a loved one, let alone a friend or companion?

The monotone voice that was sounding somewhere from the front of the class was cut off abruptly as the bell shrieked, sending the students into a flurry to hastily shove papers into folders and binders and books. They rose from their seats and trudged to the next class in a manner that wasn't unlike that of a hoard of cows being shuffled around the barn, fattened with fodder, preparing for slaughter. Kurt shuffled to his locker, his fingers mechanically twiddling his lock and swinging the door open.

No sooner had the door banged against the opposite locker than he felt a huge mass jolt his shoulder, knocking his petite frame into the metal wall. This assault was accompanied by an onslaught of threats, names, insults – nothing he was a stranger to. He had endured worse. Assuming the worst had passed, he turned around to head to English lest he arrive late again, but it appeared that the worst was yet to come.

At 6'0 and 217lbs, David Karofsky was perhaps the most feared jock of the school. His square jaw line, thick eyebrows, and cold, hardened eyes gave him the exterior necessary to cause even the administration of the school to hold their breaths when he walk by in the silent hopes he would leave them alone.

His massive frame alone was enough to spark fear into the bravest of students, and Kurt could feel his stomach clench as he registered the object clutched in David's hand and gang standing menacingly behind him. David's eyes narrowed, thin lips parted to reveal a hint of a yellow-toothed sneer, his hand lunged foreword – shards of dyed blue ice parted from the cup, hitting Kurt full force in the face.

To say that the pain was excruciating would have been an understatement. His face was burning wildly, his eyes were screaming as the blue dye seeped in, his hair became matted and sticky. This alone would have been enough, but it was what came after that hurt worse than the physical assault.

"Fag."

"Queer."

"Homo."

The words were thrown as easily and casually as spears, unforgiving and potentially fatal. The scars from spears would heal after a matter of time, however. The scars imprinted by words would not.

Kurt swiped at his eyes desperately, using his sleeve to help regain his vision. The jocks were gone. The hallways were buzzing, this act of hate unnoticed by every student who hurried by without even sparing Kurt a second glance. Shit. He could feel it coming.

Overtaken by a sudden, unpredicted urge, Kurt retreated to a bathroom as the bell rang throughout the halls, ensuring that the bathrooms would be empty. Bursting through the doors, Kurt ducked into a stall and locked the door without even pausing to examine his appearance in the grime-streaked mirror.

He balled up a wad of toilet paper, but rather than use it to clear his face of the soggy remains of what would have been an enjoyable summer treat, he stored it between his lips. The stall was cramped, but he didn't dare venture out, preferring to perform this necessary action in his secluded solitary haven.

He ripped open his bag, tearing savagely through the debris that cluttered the bottom, and eventually tore open the pocket on the inside. His hands grappled around frantically, albeit with an air of cautiousness that he had not used w plunging his hand into the bag, and closed around the small metal object with an air of triumph.

It was then that he yanked up his sleeve, and without hesitating, pressed down, a shudder of relief spreading throughout his body.