AN: Sorry for the false alarm on Wednesday; decided to reupload a chapter with some formatting changes, and I completely missed the "replacement" option. 'Cause I'm a n00b, and sometimes miss stuff. :P

One thing I was thinking about when I started this was how existing Klainers/Kurtofskians would approach something like this. Why do they prefer their particular 'ships? Is it the characters involved, the situations, or both? Would a swap like this make them question their preferences at all, or where they come from? Who knows, but I thought that added an extra layer of "challenge" to this.

(Note, of course, I do not intend to belittle what happened in canon, or make the case that one kind of bullying is any more or less severe and damaging than another. It just made for some interesting thought exercises.)

But either way, we're finally out of NBK! Let's move on to the next "episode," shall we?

As far as Kurt was concerned, the first days immediately following the whole Anderson incident went as follows: wake up. Blur. Dinner or movie with Dave. Blur. Bed. Repeat.

Even the worst cinematic experience ended up as a good time when Dave was around; it turned out that the guy had an almost prodigy-level aptitude for snarky comments when he put his mind to it (though it almost didn't surprise Kurt; he'd found that even the dumbest jock bully seemed to have an almost supernatural aptitude for insults and getting under someone else's skin - not that Dave was one of those, heaven forbid). Even when the story on the screen didn't engage, Kurt could just sit back and joust with Dave over who could make the other laugh so loud at their various insults to acting and wardrobe that the "normal" theatergoers around them would turn and glare.

Occasionally, they even caught a musical or two. Dave, perhaps not surprisingly, showed a preference for those with more macho subjects, like Guys and Dolls and Damn Yankees, but didn't complain when Kurt dragged him to something like Hello Dolly.

So it was that Kurt found himself at Breadstix one Thursday night, the subject having somehow drifted into America's Next Top Model. "...and of course, she was robbed, just like in season three, when..." Kurt trailed off; he hadn't known Dave for very long, but if nothing else, he'd learned one thing: that particular facial expression meant discomfort or dismay. "Something wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Kurt," he finally burst out.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Not again. Please, Dave, we talked about this: if you feel you have to apologize, explain yourself first to make sure there's really something to be sorry about. So, explain."

"I'm... not really into America's Next Top Model. Or fashion stuff."

Kurt shrugged. "Fair enough. What do you want to talk about?"

"See, that's the thing! We... we're so different. You like fashion and shopping and all that gay stuff." Kurt nodded, taking the words in the spirit in which they were intended. "I like hockey and video games and you've seen what I dress like when I'm not at Dalton! We have nothing in common."

Kurt tilted his head slightly. "I didn't know people had to be clones to be friends."

"They don't! It's just... I know I'm like the only other gay guy you know—except Anderson, and you're not gonna be talking much with him any time soon—and I kind of feel bad that I can't be the guy you talk the gay stuff with."

"Oh, Dave. One good thing about having stereotypically feminine interests is that you can share them with—wait for it—women! I have Rachel, Tina, Mercedes—we're having lunch with her tomorrow, by the way—and they're enough. Really. I don't spend time with you so I can get my latest opinions on Alexander McQueen or the latest Vogue cover off my chest..."

Dave shifted in his seat. "Then why do you? I've always kind of wondered..."

"Ugh! I thought I made this clear: I do it because I like you. I think you're interesting."

Dave almost laughed a full-fledged belly laugh. "Me? Interesting?"

"Yes! I told you what I thought when I first met you. You look like a stereotypical jock, but you're smart and kind and you sing beautifully. You have a wicked sense of humor when you care to show it, and you're a loyal enough friend to be wasting gallons of gas to come see me practically every day." Dave blushed at that, but Kurt went on, heedless in his quest to make his point. "You're this mess of seeming contradictions and I'm curious to know how it came about. You are an interesting person, Dave Karofsky. You remind me how much bigger the world is than Lima."

"I'll take your word for it," Dave laughed, shaking his head. "I still feel a little bad for not being able to just connect with you instantly, though."

Kurt nodded to himself, having reached some internal decision. "Tell you what. I don't know if you remember me saying this, but I don't like one-sided relationships. I believe in give and take. Why don't we make an effort to educate each other? On our interests, I mean?"

Dave turned this over in his mind for a moment. "You mean, teach me about fashion and shit?"

"Why not? It's not all about waif-thin models and runways. It's also about personal choices, and knowing what looks good on you and why. It's a useful skill to have. I'd be willing to share my infinite wisdom with you if you like."

"I dunno, Kurt... I took this magazine quiz once that said it'd test how much taste I have. Pick from a couple of simple designs and say which is more tasteful or some shit. Ten lousy questions." Dave grimaced wryly. "I got a zero on it, Kurt. Zero. I have, like, no taste at all."

Kurt stifled a laugh. "It's okay. You're not born with taste. Well, I was, but I'm not like most people."

"No, you are not." Dave smiled, but it wasn't quite joking. It was almost... gentle, in an oddly sincere way. Kurt had to make an effort to force his mind back to the conversation at hand.

"At any rate, taste can be acquired. And I'm just the person to help you acquire it."

"I guess. But what do I have to teach you?"

"Hmm. Why not hockey? You obviously love it. And I don't think you know this, but at McKinley, hockey is considered only slightly better than glee clubs on the social scale. That's always piqued my curiosity." Kurt grinned. "Besides, there have to be some hot hockey players out there, don't there?"

Dave lit up. "Ooooh, yeah."

"Then that's settled! I'll teach you to be fabulous, and you teach me all about slapping and penalty boxing and all that. Deal?" He stuck out his hand across the table.

Dave took it and shook firmly. "Deal."

Kurt clapped his hands in delight. "This is going to be so much fun! Where should we start...? Oh, I know, accessorizing! I know some simple hat tricks that will make you look... What's so funny?"

Dave shook his head as his laughter slowly died down. "You'll find out, Kurt. Believe me, you'll find out."

SHUT UP OR ELSE

Kurt looked around; the halls appeared to be empty. He'd been running late to his French class, and he'd run to his locker to grab his books. Lying on top of them was a single scrap of white paper, apparently slipped through the vents, scrawled with large black capital letters. Kurt looked down at the note again.

SHUT UP OR ELSE

He took a deep, shuddering breath. There was no signature, but the note nevertheless bore one, loud and clear. He knew Anderson wasn't watching at that moment, gleaming eyes and clenched fists. But the mental image was still there, as real as anything.

This was just the latest in what was fast becoming a pattern of harassment. Anderson never did anything in person—oh, no, he was too smart for that—other than cold, vicious stares in the halls. It started with the e-mails; all were sent from a throwaway Hotmail account, all single lines like the note, all threatening. He blocked the address, only to find another, this one sent from "xpowad" instead of "jqvola". Then there were the little things, like the oddly placed nail he found stuck in one of his deflated tires, and the textbook of his that went missing from his bag (which he swore he'd turned away from only for a second), found later with half its pages torn out. And there were the incidents that he couldn't definitively call "incidents"; only "feelings" or "instinct." In particular, it was the very strong feeling of being watched, followed, and not by a friendly force. No one was ever around during those times (no one visible, anyway), but his father always told him to trust his gut in situations like that, and his gut screamed "Blaine Anderson." Kurt could only guess where Anderson was hiding and what he was thinking during such times. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

And now this. Kurt crumpled the note in his fist, slammed his locker shut, and hurried towards his class, tossing the wad of paper into a garbage can. He couldn't help yearning for the days of simple slushies and shoves against lockers.

Lunch with Mercedes wasn't exactly a lunch - more like an interrogation. Apparently, she had taken Dave's attempts at friendly conversation with her as an opening to shove a probe into practically every aspect of his life. It was like having a younger, female, African-American version of his father having that talk with the boyfriend. Not, of course, that Dave was anything of the sort. But Mercedes had insisted on meeting the "guy who's taking one of my best friends away from me" (a ridiculous notion, of course; sure, he and Dave were spending a lot of time together, but that's normal in the first stages of a good friendship), so there they were.

To be fair to Mercedes, Kurt actually learned a few things from this; he already knew Dave's parents were divorced and that his father was a civil lawyer with his own small practice, but didn't know that he had an older brother at college, and that his favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle was Raphael (Kurt still wasn't sure how that had come up).

Fortunately, as the meal wore on, Kurt could tell that Mercedes was starting to thaw; she actually started using Dave's name, instead of euphemisms like "white boy" and the ever popular just plain (but tinged with contempt) "you." The plates had just been taken away when Kurt felt the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the number. At that moment, Mercedes raised an eyebrow.

"You okay, boo? You look pale. Paler than usual, I mean."

Dave gave Kurt a concerned look, but the latter shook his head. "It's nothing." He got up and left the table without a word. He could feel the looks Dave and Mercedes were giving him, but didn't see or hear the rest of what transpired.

Mercedes gave Dave a glare that could wither redwoods. "Okay, spill." He choked on his Pepsi.

"I... What do you mean?"

"You know what's going on with Kurt. So spill."

Dave shifted uncomfortably. "He'd kill me if I said anything..."

"I'll kill you if you don't. You may be all he talks about these days, but I'm his friend too. Hell, I was his friend before he ever met you. And I'm getting just a little offended that there's obviously something going on that he ain't sharing with me."

Dave blinked. "I'm all he talks about...?"

Mercedes snapped her fingers in his face. "Hey! Focus!" She sat back and sighed. "Look... I get that there's all this gay stuff I don't understand. And you at least seem to be treating him right; God knows he needs all the friends he can get. But I want to help too, you know? He's been there for me, and I want to pay him back."

Dave nodded. "You know, you're right. You do deserve to know. And Kurt does need you. He needs all of you guys in the Glee Club. If you're willing to stick your necks out for him..."

He got an offended look in reply. "You really gotta ask?"

"Good enough for me. This is what I know..."

Kurt headed into the bathroom alcove, heedless of the conversation and bustle around him. Unlocking his phone, he frantically deleted the call log entry; anything to keep from having to keep seeing that unlisted number, in this or any of its other iterations. Kurt wondered how ten mostly meaningless digits scared him so much. Heading into the bathroom; he stared into the mirror. He was a little peaked, but that was to be expected, wasn't it?

The worst part was, he hadn't seen Blaine Anderson's face in almost a week. That was, on one hand, a very good thing; that way he wouldn't have to see that intense glare that Anderson gave whenever he walked by. But not seeing him just made these little points of contact (not that he knew it was Anderson, but at the same time, he knew) all the more terrifying.

Kurt splashed some cold water onto his face, wiped himself off with a paper towel, and left the bathroom. He almost collided into Dave and a frowning, arms-folded Mercedes.

"Dave told me everything," she said flatly, without preamble.

"Did he?" Kurt glared at Dave, who replied with a small shake of his head. That one little action told Kurt everything he was wondering; Dave had not outed Anderson to Mercedes. Kurt barely had time to marvel that he just knew what Dave was telling him from that one little action, and vice versa (though he had to admit that the concern was the logical one) before Mercedes went on.

"I don't know what that two faced creep Anderson has against you, and I don't care. You can't let him get away with this."

"I don't know that it's him…" Kurt began weakly.

"I've seen the way Anderson's been glaring at you lately. And don't tell me you ain't scared. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? I can't believe I didn't notice it before." Passersby were staring now; Mercedes took no notice of them, gripping both of Kurt's shoulders and obviously only barely resisting the urge to shake. "We're supposed to be friends, remember? Why didn't you tell me? Why'd I have to hear this from Dave?"

"I…" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I should've told you. It's just… complicated."

Mercedes threw up her arms. "What's so complicated about it? Anderson's harassing you. He has to stop. That's all there is to it." Her mouth set into a hard line. "You keep saying the Glee Club's like a family. Well, family watches out for each other. We're gonna do something about this, Kurt. Just you watch." With that, she snapped open her cell phone and began dialing. As she moved towards the restaurant entrance to hear better, Kurt turned his attention back towards Dave, who flinched at the expression he saw.

"She's right, Kurt," he said quietly. "You shouldn't be going through this alone. You have to confront this head-on."

"You should tell that to Anderson so he'll let me," was the bitter reply. "He's having all kinds of fun just circling me like a shark. I just don't want anyone else getting hurt when he finally decides to come in for a bite."

Dave sighed. "I know you think I had no right telling her, but we're both your friends. She had to know. Look, I know I keep telling you to stand strong, but it's a lot easier to do when you have friends supporting you. God, I can't tell you how many times I was alone, and wished I had someone like the Glee Club in my corner. If they're the kind of people you say they are…"

"Then they're a bunch of lunatics?" Kurt asked with a smile.

Dave chuckled. "Well, yeah, that too. But it sounds to me like when the chips are down, there's not a lot you guys won't do for each other. Am I wrong?"

Kurt paused for a moment. He glanced out the restaurant doors, watching Mercedes still in animated conversation on her phone. Kurt turned back to Dave. "No," he replied, a warm feeling of gratitude coming over him. "No, you're not."

The following Monday saw Kurt stride out of the cafeteria, his mind awash with plans. He wondered when the best time to talk with Anthony Rashad was. Mercedes deserved that much, and more, for her loyalty as a friend. He almost stopped short with a realization: was it the best... safest... thing to be talking to a football player at this point? What if he was buddies with...

Blaine Anderson appeared before him, as if he'd been formed from the air itself. Kurt couldn't help but let a gasp escape from his lips. He looked around; the halls seemed strangely deserted for the post-lunch hour. But even Anderson couldn't have managed that... could he?

"Hello, fag," the wide receiver snarled. "I hear you've been talking about me."

"I didn't tell anyone!" Kurt yelped. "I swear!"

"You told your boyfriend, didn't you?" Kurt was about to protest, but knew that correcting Anderson on terminology was far from the smartest thing to do at the moment. "Now that entire Glee Club of yours have been giving me the eye."

"I told him because you left me with nowhere else to turn for help. Who else could I go to for support? My father? I may not like you, Anderson, but I don't want you dead." Kurt shut his eyes for a moment, hoping a deep breath would calm his jangling nerves. It really didn't. "The Glee Club doesn't know. They only know you're bullying me. I didn't tell them about... the rest."

Anderson looked the trembling Kurt up and down. "You know, I actually believe you. Well, tell your butt buddy to keep his mouth shut too. I don't need everyone knowing how you assaulted me."

"How I..." Kurt sputtered. "You were the one who..."

"Shut up!" Anderson hissed. Kurt's mouth sealed shut with a speed that both surprised and annoyed him. "If your lies get around, well..." Anderson's glare deepened, and the temperature seemed to plunge at least ten degrees. "Let's just say I won't be the only one who suffers." He stalked off, and a rubber-kneed Kurt leaned against a wall, almost ready to collapse. It was only at that moment, of course, that the hallways came alive, and students began streaming in packs in every direction, giving Kurt only the barest of avoidance glances before going on with their own lives.