Down With A Thump

William McKinley High School was just beginning to buzz with life. Sleepy-eyed students clutching cups of coffee like lifelines, janitors whistling merry morning tunes and straightening tool belts, teachers scurrying in with dark smudges under their eyes and piles of marking in their arms, all were beginning to flood from the awakening town into the school. Locker doors slammed, filling the air thick with the scent of hairspray and perfume as beauties with long legs and glossy hair began their days, the sharp stinging scents of the products mingling with the homely smells of toast and bacon drifting from the cafeteria and the rich scent of coffee permeating the air.

Jocks were high-fiving each other as they passed in the hallways, bumping their enormous fists together and slapping each other on the back, guffawing loudly, congratulating each other on their latest conquests, discussing which of the bottom-feeders in the school they were targeting and perhaps, if they were being particularly productive, discussing plays for the football team. Cheerleaders were tightening their ponytails, swishing their skirts, swinging their hips from side to side in exaggerated movements as they undulated past openly staring boys, gossiping, giggling, whispering and practicing the most provocative dance steps in their routines to get every boy's jaw dropping.

A certain unholy trio of cheerleaders were currently sashaying down the corridors in front of a group of gaping boys when they were brought up short by the enormous, full-colour poster pinned to the main noticeboard. The noticeboard that every single person in the school, be they student, teacher or random visitor, would pass by during the day. The sign-up sheets for Old Maids Club and Celibacy Club and whatever other crap people needed to feel good about themselves were all hidden by what now appeared to be a blown-up photograph.

"Oh shit!" Santana exclaimed, attracting the attention of everyone in the corridor. Which turned out to be entirely counter-productive, as now everyone was staring with bulging eyes and slack jaws at the picture. "Shit, shit, shit!" Santana continued shouting, tearing frantically at the paper until it was all off the wall.

But it was too late. The damage had been done and everyone had seen exactly what was going on in the photo. People were laughing openly, muttering, pointing and whispering insults. Brittany was almost in tears as she gathered up the torn ribbons of paper and shoved them all into the nearest trashcan, and her eyes grew wide with horror when she saw the same picture pinned up all over the corridor.

"No," Quinn whispered in a choked voice, head whipping from side to side as she took in the various full-colour photographs. "How could we let this happen?"

The corridor fell into absolute dead silence as the doors opened and Kurt walked in. He seemed to be glowing, walking on air, with a dreamy smile on his face. His expression changed to one of terror when he caught sight of the pictures. People were beginning to point and laugh, whispering to each other. "No," Kurt whispered, turning around to take in every picture. "No, no, no, no, no." He took off, running through crowds of openly laughing students.

"Quick, we have to find him!" Brittany exclaimed in a high voice heading towards hysteria. Santana took charge, taking the tearful blonde's hand and shoving through the crowds, looking frantically for the familiar face. Quinn was right behind them, glaring at the crowds pressing in all around them.

"Quinn, Santana, Brittany!" The trio turned as one to find Mercedes and Tina chasing after them, both looking as frightened as they felt. "I guess you've seen the posters," Mercedes said, panting from exertion. "Kurt ran past us towards the third floor bathroom a while ago. Sam said he'd go in after him."

Puck joined them then, his normally smirking face set in stone, pinched with worry. "He's crying in the bathroom," he told them, and not one of them needed three guesses to know who it was he was talking about.

"Okay, look, you need to go find Blaine," Quinn ordered. "Mercedes, Tina, go get Kurt and bring him to the choir room. Santana, Brittany, go see if there are any more of those posters and make sure you tear them down. I'll try and get hold of everyone and we'll rendezvous in the choir room."

Rory walked up to them, his usually cheerful face sad and sympathetic, twisting his fingers nervously together. "I think you guys should go to the gymnasium," he said quietly. "It's really important. If anyone sees Artie, tell him to go help Lauren with the technical stuff, she dragged me back there and I don't have the foggiest what to do."

"Technical stuff?" Tina asked, gulping nervously. They exchanged a single look and all immediately took off for the gymnasium, preying to whatever deities or powers they believed in as they heard laughter than it couldn't be, wasn't what they feared.

However, their hopes were immediately dashed as they skidded into the place to find it packed out, all watching a screen set up on the stage. Brittany began to cry, burying her face in Santana's shoulder. The Latina bit her lip and slid an arm around her girlfriend, rubbing soothing circles onto the blonde's back. Puck slumped into a seat, face pinched with worry, hands clenching into fists. With a single murmured apology, Rory shot off to try and find Artie.

"Lauren's working on disconnecting it," a voice close by informed them, and they turned to find Mike there, him taking Tina's hand and glancing up at the screen, looking absolutely disgusted. "Who would do something like this?"

"I think you know exactly who," Mercedes said furiously, gazing at the screen with eyes flashing with pure fury. "Why would anyone do this?"

They shuddered together, horrified by this situation and wondering how they, the protectors of both Kurt and Blaine, could've allowed this to happen, all worrying about the boy who was, as far as they knew, crying in the bathroom as the choice words from a recording filled the room, synchronised perfectly to the professional-level film flickering across the giant screen.

"He thinks I'm over at Quinn's, if I come home at three in the morning with a drunk boyfriend in tow he'll be making use of his shotgun."

"Wanna kiss you."

"I want you…I want you so bad."

"Please, Kurt, please…I want this."

"…their view of boners during makeout sessions versus a gay guy's view is very different."

"And can't you tell I'm turned on too?"

"That feels so good…Oh God, you feel so…feel so…big."

"I'm a virgin."

You had to hand it to the twisted souls who had done this: when they destroyed someone's carefully crafted reputation and easy life at school, they didn't just destroy it. They ground it to dust and burnt it to ashes and blew the ashes away in the wind, all with a perfectly placed camera, video camera, microphone and access to the bowels of the school's electricity and photocopiers.

The Kurt onscreen was sliding down Blaine's body, hands and lips everywhere, when both sound and film abruptly cut off, and the group of protectors breathed a sigh of relief before guilt consumed them once more. It hadn't been enough, they hadn't cut off the film fast enough, everyone still knew and, from the film, it was easily extrapolated what had happened next, even if the pictures hadn't been all over the school.

"Choir room, quickly, now," Quinn ordered, pushing past guffawing spectators, closing her ears to the yells for confirmation on the endlessly cycling rumours and the names called after her, the talk of sluts and one night stands and drunken mistakes.

All any of them had in mind was getting them all through this.