READ ME: Er...I've been listening to 'Somewhere Only We Know' nonstop. It's beautiful.
Here's my first try at anything vaguely serious—if you've ever read my previous work ("Welcome to the Bright Lights", "Tastes Like Success", "A Hair Nightmare"), you know that I have a propensity toward the sillier things in life. But I really wanted to write a hospitalcentric!fic, where Kurt has a sickness and Blaine's a hospital volunteer.
After MUCH research via WebMD, Red Cross, medical journals, and my mother (who is indeed a practicing doctor), I decided to write a story about hemophilia, a relatively rare genetic disorder.
This fic is AU, but it takes place in Lima and Westerville and all that jazz. Kurt and Blaine have never met before. Since it's my first AU fic, I'd like as much constructive criticism as possible.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.
Before we begin, there's something you need to know.
There's always been something special about Kurt Hummel. Not in that devastatingly simple way, that kind of way that involves how well the boy can sing, or how well the boy can dress himself.
And don't get me wrong—he's special for those reasons, as well. Because Kurt's got this amazing countertenor voice that soars above everyone else's, and he's managed to obtain some of the most eccentrically gorgeous pieces of clothing ever made by anyone, ever. Kurt's got these amazingly long legs that he likes to accentuate with cigarette-thin skinny jeans, hair that sweeps up a clear three inches from the roots, and, oh yeah, his arms are pretty toned, too.
Kurt's flamboyantly gay. But that's all just a kind of technicality—he likes boys, finds them attractive and so much more worth it than any old half-baked floozy.
Unfortunately, that's still not that special something that I'm talking about.
Because ever since he went to the dentist for the first time at the tender age of four and wound up in a hospital room with blood flowing freely from his gums, Kurt's been known to have a certain disease called hemophilia.
Do you know what that is, reader?
Okay. So there's supposedly a specific way of describing the disease he has (well, Kurt seems to think so). That way's complicated and scientific. It involves Punnet squares and sex-linked genes and mutations. Kurt knows that he got the recessive gene from his mother, who didn't actually happen to have hemophilia—her genes just happened to function as carriers for the gene.
Hemophilia occurs almost exclusively in males.
Which is not only extremely ironic, but also where our story begins.
Kurt's a junior at McKinley High. He's walking down the hallway minding his own business, just like any other member of the McKinley High student body.
"Nice dress, Lady-Face!"
And then Kurt gets yet another Slushie in the face and is forced to shuffle off into the girls' bathroom to wash it off, flanked by his best friend, a vivacious and bodacious girl named Mercedes.
It's ironic because Kurt's clearly demonstrated his male-ness. He's definitely got a penis. He's definitely got an Adam's apple. He's definitely gotten a disease that mostly only males get. But these Neanderthals insist upon calling him things like 'lady' and 'fancy'.
Hemophilia is, in short, a bleeding disorder. Kurt's blood doesn't have the proper blood clotting factors in his system, the same factors that help stop the blood flow after you get a paper cut, or keep the purple color of a bruise from spreading all throughout your body. Which is exactly where the dentist incident came in—young Kurt had come in, expecting a quick check-up and maybe a small Fudgesicle when all was said and done.
He'd come out with blood everywhere and was rushed to the hospital. Dr. Paulsen, a kindhearted, slender woman, had been kind about running a few blood tests, and had told a very young Kurt all about the rare disease that he had inherited from his mother's side of the family.
Dr. Paulsen had instructed Kurt to maintain an active lifestyle through activities involving low to no contact, which eliminated his father's dreams of his little boy growing up to become an all-star football player (not that Kurt was ever particularly interested in that). Kurt's hemophilia required that Kurt steer clear of and falls, sprains, or strains. Anything that could result in bleeding, four-year-old Kurt was told, had to be avoided.
And Dr. Paulsen had told Kurt about the clotting factors, and how he'd have to get infusions of the stuff every once and a while to keep his blood in check. She had given Kurt's parents some fibrin glue to help treat minor skin injuries.
The Hummels were sent off on their merry way armed with an array of medical pamphlets and hemophilia treatments.
That day, little Kurt had learned his blood type. He was a type AB, which meant that he'd have to find other type ABs to get his clotting factors from.
Outstanding, his father, Burt, had thought. How many type ABs were in Lima, Ohio? And how many were active participants of blood drives, anyway?
"That doesn't worry you at all, Doctor?" Burt had asked, scratching at the skin underneath his baseball cap. "How Kurt'll only be able to get his blood—sorry, I mean clotting factors—from type ABs?"
"Not at all, Mr. Hummel," Dr. Paulsen had replied confidently. "There'll always be plenty of blood drives, and we can always get clotting factors shipped in from the city. We can even get it shipped in across state lines. And you can actually obtain synthesized clotting factors nowadays. Kurt will be just fine—just so long as you take care of him properly."
That had pacified Kurt's parents.
Still, Kurt's hemophilia provided him with at least one benefit.
The largely homophobic bullies at school? They couldn't touch him. Not because the thought of touching a gay person disgusted them, no. Because if they rammed Kurt up against a locker, or tossed him into the dumpster like they did with everyone else, he'd most likely bleed out. They'd get expelled.
Plus, most of them were totally freaked out by the idea of blood. Just saying.
Right now, Kurt's pretty horrified because he can feel the purple flecks of Slushie dripping down his cheeks and into his pores.
Oh, yeah. Kurt spends an ungodly amount of time making sure his skin is absolutely flawless. Even though he's got bruises peppering his sides more often than not, Kurt spends at least an hour daily slathering on creams and moisturizers and generally being as vain as he wanted.
Because what the hell, he's totally got a right to do that.
"This is so stupid," Kurt grumbles, toweling off his face with the soft terry-cloth towel he keeps folded up in his Marc Jacobs messenger bag. "Karofsky and Azimio figured out a way to terrorize me without having to hit me or anything."
Mercedes leans over and brushes ice off of her best friend's hair. "Be glad that you're not bleeding out in the hallway, white boy."
Kurt blows a raspberry and scoffs. "Please, Merce, I'm a little bit stronger than that."
Mercedes quirks a judgemental eyebrow up at him.
"Although..." Kurt says, thoughtfully pulling out a tube of face wash from his bag, "I do have a doctor's appointment today."
Mercedes' eyes light up. "You got any bruises? I know how much you've been wanting to visit Dr. Paulsen without any of 'em."
Because Kurt does. He feels like showing up at a doctor's appointment looking completely normal would make him feel like he was winning some sort of battle, even though winning against hemophilia's completely impossible.
Kurt nods his head sadly, leaning over closer to Mercedes and pulling up the front of his sweater. "Check this one out," he says, pointing to a large purple splotch that stretches across his side. "But if it makes any difference, this is the only one. I can just break out the Bobbi Brown and conceal it, probably."
Mercedes touches the bruises gently and then retracts her hand from Kurt's skin. "Nah, I'd suggest leaving it as is. It looks pretty painful."
Kurt frowns, because really, it doesn't hurt any more than it should.
"Happy seventeenth birthday, Blaine!" Wes exclaims, pounding his best friend on the back. "We all know you've been waiting for this moment—you're finally a mature wizard. It's about damn time, you know."
Blaine tries to give Wes' shoulder a good wallop, he's stopped when he gets smothered with yet another hug (damn his short stature!), this time from David. "My baby's getting so old!" he exclaims, jumping back from Blaine and then adjusting his tie with as much dignity as he could muster. He reaches over and promptly grabs a shiny, wrapped present. "And of course, what's a proper birthday without any presents?"
"Hey, thanks man," Blaine responds, taking hold of the present and untying the ribbon deftly. "You guys really didn't need to get me anything—"
"Shush," Wes says. "You're ruining the moment."
"Yeah, Blaine," Thad calls from the other end of the senior commons. "So shut up and open the gift already!"
It's a set of five new guitar picks and a cellophane-wrapped package of five reams of blank sheet music. There's a small blister package of spare guitar strings, all coiled together, held to the paper with a bright blue rubber band. Blaine's face lights up immediately. "Thanks, guys!" he says, tearing open the pack of guitar picks and examining each one of them closely.
"We thought that getting you a musical birthday present was only fitting," David explains. "We—" he motions to the room filled with students clad in navy-and-blue uniforms "—pooled our money to get you a little something-something for the big one-seven, eh, boys?"
A chorus of "rights!" and "totally!" rings throughout the Senior Commons.
Blaine's face breaks into a wide grin again. "Well, thanks again, guys. I really appreciate the gesture." He holds up the ream of paper. "I don't even want to know which one of you guys was the psychic who knew I needed more blank sheets."
"We raided your drawers," Nick explains with an easy smile.
"So what are you going to do first?" asks Matt, looking up at Blaine with ice-blue eyes. "Cast spells? Apparate to Las Vegas?"
"Great fat lot that'll do," Jeff snorts. "He's not yet twenty-one."
"Why all the Harry Potter references?" Blaine asks, tucking the package of guitar strings into the pocket of his blazer.
Wes shrugs. "Nothing much that's special about being seventeen. It's not like sixteen or eighteen, you know. Only thing that's cool about being seventeen is the wizard aspect of it."
There an awkward silence, and then:
"So you're not apparating to Vegas, then?" Matt reiterates slowly.
Blaine looks at his friends sheepishly. "Actually, no. I was just about to go down to Lima Memorial."
A few things you should know about Blaine: he's gay, and proud of it. He's got a beautiful, strong mother named Evangeline who is completely comfortable with her son's sexuality, and a serious, businessman father who is not as thrilled. Regardless, Blaine's parents are pretty accepting of his homosexuality, just like Blaine thinks they should be.
Blaine volunteers at Lima Memorial Hospital for service hours. He works various booths and sings with the children and reads Steinbeck novels to the old people. He strums his guitar to accompany the singers at hospital Mass service and ladles steaming chicken casserole into the trays of patients during lunchtime.
Sometimes he sits at the informational booths for the yearly Lima Memorial Blood Drive. He passes out pamphlets and informs the general public, even though he's never gotten his blood drawn for donating.
"Lima Memorial? Lima Memorial the hospital?" Wes asks, a furrow appearing in his brow.
"Well," Blaine trails off, searching for the right words. "The blood drive's happening right now."
David looks just as confused as Wes. "So...?"
"I'm finally seventeen," Blaine explains, "which means that I can actually donate blood instead of, you know. Educating people about it. And I've been preparing for today for ages."
"Gone through your screenings and everything, then?" Jeff asks with a teasing grin. "Guess you don't have HIV, then."
"Sadly, my life is not a suburban production of RENT," Blaine responds smoothly. "I meet all the requirements, though. I'm now at least seventeen, I weigh more than one-hundred-and-ten pounds, and I'm in good health."
"That explains that weird health kick you've been on lately," Wes muses, resting his elbow on David's shoulder. "You've been trying to keep your body as fit as possible for your first blood-donating experience."
Blaine laughs. "I'm a type AB—that means I'm a hot commodity. All of these blood drives have been dying to get some of this." He motions to his body demonstratively.
Reader, if you didn't know, type ABs are regarded as universal blood acceptors. That means that all of the other blood types—A, B, AB, and other Os—are accepted by type ABs for transfusions. Unfortunately, there are some factors and variables working into the method. Sometimes ABs only accept ABs. Which makes Blaine invaluable—there's simply not enough AB blood going around for other ABs.
Type ABs like Kurt.
But let's not get ahead of our story—after all, Blaine has yet to actually meet Kurt Hummel.
"I suppose you're not scared of needles, then," Matt adds.
Blaine frowns. "Being scared of needles is for babies," he mutters childishly.
Wes and David roll their eyes in unison and push Blaine towards the big, arched doors of the Senior Commons. "Come on, to your car you go. Don't want to keep them sexy male nurses waiting."
Thad chuckles and says, "Go on, let's not deprive the world of some fresh Anderson blood, shall we?"
Blaine's lucky, see.
His friends accept him.
Blaine's heart is pumping like mad when he pulls his Lexus up to the parking lot of Lima General and turns the key in the ignition. It's almost as if the fates are screwing with him—let's try and give Blaine a heart attack before he can actually get to the donating blood part.
"Courage," he mutters to himself, slipping his Dalton blazer off and draping it across the driver's seat. Blaine opens the car door and slides his keys back into his pocket. "C'mon, Blaine, courage."
"Blaine!" Ashley, one of his close nurse friends, cries from her desk as he enters the hospital. The little bells attached to the top of the doorframe jingle merrily as he opens the door. "Are you ready for this?"
Ashley's one of those eternally smiling people, with bright aqua hospital scrubs and perky violet glasses perched on her nose almost as an afterthought. She wears those bright purple nurse clogs only on days when she's menstruating—she says that they help with the back pain. On normal days, though, Ashley prefers to don simple white Keds, because she thinks they're the least offensive kind of stereotypical nurse footwear.
Blaine wholeheartedly agrees.
He's told Ashley about his blood donation idea before, and they'd been keeping a countdown calendar for the past month. Strange to say, but Blaine and Ashley had bonded over the blood drive. They were overzealous. They made the entire ordeal seem so much more grandiose than what it actually was.
"I think so. I'm pretty nervous," Blaine admits. "I mean, I know that it'll just be like having blood drawn normally, but..."
Ashley adjusts the placement of her glasses. "But what?"
"What if my blood isn't right? What if they end up tossing it because it's weirdly contaminated with some obscure virus or something? What if I had hepatitis as a kid, and I was never told about it?"
"Are you kidding me, Blaine?" Ashley asks. "I ran those tests to the lab myself. I'm pretty sure you're normal. Plus, you're not running a temperature or anything. And your urine is ridiculously normal. Totally average. It's kind of disappointing, actually."
Blaine screws his face up in mock disappointment. "Oh, I know. It's not green or purple or anything."
Ashley looks up at Blaine with a smile on her face and then tilts her head down so that she can examine her clipboard. "Alright, Blaine. In all seriousness, you'll have to go to room 120-B to get the actual blood drawn."
"Who'll draw the blood?" Blaine asks curiously. "Anyone I know?"
Ashley scrutinizes her clipboard carefully. "Dr. Jennie Paulsen. Short hair that's brown? She's got a sarcastic streak, but she's very intelligent."
Blaine recognizes the name. "Oh, Jennie. Yeah. Thanks, 'Shley."
There's a beat of silence followed by the shrill ringing of the telephone.
"No problem, Blaine," Ashley replies, picking up the phone from its cradle and resting it in between her shoulder and her ear. "Oh, and don't call me that. Don't call me 'Shley."
The next hour and a half is nerve-wracking for Blaine. He undergoes another physical and stays seated in the funny black chair for half an hour as Dr. Paulsen putters around with the sterilizing wipes and the syringe.
"Don't doubt my skills," Paulsen scoffs derisively as she examines Blaine's health record.
Ashley steps into the room after about fifteen minutes to chat with Blaine. Dr. Paulsen seems to be taking her sweet time, and Ashley manages to keep Blaine occupied. She swabs the junction of his elbow crease with stuff that she says will numb the skin—Dr. Paulsen seems slightly amused by this (apparently, it doesn't really help).
Then the thick rubber band is pulled over his arm and, quick as a pinch, Dr. Paulsen inserts the needle. Blaine hardly feels anything. Instead, he leans back in his chair, watching as more and more scarlet fluid collects in the little bag, inflating like an eerie balloon.
"There's one pint of certified top-grade AB positive," Paulsen says, removing the needle after a few seconds and tossing it into the disposal bin. She slides the band off of Blaine's forearm and is about to reach for a sterilized Band-Aid when Ashley sweeps by with a neon pink one.
"It's an inside joke," she explains, expertly sticking it onto Blaine's arm. Blaine's truthfully feeling a little woozy, and only manages a slight chuckle. Dr. Paulsen shrugs and scrutinizes the face of her watch.
"Well, Blaine, I'm on break now. We've got some refreshments up in the cafeteria that you've got to consume, anyway—your body needs to adjust to the blood loss."
"Yeah," Blaine agrees, standing up from the chair and staring at the pink bandage stuck to his arm. Ashley pats him on the shoulder and drags him out of the room.
Dr. Paulsen follows close behind them.
"Tell me about yourself, Blaine," she says once she, Blaine, and Ashley are sitting at a table in the cafeteria. Blaine's arm is curled around a glass of orange juice and he's currently chewing on an oatmeal raisin cookie.
There's something open about Dr. Paulsen. He likes her.
Later in the afternoon, Dr. Paulsen turns around and snaps her latex gloves on with a small smile on her face.
"Afternoon, Kurt. Before we begin, shall I ask what the good patient's wearing today?"
Another thing that's worth noting:
Kurt's grown up with Dr. Paulsen acting as a mother figure. They've got an odd sort of friendship going. Kurt always asks Dr. Paulsen about her weekend plans. Dr. Paulsen always asks Kurt about his outfits. They've managed to find common interests, which is great—Kurt really does trust Dr. Paulsen with his life. Dr. Paulsen's never had any kids of his own—she and her husband were widely known to be childless—but she treats Kurt like her own son.
"Nothing too over-the-top today, madam," Kurt says, spinning around for Dr. Paulsen to get a feel for the outfit. "Just some good old-fashioned Marc and the rest is completely off-the-rack." He gestures to his messenger bag. "This piece was hell to find."
Dr. Paulsen looks at the bag and nods in what Kurt supposes is approval.
"Oh, and a McQueen scarf, of course," Kurt adds with a low chuckle, tapping at the loose, filmy fabric that was wound around his neck.
"Very nice," Paulsen acknowledges with an approving nod. "So how've you been lately? You haven't bled at all, have you?"
Kurt shakes his head. "No. I do have some minor bruising, though." He lifts up his shirt to show the doctor. "It's nothing too major, though."
"Well, up onto the examination table," Dr. Paulsen says, rolling out a new sheet of protective paper over the table and patting it. "Up you go, then."
Kurt ambles up until he's perched daintily on the tabletop.
Dr. Paulsen runs some of the obligatory tests. She listens to Kurt's heartbeat and takes his blood pressure. She knocks on Kurt's knees gently with little rubber mallets and checks his throat for any infections. All clear.
"So have you been taking your medication?" Dr. Paulsen asks, scribbling down Kurt's vitals onto a notepad. "You've done really well in the past three weeks, Kurt."
Kurt beams proudly. "I have. Actually, I'm almost out." He reaches for his bag and extracts a plastic tube of pills. He shakes it—it's empty.
"Well, I'll just prescribe another batch for you...taken once a day, of course..." Dr. Paulsen looks up from her inked-in chicken scratch. "So are you all set for your clotting factor infusion, Kurt?"
Patients with hemophilia, like Kurt, have to be treated to doses of clotting factors given intravenously. Kurt often spends the night at Lima Memorial, resting in a hospital bed as clotting factors are pumped into his system. It's not as horrible as you'd think—it gives Kurt a lot of time to relax, and he gets to watch reruns of Project Runway when he gets bored.
"Has getting blood been easy lately?" Kurt inquires, picking at his nails absentmindedly. "I know that type AB is pretty scarce around these parts."
"It's funny you should ask that," Dr. Paulsen says thoughtfully. "We just got a new blood donor in today. Young man, probably around your age. He's a type AB, too."
Kurt's mouth gapes. "Really? Must be a guy into helping patients out."
"He's a pretty frequent volunteer, actually. What was his name again...? Something like Blaise...Blaire...Blaine. Yes, that's it. Blaine." Dr. Paulsen snaps the cap back onto her pen. "He attends Dalton Academy, in Westerville."
"Huh. Westerville to Lima. Must be quite the trek," Kurt marvels.
Honestly, Kurt's impressed with the dedication of this Blaine guy.
"We're still running tests on this guy's blood, but who knows? Maybe he'll be your blood reservoir in the future. We can derive your clotting factors from his blood." Dr. Paulsen says in a weak attempt at humor. "Word on the street is that he's gay, too. And he's a nice guy. I'll ask him to swing by your room tonight. How 'bout it?"
Kurt rolls his eyes. "Very funny, Doctor. Don't try to set me up with guys. It's not going to work. And can you imagine how creepy it'd be to share blood with your significant other?"
"I actually find it kind of romantic," Dr. Paulsen admits.
Kurt shudders. "No."
Dr. Paulsen gives Kurt a warm, sparkling laugh. "If you're worried about kissing, I assure you that it takes a lot to get someone to bleed in the mouth...you'd seriously have to bite down pretty har—"
Oh, yeah. Dr. Paulsen is definitely comfortable with Kurt's sexuality.
It's not until Kurt's hooked up to an I.V. loaded up with clotting factors that he sees a curly-headed young man enter the room. He's got on a stark white collared shirt and gray slacks—definitely a private school boy. The boy's hair is gelled down in small waves, and his eyebrows, Kurt thinks, are absolutely ridiculous in their thickness and darkness. But there's a certain friendliness about the boy's big hazel eyes and his wide, bright grin.
Kurt's drowsy, but he manages to keep his eyes open long enough to smile and weakly wave at the guy.
"Hey, there. I'm Blaine. You must be Kurt," Blaine says, pulling a stool away from the wall and up to Kurt's bed. He promptly sat himself down.
Kurt scrutinizes Blaine, noticing a bright pink bandage pressed up against the back of his elbow on his left arm, where the sleeve is rolled up. He tries to ignore the rather attractive shape of this boy's (Blaine, he tells himself. The guy's name is Blaine.) arm, but fails miserably.
"I'm Kurt," he says softly. He pointed at Blaine's arm weakly. "What's with the band-aid?"
"Gave blood earlier today," Blaine replies proudly, tapping at the bandage with his index finger. "And I just happen to really love the color pink."
Kurt hums in recognition. "Oh. Dr. Paulsen was just telling me about you. Type AB, right?"
Blaine nods. "Ah...yes. Type AB."
"So you volunteer here?"
"Most of the time," Blaine says. "I like it around here. The energy is great and...gee, I'm not really sure...I just like making people smile, you know?" He flashes a particularly charming smile of his own at Kurt, who feels his insides squirm a little bit uncomfortably. His stomach does a somersault.
"I've got hemophilia," Kurt blurts out suddenly. "I'm a type AB, too."
"Really?" Blaine's eyes squint a little bit at the corners as he grins at Kurt (his smile, reader, is ridiculously infectious). "We can be blood-brothers, then, huh?"
"Hm? Oh, sure, kind of. We could be, I mean." Kurt says, lifting the hand that's currently got a needle stuck in it. There's gauze and cotton wrapped around it to catch any blood if an accident happens. "If I wasn't so worried about cutting myself and accidentally bleeding to death."
Blaine looks concerned, but says nothing.
Kurt takes that as an opportunity to change the subject. "So what were you thinking of doing here with me?"
Blaine shrugs. "Just...talking. Normally I sing with the kids, but you're not a kid, so..." He pauses. "I'm talking myself into circles, really." He rests his hands on his knees. "Tell me about yourself."
"Wait. You sing?" Kurt asks, backpedaling and avoiding the question. "Are you a member of the Warblers?"
Blaine winks at Kurt conspiratorially and Kurt thinks he can feel his brain oozing out of his ear. "How did you know that I go to Dalton?"
"Dr. Paulsen told me," Kurt explains simply.
"Jennie's your doctor, too?" Blaine flexes his arms experimentally, pleased to find that the odd, weak sensation is his arm had disappeared. "Well, yes. I am in fact a Warbler."
Kurt turns that concept over in his head and then gives Blaine a disdainful look. "Not to be rude, but..." His voice drops down low, like a whisper. "...are you any good?"
"What, are you on a rival glee club? Think we're going to give you a run for your money?" Blaine teases with a knowing smirk.
Kurt instantly turns red as a tomato. "Yes."
"Yes, I'm in my school's glee club. Ever heard of the McKinley High New Directions?"
Blaine raises those exceedingly thick eyebrows expressively. "Oh, wow. I suppose we do share a common interest—singing."
"Would you look at that," Kurt says with a weak laugh. "We've got three things in common now: our blood types, our passion for singing, and our sexuali—I mean, two things." His voice goes even lower as he mutters to himself as a reminder, "Only two things." He's mentally slapping himself for bringing up the rumors of Blaine's homosexuality.
"Hm?" Blaine asks with an easy smile. "What was that?"
Blaine pats Kurt on the shoulder gently. "Hey, don't worry about it. Look, I brought my guitar. We can sing something together, if you'd like."
Kurt accepts, because really, who is he to turn down this extremely attractive boy in front of him? The guy's benevolent, too.
Douche bags, Kurt thinks wildly to himself as Blaine sprints out of the room to grab his guitar from his Lexus, they don't donate blood to the needy. They just don't.
When Blaine runs back in with a guitar case in hand, Kurt decides right then and there that he really likes this kid, this Blaine. Blaine with the weird eyebrows and the helmet-head and the mysteriously pink bandage plastered onto his arm.
Because the first thing that Blaine plays is Katy Perry, and Kurt really can't handle that.
As he strums lazily on the guitar strings, Blaine shoots a comforting smile at Kurt. "Here, I know what we'll do," he says, pausing in his ministrations for a few seconds. "I'll play and you sing."
Kurt stares at him, shell-shocked.
But Blaine just keeps grinning at him, playing on that pale, wooden guitar. And Kurt can't help himself.
"Before you met me, I was alright, but things were kinda heavy...you brought me to life; now every February, will you be my Valentine?"
A/N: So...what's the verdict? Should I continue? Don't forget to review! :)
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