READ ME: Here you go, loveys!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.

.:|:.

"HEMOPHILIA"

Ch. 2

When Blaine gets back to Dalton, it's like he's seeing the world in a different perspective.

He's quite possibly given someone else another chance at life.

He remembers the day his younger sister, Elise, had fallen into the uneven brick pavement on one of her visits to Dalton Academy. She had punctured a pretty large vein in her knee, and she had been rushed to Mount Carmel Saint Anne's Hospital. By the time she had arrived, she had lost so much blood that she had needed to get a blood transfusion.

Blaine recalls just sitting at her bedside, watching Elise's small form lying on the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV drip.

He can fool himself and other people by saying that he's volunteering at Lima Memorial just for the service hours. He's been a member of the National Honors Society at Dalton for all three years he's been attending, and community service is definitely required. Besides, it never looks bad on college applications.

Blaine wants to be a lawyer. He wants to power through the colleges on the East Coast. For him, it's the Ivies or bust.

But honestly, Blaine does the service for Elise. Really, he does it for anyone at the hospital who needs the blood.

Some philosophers wax poetic about the meaning of life, and the stuff that life runs on. Blaine's had a teacher who's stated that life runs on some sort of cosmic juice. Blaine's sophomore biology teacher liked to practically write sonnets about entropy, how the universe runs on its own disorderliness.

Blaine disagrees.

He knows that life—human life, anyway—he knows that it runs on blood.

Before leaving Lima Memorial with his acoustic guitar in tow, Blaine had managed to get his paws on Kurt's cell phone number. He's now sitting in his dorm room, dressed only in loose drawstring sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt, turning his phone over and over again in his hands.

What should he tell Kurt?

"Kurt's got quite the voice," Blaine says to the darkness, feeling the blood whooshing around in his ears.

He pulls his phone up to eye level, flipping the keyboard open and pressing his warm thumbs against the keys.

Blaine pulls a blanket over himself. It's a chilly November evening.

"Courage," he murmurs, to no one in particular.

.:|:.

"Well," Kurt says, extracting a quart of milk from the humming refrigerator. "I can never say it enough. Thanks for driving me, Finn."

Finn rubs his head, a sheepish grin appearing on his face. "Well, uh," he replies, taking another bite of his lasagna, "No problem, dude."

Kurt frowns. He hates being called a dude.

He supposes it's not much worse than being called a lady, or a fancy, or, you know. A fag.

Even though Finn's been known to let words like that fly from his mouth every so often.

Kurt pours himself a glass of skim milk and seats himself at the dining room table across from Finn, who is wolfing down his pasta like a marathon runner. Cracking open the pages of the latest issue of Vogue, Kurt sighs, sips at his drink, and crosses one leg over the other.

"Still," Kurt insists, flipping through the advertisements that are congregated at the beginning of his magazine, "I kept you in after dinnertime. You could have gone out of Lima Memorial and eaten at...oh, I don't know. Where would you have gone?"

Finn shrugs wordlessly, chasing a mouthful of lasagna down with some milk. He swallows noisily. "Uh...Taco Bell? I totally love Taco Bell."

Kurt rolls his eyes.

His phone buzzes on the table.

"Text message, dude," Finn says. "Dude, you just got a text message."

When Kurt opens the text message, he smiles widely. He's just about to tap out a wittily-worded reply when Finn screeches himself out of his chair and clanks his plate and fork into the kitchen sink. The harsh sounds ring in Kurt's ears.

"Who's it from?" Finn asks conversationally, grabbing a banana and peeling it methodically.

Kurt looks up, the alarm showing in his face. "Oh, no one in particular." He jerks his head back down and quickly types out a timely response.

Finn quirks an eyebrow at Kurt. "Hey, look, I know it's not really in my place to say anything about this, but..."

"It's not anyone bad, Finn. It's not Azimio, or, God forbid, Karofsky," Kurt replies defensively. He downs another mouthful of milk.

There's a sound of padding footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Hey, uh, Kurt? What's all this about text messages?" Burt Hummel's

voice is tired, but serious. The intensity of his glare matches that of his son's. Burt turns and nods approvingly at Finn. "Hey, kid. Thanks for driving Kurt around today. I appreciate it."

Finn gives Burt a close-mouthed smile, swallowing another bite of banana. "No problem, Burt."

Kurt gives his father a hard smile. "Dad, it's not anyone bad, it's just this kid I met at Lima Memoria—"

"Who?" Now Burt's eyes are more curious than threatening. "Who'd you meet, Kurt?"

"A volunteer," Kurt says innocently. "Named Blaine. He goes to Dalton Academy in Westerville. He works at the hospital and he's just become a blood donor."

Burt hums, nodding to himself. "I see. He, uh...he play for your team?"

Finn nearly chokes on his mouthful of banana.

Kurt's eyes widen in alarm. "My gaydar's been known to be horrendously inaccurate. Like a dollar store pregnancy test, actually." He closes his eyes and thinks of Sam, the beach-blond transfer student. Kurt had thought he was gay, but now Sam's all about making out with Quinn Fabray in the choir room during free period.

Burt frowns and dismisses Kurt's previous statement. "Look, Kurt. I'm treading pretty dangerous water here—I'm not exactly sure what to ask you. I think I've definitely got the right to, uh. To, uh, ask these sorts of questions." He clears his throat. "He play for your team?"

Kurt's been thinking a lot about relationships, actually. About how much he wants to be in one, how lonely he's been feeling. His father had just recently married the love of his life, Carole Hudson, less than a month ago. When Kurt was younger, right after his mother's fatal car crash, he had thought that his dad would never remarry. He had thought that the simple memory of his mother, the brighter-than-blood, vivacious Elizabeth, was enough to keep Burt Hummel happy.

Then his crush on Finn Hudson happened.

Here's something else you should have picked up on about Kurt: he's pretty impulsive. And Kurt, as some sort of straight-boy-attracting mechanism, had set up his father with Finn's widowed mother.

Kurt finds it the most ironic that while he's an excellent matchmaker, he can't find love himself for shit.

As an answer to his father's question, Kurt manages to force out a reasonable, "Status unknown."

"You do know what it means if he does," Burt says, mouth pursed. "So I'd recommend finding out soon, sport."

Kurt sighs audibly. "Dad, if I do, you will most definitely be the first one to know."

.:|:.

The next time Kurt sees Blaine, it's at the Lima Bean. Kurt's just finished school, and he's getting ready to hunker down with the book he's reading for English, Anna Karenina, when he hears the familiar tinkle of the coffee shop door opening and sees the familiar head of hair.

It's still gelled down, hard as a rock, only this time Blaine's got his Dalton Academy blazer on. Kurt scrutinizes the design of the blazer and concedes that while it puts forth a valiant effort, the bright scarlet piping reminds him too much of fresh blood flowing through a catheter.

Blaine walks up to the cash register and orders his coffee from the perky barista. He pulls out a worn brown wallet and slides a ten-dollar bill over the table top. "Keep the change," Kurt sees him mouth.

Kurt can't help but feel a little bit intrusive. His eyes never leave Blaine, and he can feel his face turning red. Would Blaine be weirded out if he...?

"Kurt!" Blaine says, eyes lighting up warmly in recognition. He practically hops over to the couch where Kurt is seated, Tolstoy and mocha perched primly on his knees. "I almost didn't see you there."

Kurt smiles wanly, taking a sip of nonfat mocha and examining the brightness of Blaine's hazel eyes. So open, so lovely.

Blaine grins and looks down at the novel perched on Kurt's lap. He places his hand on it hesitantly, glances back up at Kurt, and takes it, reads the cover (there's a picture of a beautiful woman in a burgundy gown on the front), and nods. "Tolstoy?" he asks Kurt, carefully wedging the book back between Kurt's knee and elbow.

Kurt releases a heavy sigh. "English class," he explains, and he and Blaine share an equally depressed look.

Kurt clears his throat. "I mean, it's actually got a great storyline, but the book is just so long...and Tolstoy has a tendency of making things go by way too slowly."

Blaine gives Kurt a hard laugh. "Plus everyone's running around cheating on their husbands and wives and it's..."

"Complicated?" Kurt supplies for Blaine, reaching over to pull a chunk of blueberry scone from the brown paper bag sitting on the coffee table. Blaine reciprocates, unwrapping his piece of orange-hazelnut biscotti from the crinkling plastic and swirling it around in his medium drip.

"So you go to Dalton Academy?" Kurt asks offhandedly, chewing on the scone slowly. "What's it like?"

Blaine concentrates, puffing his cheeks out (adorably, Kurt thinks wildly to himself) and blowing air out of his mouth. "It's, ah...it's different from all of the other schools in Ohio. It's open and confining at the same time...it's almost like..."

Kurt nods encouragingly. "Like...?"

"It's like you can be yourself just so long as you still conform to the rules. But the students at Dalton are all united by their love of learning; I suppose we're all misfits in that sense," Blaine finishes.

"And what about the Warblers, then?"

Blaine smiles. "What I love the most about Dalton is its affection for us performers. The students who aren't involved with the Warblers treat us like...well, kind of like rock stars. It's incredibly humbling."

Kurt leans over and stiffly pats Blaine on the hand with an understanding, almost condescending look. "Are you a backup tenor? Or a baritone?"

Blaine pauses and gives Kurt a funny look. There's a beat of silence that passes—Kurt purses his lips and sips at more nonfat mocha, Blaine chomps noisily on more hazelnut biscotti.

Heaving a great sigh, Blaine pushes on his knees and straightens himself in his chair. He blinks once, twice, three times.

Kurt loses count.

"I, uh, I actually sing lead. For uh, you know. The Warblers," Blaine mumbles through another swig of medium drip.

For a moment, Kurt just sits there, feeling his stupid, too-thin blood flooding his face. He feels the jolt of coldness running down his spine, the sting of embarrassment. The knowledge that he had been overly confident, overly condescending. Overly judgemental, since he had thought that he and Blaine shared something, that something being an intrinsic lack of solos. But he had thought—

Blaine pats his hand against Kurt's kneecap. "Hey. It's alright," he says with another bat of those furiously long eyelashes. "Why don't you tell me about McKinley?"

Kurt clears his throat quietly and sways back and forth in his seat. "I...can I...ask you a question?"

"Anything," Blaine replies earnestly.

"How does Dalton...how do the Dalton boys handle gays?"

Blaine sits and stares at Kurt, and suddenly, things start making sense again.

"Well," Blaine starts, plopping his drink down onto the table and pressing his palms flat against one another. "The official policy is that of no-harassment, regardless of race, gender, origin, religion, sexuality, or any other factors."

Kurt raises both of his eyebrows. "But...?"

"We actually have sensitivity seminars," Blaine says wryly. "They help with the freshmen—most of them aren't used to seeing people that are different. Unique, you know? But they learn to love and accept everyone else with time."

"It's one hell of a lot better than what we've got at McKinley," Kurt responds, thinking of Karofsky and the sting of his blue raspberry Slushie.

"You know, Kurt, tolerance isn't something that's built in a day," Blaine says philosophically. "People feel threatened, or confused. It's not anything different from what we felt when we came out of the closet."

Kurt's eyes go wide as saucers as he leans in towards Blaine's body, so close that he can perceive the beginnings of dark stubble along his jawline. He pretends that the sight doesn't make his stomach all fluttery. "You mean...you're—?"

"Gay?" Blaine questions smoothly. "Yes. We're a definite minority at Dalton, but people are pretty accepting of us. Most of my Warbler friends are straight, with girlfriends, though."

"O-oh," Kurt manages to stutter out.

"So I take it you're having trouble at school?" Blaine asks, hoping that he isn't overstepping his boundaries too much. Hoping that he isn't making Kurt feel too uncomfortable.

Kurt lets out a harsh breath. "Not really. Well...it's more psychological than anything," he replies dryly. "My condition as a hemophiliac prevents most of those Neanderthals from hitting me too hard."

"They're more empathetic than you think they are, then?" Blaine suggests.

"Not really," Kurt says. "They verbally abuse me, throw Slushies at me. Give me rude phone calls. Try to key my car. I think the only reason they don't just push me up against a locker and leave me there to bleed out and die is their need to stay on the football team."

"Ah," Blaine replies flatly. "I suppose that keeps them pretty anchored."

Kurt feels the walls breaking down inside of him. He suddenly feels like he can tell Blaine everything without being judged, without being discriminated against.

It scares the shit out of him.

"I..." Kurt says before his voice falters. "They...just walk around, bullying me. And no one..." He takes a ragged breath. "No one seems to notice. Not particularly. I mean, I'll get a few friends sympathizing, worrying about me. But they don't do anything. And I'm not sure...I'm not sure what to do."

Blaine presses his warm palm into Kurt's shoulder serenely. "I know what you're going through, Kurt. Because the same thing happened at my old school." He waits, watching the understanding blossom in Kurt's expression. "And I filed complaints with the teachers, and they were sympathetic and all, but...you could tell that they really didn't care, you know?"

Kurt hums darkly and adds, "They seem to think that being tortured is just another side effect of being gay."

Blaine nods. "Exactly."

"So what did you do?"

Blaine lowers his head and looks at Kurt through his long, thick lashes. "This isn't something I'm proud of, Kurt."

Kurt shakes his head rapidly. "It's not that...I just want to try to keep my options open here."

"I ran," Blaine says simply, reaching for his empty coffee cup and balling up the cellophane wrapper of his biscotti. "Listen, Kurt. I've got to go—the only reason I'm even here in Lima is to volunteer at Lima Memorial."

Kurt masks his disappointment with a wide smile. "Oh."

Blaine stands up and tugs his blazer back into place, running his hands along the perfect creases and pushing his tie into perfect position. Kurt's mesmerized. "Do you volunteer at Lima Memorial?" Blaine asks him with a quirk of those thick brows.

Kurt shakes his head ruefully. "I'm just a patient, unfortunately." He fingers the dogtag hanging around his neck, the one with all of his medical information written on it in case of an emergency. "Just a patient."

"Oh. Well, you should definitely try volunteering one of these days," Blaine says with a charismatic smile. "It's more rewarding than it seems."

Reader, for the first time in his life, Kurt truly thought about helping another person just like him.

The last time he had ever truly helped someone was when his father had had that heart attack in September; Kurt remembers that feeling of satisfaction he had received every time he boiled up a pot of chicken and watercress soup for Burt.

Kurt presses his sweaty palms into the fabric of his Armani Exchange skinnies. "When can I start?" he asks Blaine.

.:|:.

It turns out that Kurt can start whenever, which is why he finds himself taking the shotgun seat of Blaine's champagne-colored Lexus. Light streams in through the tinted windows of the car, and Kurt automatically reaches into his messenger bag to pull out his Ray-Bans.

He tries not to laugh his brains out when Blaine reaches into the eyeglass compartment of his car and pulls out a pair of dark sunglasses thickly rimmed in bright pink plastic. Blaine notices the funny look that Kurt's aiming at him; in response, he turns his head towards Kurt and smiles devilishly.

Kurt can feel the butterflies in his stomach having some sort of mosh pit in there as Blaine pulls out of the Lima Bean's parking lot and drives out onto the road in the direction of the hospital.

"It doesn't seem like so long since your last visit, huh?" Blaine inquires conversationally, leaning over to adjust the positioning of his rearview mirror. Kurt shakes his head no.

Then a thought crosses his mind.

"Blaine?" he pipes up, folding his hands together over his lap. "Can I ask you something?"

Blaine's eyes never leave the road, but he nods and replies with an enthusiastic, "Sure!"

Kurt's eyes stray to the toes of his boots and his throat feels funny, but he manages to force out, "How is it that you can donate blood if you're gay?"

It surprises Kurt when Blaine leans over to adjust the heating setting of his car and tells him, "Actually, Lima Memorial has a set of criteria that donors have to meet in order to give blood, and gay...gay virgins are definitely game for donation."

Kurt chews that thought over. "Really?"

Blaine shrugs. "I read over the booklet with that nurse, Ashley. If I was sexually active—actually, if I ever had sex after 1977 with another male—then I'd be at risk for AIDS. And that's when I wouldn't be able to give blood."

Kurt hums in understanding.

"Besides," Blaine says, a little ruefully. "I haven't even had a boyfriend yet. I mean, I've been on dates, but..."

Holding a hand up immediately, Kurt blurts out, "Don't need to know. Sorry."

Blaine chuckles to himself and flicks his left turn signal on so that he can turn into the parking lot of the hospital. "You know that people with fresh tattoos are deferred? I never knew about that until I read the handbook."

Kurt shakes his head, and Blaine drives the car into a parking spot with deft precision. He leans over to pat Kurt's hand, and looks up into Kurt's face. "Hop off," he says, releasing Kurt from his seatbelt.

The seatbelt slides off of Kurt's body easily, and Kurt thinks to himself that Blaine's hand lingers on his waist for a little bit too long. Regardless, Kurt scrapes up the sense to step off the vehicle, and Blaine, pocketing his car keys, soon follows.

Blaine leads Kurt to a small, colorful room scattered all over with small wooden blocks and demented-looking Barbie dolls. Kurt tries not to scoff at the poor condition of the plastic tiaras that litter the floor, while Blaine strides over to a familiar-looking nurse in purple shoes. She's carrying three or so sanitary napkins and she looks about ready to throttle a small baby.

"Hey, Ashley," Blaine says, staring at the maxipads, and then the purple shoes. "Menstruating?"

Ashley shudders and scowls at Blaine. "Don't even try to talk to me."

Kurt lets out a sigh. "Women," he says, with absolutely no sympathy whatsoever.

Ashley rolls her eyes and jabs a finger in Kurt's direction. "Who's your friend?"

"Ashley," Blaine says, pushing Kurt in her direction. "This is Kurt. He's a patient here and he wants to try his hand at volunteering."

Ashley flashes a smile—her first smile of the day, really—at the tall boy with the vibrant blue eyes and the impeccable fashion sense. "Kurt, huh?" she asks warmly, patting her hand on his shoulder firmly and steering him out of the pediatric ward.

"Where're you taking him?" Blaine asks warily, struggling to keep up with Ashley's long, purposeful strides.

Ashley looks over her shoulder to Blaine, then back to Kurt. "He's a hemophiliac—you probably know that already—and I recognize him from a few weeks ago," she explains. "He's got first-hand experience here at the hospital. I figure he can help in the waiting room. Play with a few babies, talk with a few parents. Whatever."

Blaine laughs at Ashley's collected nonchalance. "May I join him in the noble endeavor, Ash-Bash?"

Ashley stops for a moment to consider the proposition. "Do you have your acoustic guitar with you?"

Blaine steals a glance at Kurt, who's all wide eyes and pursed lips, and then directs his attention back to Ashley. "Yes?" he says, his affirmation sounding like a question.

Ashley nods emphatically. "Then you may."

.:|:.

One day after volunteering at Lima Memorial with Kurt for the first time, Blaine receives a particularly desperate phone call from the boy in question that makes his insides feel like too-runny gelatin and his head feel like it's being pounded with a slab of solid brick.

"B-Blaine?" Kurt's delicate voice fills Blaine's ears through the earpiece of his Blackberry. "Karofsky...the Neanderthal..h-he..."

Kissed Kurt, that's what fills Blaine's cloudy mind as he rips a jacket from the coat rack propped against the wall of Dalton's West Wing and strides out to his car. He's too mad to even acknowledge the alliteration he's got going there, because, holy shit.

Karofsky. Kissed. Kurt.

.:|:.

A/N: Don't forget to review/story alert/favorite! Your reviews make my day so much better. Love you all.

Follow me on Tumblr:

paundromat . tumblr . com