Glee 1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Annnnnddddd another plotbunny that refused to leave me alone. I definitely was inspired to write this after seeing the trailer for _The Vow _with Rachel McAdams and Channing Tatum, so don't be surprised.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Kurt Hummel or Blaine Anderson or any of the characters on _Glee._

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Genre**: Romance/Hurt/Comfort

**Pairings**: Kurt/Blaine, mentions of Finchel & Tike (& we'll see who else)

**Summary**: Kurt studies the stranger suspiciously, his heart hammering in his chest. "Who are you? How do you know my name?" The man's eyes fill with panic. "Kurt... don't you know who I am? It's me. Blaine. _Your husband_."After Kurt suffers memory loss in an accident, he's forgotten Blaine entirely. Can Blaine make his husband fall in love with him again? Klaine Kurt/Blaine slash Future!fic

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><p><strong>there is nothing of you i don't want to keep<strong>

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><p>When he first opens his eyes, all he can see is white and he's absolutely terrified.<p>

There's just a blinding, blank white expanse above him. His mind fills to the brim with white and it's like someone has painted his frame of vision with white-out. His head is throbbing and he's trying, _struggling_ to call out for his dad, but his throat feels dry and dusty and unused and he can't control his mouth even as he struggles to open it.

He closes his eyes and reopens them.

There's still only white above him, and he wonders if he's dead. He's never believed in God or Heaven, but he figures that if he did, this is what it would look like. Just a blank white, filmy screen above him. But he can't be dead, he _can't. _Even more frantic, he shuts his eyes. Opens them again.

And the horrifyingly white image above him begins to clarify. He can make out the the stuccoed edges of a white ceiling. It's a struggle, but he manages to shift his eyes downwards and sees his pale arm wrapped in a white gauze, solid cast and the off-white, slightly grey blankets over his legs, covering the bottom half of his body. His other arm has a—_dear God_—needle inside of it, and his eyes trail upwards to where there's an IV dripping some clear fluid into his body.

He lies his head back down in exhaustion, realizing there's a pillow supporting his neck.

He's in a hospital.

This much he's realized. Something bad has happened and he's in a hospital and his head and his body hurts.

He has always hated hospitals. They bring him back to memories of his mother, once so full of life and joyful, lying limp in a hospital bed, her hair lank and unkempt and her face unwashed. It reminds him of his father coaxing him to tell his mother he loves her when he didn't know this woman laying in front of him—this woman, so weak and fragile, was not his mother; it couldn't be. His mother was energetic with a larger-than-life personality, not this lethargic, sickly other woman laying in front of him, wasting away in a hospital bed. Tears sting the corner of his eyes at this memory and he blinks rapidly, determined not to let them fall. His dad doesn't like it when he's emotional; it makes him look like a wimp.

Where's his dad?

As unmanly and childish as it is, he's always needed his dad. His dad is the one who's there during the late nights when he wakes up from a nightmare whether it be the bullies pushing him into the lockers and throwing him into the dumpsters at McKinley, calling him "faggot" or "homo" or "freak," or the visions of his mother, pale and motionless in the hospital, or her casket being lowered into the ground. His father, in spite of his suggestions and advice to be more manly and not to draw so much attention to himself, always holds him and hugs him until his sobs subside, until he calms down and falls into a deep, serene sleep. His dad always makes him warm milk and whole wheat toast, just the way he likes it, and his dad upholds Friday dinners even after his mother passed.

"D-dad?" he manages, his throat parched. His voice comes out in an unused, cracked tone and he fumbles and tries again. "Dad?"

He lies there, pathetic, and tears fill his eyes again. This time they overflow, running in streams down his cheeks, and he sniffles pitifully. Where is his father? Everything hurts and he's in the hospital, his own personal hell on earth, and he just wants his dad and-

"Kurt!" comes a muffled cry, and there's a body holding him; comforting arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his sobs catch in his throat and he shakes in relief because his dad is here and _wait..._

The body against his isn't clad in the comfortable, old flannel shirts that his dad always has on (in spite of the fact that Kurt has purchased him assorted, simple Polos and argyle sweaters). The body is not reassuring in the way his dad's sturdy frame is; it's lean and muscular and wrapped in a plain, tight black t-shirt that his father would never wear. The arms are slighter, secure around him, but the person hugging him doesn't smell like strong cologne and aftershave and engine oil like his father always has. The man holding him smells like coffee and chocolate underneath the fatigue that radiates off of him.

Kurt emits a choked, scared noise and the arms let go of him immediately, releasing Kurt back into the hospital bed.

"Kurt! Kurt, how are you feeling? Are you okay, baby? Did I hurt you?" the voice spirals out in alarm and in tone and the man who's talking to Kurt doesn't even try to hide the escalating panic in his voice.

Kurt's eyes focus in on the man in front of him. He's wearing dark skinny jeans and a solid black t-shirt. The man is cradling his bandaged side and there are scattered band-aids over gashes and scratches in his face, but he is gorgeous none-the-less. He has tousled, dark chocolate hair and gold-flecked hazel eyes. His chin is dotted with dark brown stubble and he looks weary. His expressive eyebrows climb into his forehead as he stares at Kurt in concern.

But Kurt has no idea who this man is.

Kurt studies the handsome stranger suspiciously, his heart hammering in his chest. His mind scream out in protest as his head throbs. "W-who are you? How do you know my name?"

The man's forehead lines with anxiety and his eyes fill with panic. He looks horrified. His hands shaking, he places his fingers on the side of Kurt's hospital blanket. He starts out in a caring, yet trembling voice, "Babe... Kurt... don't you know who I am? It's me. Blaine. _Your husband_."

Kurt stares at the man, trying to get ahold of his surroundings. "I... I don't know who you are. Who the—who the _hell _are you? I don't have a husband. I'm not married."

"Babe," the man breathes hard as though Kurt has just punched him in the stomach, his eyes wide circle of shock in his face. He places a quivering hand on Kurt's uninjured one, "Come on, Kurt. It's me. Blaine. Blaine Anderson? You _have _to remember!"

"Stop calling me '_baby_,'" Kurt protests weakly but defiantly. He pulls his hand out of this stranger's—Blaine's, if that's even his real name—grasp. "Don't touch me. I don't know you. Get away from me." He realizes his behavior is childish, but who is this man and how can he even _suggest _that they're married and that Kurt doesn't remember any of it?

Kurt would know whether or not he'd been hitched. He knows he wouldn't do it when he was only fifteen. He's a freshman in high school and he's not ready to get married. His dreams are huge and he still needs to go to Broadway and he's _not _married, he's never even had a boyfriend or a first kiss, and this creepy pervert can get out of here and get the hell away from him.

But the man—Blaine—doesn't give up so easily. He grabs onto Kurt's uninjured hand again, desperation and despair coloring every one of his features. His nervous hazel eyes meet Kurt's blue ones. "Kurt, it's me. Blaine. Don't you remember? We met when you were a sixteen, a sophomore at McKinley. We did long distance for a year when you were in college and I was a senior in high school. We made love for the first time when you were a senior at McKinley. We found a place, a gorgeous flat, together a year and a half ago." Blaine is rambling now, struggling to get everything he wants to say out, and Kurt is trying so hard not to listen to anything he has to say. "Kurt, we got married three months ago. I let you plan the whole wedding because you were convinced I'd mess it up somehow. For our honeymoon we backpacked across Europe and you made me carry your suitcases the whole way." His voice is hysterical, begging, pleading.

Kurt snatches his hand out of Blaine's grasp.

"I _said," _he hisses venomously, "stay the hell away from me."

Who is this Blaine, telling him what he should remember? Blaine's manipulating Kurt, _lying _to him. Kurt has no idea how this man knows what his name is or how he knows where Kurt went to school, but everything he's saying is a _lie._

Blaine staggers back as though he's been slapped. His hands come up over his open, distressed mouth and even from where he's sitting on the bed, Kurt can see that Blaine has started to cry. Hot tears spill down Blaine's cheeks in rivers; his eyes are glazed and shiny. Blaine moves away from Kurt's bed, his hands wrung, his fingers bent in despair.

"Doctor!" Blaine screams, running to the door. Kurt's heart jumps at the pain and the rawness of Blaine's voice. "Doctor, we need your help please."

When a nurse notifies him that a doctor is on the way, Blaine pauses.

He steps back into the room, his hands straining and Kurt can see that Blaine wants to touch him. Kurt whimpers, pulling away from Blaine's reaching touch and wraps himself protectively in the grey hospital blanket, cocooning himself into safety.

"I want my dad," he chokes pathetically. Kurt doesn't realize he's crying until his pillow drips wet with water. "I want my dad."

Blaine's eyes widen with horror again. His body shakes as he takes a few steps away from Kurt's bed and pulls out his cellphone, quickly dialing in a number. Kurt has to strain to hear, but he can make out Blaine whispering in hushed tones when the person on the other line picks up. "Burt. Burt, Kurt's awake... I think something's really wrong."

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Review for more? I appreciate reviews a lot more than story alerts/favorites, etc. I'd love to see what you think and if you would like me to continue this.

Also, another idea that's been bugging me for awhile is an AU fic about Kurt joining Cirque du Soleil and falling for Blaine who is an acrobat who is already taken... yes, inspired by _Water for Elephants, _alright.

-sf


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Thank you so so so much for all the reviews! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, but I hit a brick wall with this one and couldn't figure out how to continue it... so here goes nothing :)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Kurt Hummel or Blaine Anderson or any of the characters on _Glee._

**Rating**: T (for now)

**Genre**: Romance/Hurt/Comfort

**Pairings**: Kurt/Blaine, mentions of Finchel & Tike (& we'll see who else)

**Summary**: Kurt studies the stranger suspiciously, his heart hammering in his chest. "Who are you? How do you know my name?" The man's eyes fill with panic. "Kurt... don't you know who I am? It's me. Blaine. _Your husband_."After Kurt suffers memory loss in an accident, he's forgotten Blaine entirely. Can Blaine make his husband fall in love with him again? Klaine Kurt/Blaine slash Future!fic

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><p><strong>there is nothing of you i don't want to keep<strong>

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><p>Blaine is struggling to breathe. He feels like his throat has constricted to a narrow slit that only a straw can fit through, and he's wheezing uncontrollably at this point. His vision spots in front of him and everything blurs in and out of focus. The sound of his heart thudding floods his ears, and everything looks blurry. His hands clench and unclench, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, and he feels like his whole body is trembling and quaking like a fallen leaf.<p>

"What do you mean, amnesia?" Burt's voice emerges from the fuzzy sound filling Blaine's ears, and he's dragged back to the present where Burt's glaring at the doctor. "Cut all the doctor crap and professional words—just tell me what's wrong with my son."

The doctor—Dr. Nguyen—Blaine registers briefly from the nametag on his white coat—sighs and folds his hands together. "Mr. Hummel, Mr. Anderson-Hummel—there's no easy way to say this. We've done many tests and it seems as though the trauma from the car accident has caused Kurt to lose his memory of the last ten years. We've been able to place his memory to his freshman year of high school—he's asked us about a McKinley High School many times, but he does not seem to remember meeting you," he points to Blaine.

"Well what do we do?" Burt's voice is scratchy, horrified. "You said he can't remember anything since he was fifteen? He doesn't remember going to NYADA? Being cast as the lead on Broadway for _Glitter?_"

"Yes," Dr. Nguyen answers gravely, his lips pressed in a tight line. "I've asked him about college, about his relationship, about Mr. Anderson-Hummel here, and nothing. He's been persistently asking me about you—Mr. Hummel, that is—and some friends named Mercedes Jones and Tina Cohen-Chang. He's told me about his Glee Club and how he works at the auto shop, but beyond that, he can't remember anything."

Blaine's knees buckle underneath him. The floor rushes up to meet his face, and suddenly, all is black.

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><p>oOo<p>

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><p>The handsome boy, it seems, has passed out stone cold. Kurt hears the nurses scurry to him, their voices hushed and sympathetic.<p>

"Well what do you expect?"

"I know, he wakes up and his husband doesn't remember him-"

"He hasn't left that boy's side-"

"Kurt?" comes a familiar, worn voice. Burt stands nervously at the door, wringing his hands within one another. A faded baseball cap Kurt is used to seeing lies over nearly—_white—_hair, and though Burt's face is lined with more wrinkles than Kurt remembers, it's him. It's his dad... Burt is here and everything is alright.

"D-Dad," Kurt manages, nearly choking on his own words.

"Hey buddy," Burt is across the room in two bounds and at Kurt's side. "Shhh," he rumbles in a comforting tone, wrapping his strong arms around Kurt. Kurt buries his face in the familiarity, in what he's more than acquainted with—in what he's grown up with. As Kurt's shoulders begin to shake and his tears dampen Burt's worn flannel shirt, he feels his dad's grip tighten protectively. "It's okay, bud, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

"I-I don't remember anything," Kurt manages, pulling his tear-streaked face away from his father's shirt. "My head hurts. I don't know who that _man _is—Dad, I'm not _married _am I?" His voice is high and scandalized; Burt would have never approved of this—his dad just learned he was gay and though so loving and accepting, Burt is too overprotective to let Kurt just run off with some man with chocolate curls and—

"Hey it's alright, Kurt," Burt merely strokes his hair, and Kurt doesn't even complain about his father messing up his coiffing. Granted, there has been no styling—he's in a hospital bed, for goodness sake's.

"Dad, answer my questions please." Kurt glances up at his dad, his voice imploring. He feels himself stiffen in his father's grasp in spite of himself. "How old am I?"

"Twenty-six," Burt says, placing a gnarled, wrinkled hand on Kurt's, looking at Kurt with his gentle grey eyes. "We actually celebrated your birthday just three weeks ago—Carole and I and Finn and a bunch of your high school friends came out to your place and Blaine threw together a pretty good party-"

"Twenty-six?" Kurt breathes incredulously, "Carole? Finn? You mean _Finn Hudson_? Who is Carole?"

"I... I remarried, Kurt," Burt replies uncertainly. "Don't you remember? You introduced me to Finn's mom and one thing after another and you planned the wedding, Kurt. You and Finn are stepbrothers. And you're pretty close, from what I know. In fact, you were Finn's best man at his wedding-"

"Finn's married?" Kurt asks in disbelief. "Who's his wife?"

"Rachel," Burt stares bemusedly at Kurt as if he's the crazy one. "Rachel Berry. She's one of your best friends, Kurt-"

"I'm friends with that horrifically unfashionable gremlin?" Kurt nearly screeches. "The girl is an amazing performer, don't get me wrong, Dad, but Rachel Berry is otherwise practically my arch nemesis. You must be wrong-"

"Kurt," says Burt gravely. He breathes hard, and claps a large, comforting hand on Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt stops talking. He just stares instead.

He notices how lined his father's face is. How many wrinkles are etched on his forehead, the sunken look to his eyes, the shock of white that is his hair. He glances at his father's worn, calloused hands, and notices two wedding rings on his father's ring finger—one new simple platinum band next to the one Burt wore for Kurt's mother. He sees how faded his father's baseball cap is, how his favorite flannel shirt is nearly coming apart at the seams.

So much time has passed and he can't remember a second of it.

Kurt sighs to himself, feeling tears spike up at the corner of his eyes in spite of his efforts to keep his emotions under control. "Dad," he manages in a high-pitched squeak, "Dad, I'm scared."

"It's going to be okay, Kurt," says Burt comfortingly. He rubs small circles on Kurt's back and kisses his forehead. "It'll be okay."

"Dad?" Kurt continues in a small, meek voice. "Did I do alright? I mean... did I turn out okay?"

"Oh, buddy," Burt pushes Kurt back slightly so his warm grey eyes can meet Kurt's. "I am so proud of you, okay, Kurt? You matter so much to me. And you did better than okay, you did damn good. You achieved everything you wanted, bud—you're one of the main roles in a new Broadway show, you have great relationships with all your friends, and-"

"Is... Blaine alright?" Kurt asks uncertainly, his forehead wrinkling at the thought of the distressed, desperate man that reeks of exhaustion.

"Blaine is a good one, Kurt," is Burt's solid reply. "You chose a good one with that boy, Kurt. I must admit, I was unsure about that boy at first but he really, really loves you, Kurt. And you love him. And God, I never cried more than I did at your wedding—they legalized gay marriage and you and Blaine went to get everything officialized immediately—except when maybe your mom died, but this was different. I wish you could remember," he goes on softly, "but I think you will. In time. That's what the doctor had to say anyway."

Kurt lets these revelations wash over him. He's on Broadway. Finn is his brother. The ill-dressed Rachel Berry is one of his best friends. He's married to a guy named Blaine. His dad actually _approves _of said man.

"Dad?" he manages, "what do I do now?"

"Bud, you listen to me," Burt soothes, ruffling Kurt's hair. Kurt lets out an indignant squawk in spite of everything, and Burt chuckles. "You focus on getting better, first, okay? And then we'll decide what to do. The doctor thinks it's best that you're surrounded by familiar surroundings, so I think you should go home with Blaine first." As Kurt opens his mouth to protest, Burt interrupts him. "I know, I know it's scary, buddy, and I'd bring you home to Lima if I thought it was best. But our house isn't familiar to you anymore—Carole and I moved into a smaller home for just the two of us and I'm retired now, and our life is much quieter. Your life with Blaine is grand and fun and he's what you've known for the past eight years. And Kurt, you are one of the most important people in my life. You think I'd put you with Blaine if I thought he was gonna hurt you? The man is in love with you, Kurt, and if I could place bets on a guy who'd never, ever purposefully hurt you, my money would be on him. I trust him and I love him as though he were my own son."

Kurt starts to take a stand and fight with his dad, but he's so weary. The stress of the day seemingly collides with him like a train head-on, and all he wants to do is sleep and forget any of this ever happened. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll wake up with his memory intact and restored.

"Dad? I'm tired." His voice is sad and low, and Burt smiles sympathetically.

"Get some rest, bud," is Burt's quiet reply. He kisses Kurt's forehead and pats his arm.

"I love you," is Kurt's response from his bed as Burt pulls up a chair to sit by his son.

"I love you too," Burt quavers, and for a second, Kurt swears his dad is about to cry.

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><p>oOo<p>

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><p>Kurt clenches and unclenches his fingers of his good hand uncertainly, seeing his fingernails embed deep in the palms of his hand. He peers out the window of the elegant black Escalade and glances down to the post-it with Burt's phone number on it. Next to him, in the driver's seat, is Blaine, who's staring at Kurt in a disbelieving, almost expectant way.<p>

"Are you just going to keep staring at me?" Kurt finally clears his throat. He glances directly at Blaine, "Because in all honesty, it's making me very uncomfortable."

"I'm... I'm so sorry," stammers Blaine, looking away immediately. His fingers wrap hard over the steering wheel of the car, "I'm... I'm just glad... that you're here. With me." He coughs, and turns the keys in the ignition. "Thank... thank you for agreeing to this. For coming home with me, I mean."

"Well Dr. Nguyen said this would be best," Kurt replies, his tone more pinched and cold than intended, "so I decided it would be only reasonable to follow his advice. He's an expert, after all."

The wounded expression on Blaine's face reminds Kurt of a puppy that has been unexpectedly kicked.

Kurt forces himself to backpedal immediately. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that-"

"It's okay," Blaine responds, his eyes on the road. He doesn't look over at Kurt, but Kurt can see his fingers grasping harder around the steering wheel. "I... I shouldn't have been so forward with you... so forceful. I'm sorry."

Kurt sighs, wrapping himself in the apology that he doesn't know if he necessarily deserves. "I'm... Blaine. Blaine, right?" he searches for confirmation, and sees the slight nod of Blaine's head. "I'm sorry. I'm being rather disagreeable and cold. Let's start over. I'm Kurt... and you're my husband."

"Affirmative," Blaine nods in reply. He shuts his eyes momentarily, and Kurt notices how dark and thick his eyelashes are against his creamy skin.

"Where are we going?" Kurt questions, tilting his head to the side. "Home?" Blaine nods again. "And where is home?"

"We found this apartment a little outside of the city. It's beautiful—it has mahogany floors and high ceilings and you decorated every inch of it but didn't go overboard," Blaine tells Kurt, with a smile. Kurt notices how straight and white his teeth are, how full his lips look. "You wanted one close to Times Square, but it was so expensive, and," Blaine blushes slightly at this revelation, "we decided it would be better to have a more private place when we decided to have kids."

"We want kids?" Kurt asks incredulously. Kids, though bright and inspiring and often adorable, are also messy. Dirty. _Loud. _He shudders. He doesn't want kids at all.

"Yes," Blaine stares at him as though he's grown another head. "We want, ideally, a boy and a girl. The boy's supposed to be Jonas, and the girl Penelope. Jonas Anderson-Hummel," he smiles, "and Penelope Anderson-Hummel."

"But, but," Kurt splutters, "kids are _smelly." _He wrinkles his nose.

"But also adorable," counters Blaine. "You were so excited by the idea, in fact, that you started drawing up future outfits for them." He says this fondly, evidently misunderstanding Kurt's distaste of children.

"Next subject," says Kurt primly. "How did we meet?"

"You came to my old high school—Dalton Academy—to spy on our Glee Club. I think you said that Puck sent you. Anyway, you came in pretending to be a student with the most miserable replica of a Dalton uniform ever and tried to take notes on The Warblers," Blaine chuckles as though remembering, "and I called you out on it, thought you were stunning, and asked you to get coffee—and the rest is history."

Kurt glances at him in disbelief. "No."

"Okay," Blaine sighs, "it was a little more complicated than that. With you transferring to Dalton-"

"Wait, I transferred where?" squawks Kurt. His head is spinning—he's heard of a Dalton Academy but that's in Westchester—a good two hours from Lima.

"You, you..." Blaine says uncertainly. "You don't remember, do you?"

"Well we've made this terribly clear," Kurt grumbles disgustedly. "Thank you for reminding me of that conspicuous detail."

"I'm sorry," Blaine stammers uncertainly. "I... I don't know where to begin." He runs a hand through his curly hair and picks absently at a bandage on his head. "We... we were friends first, Kurt. Best friends, really."

"Is that why I transferred?" Kurt asks uncertainly. "Because I didn't have friends? What happened to Mercedes and Tina? Artie even?"

Blaine blanches. "No, no, Mercedes and Tina are still very good friends of yours. No, you transferred because you were being bullied. Tormented at school, really."

"What else is new?" Kurt asks bitterly. He can remember being tossed in dumpsters by Puck and the rest of the football Neanderthals. "How did it get so bad?"

Blaine clears his throat, and a pained expression crosses his face. "Um... David, David Karofsky. He started making your life a living hell and your dad panicked and had you transferred to Dalton. And we became good friends—best friends, really, Kurt. And then I realized I was in love with you. And then when Karofsky was expelled from McKinley you went back. To McKinley that is. And then I came to McKinley the year after because I didn't want to be anywhere you weren't," he blushes in the middle of his rambling as though he realizes what he just said. His eyes shift down apologetically, and his ears turn a light shade of pink. "Sorry, I'm babbling..."

"It's okay," Kurt says gently, and he stares at Blaine. He really looks at him. Blaine with his hazel eyes framed by dark lashes, his unruly chocolate hair which would look a little better if it were shorter, his expressive eyebrows that move while he speaks. "You..." he steels himself for a deeper revelation, "you must have really loved me."

"I do," Blaine says earnestly, glancing at Kurt a look of adoration that Kurt finds a bit unnerving. "I do love you."

Kurt folds his hands across his chest uncertainly, his good hand fiddling with the gauze on his cast. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Blaine that that's the first "I love you" he's ever received from a boy in his life—at least as far as he can recollect.

The car rolls to a stop, sputtering slightly.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice sounds pinched and pained, but through those darker notes shines hope. "We're home."

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: EEEP! What do you think is going to happen? Hehe :) Please review and leave me your thoughts!

_Replies to Anonymous Reviews_:

_Maddy, KurtBurtFan22, Caellach, Klainefan01, FinchelFan728_: Here you go!

_tebi_: Thank you! Here's an update for you!

_PeaceLoveFinchel_: Klaine is ALWAYS flawless hehe

_My Phone Sucks/GleeFangurl721_: Thank you so much for the review! I'm glad you're enjoying my stories :)

_Tori_: Lol, le angst, how I adore thee. Thank you so much for your kind words-your review meant a lot. Dahh so much fangirling pain for the Blaine and the Kurt heehe. I am evil indeed.

_Nikeroxx_: Haha did you see _The Vow? _I was actually really disappointed, but thanks for the review :)

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Please review!

-sf


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Glee, Hurt-Comfort, Romance