How can there be so much beauty in the color red?

It symbolizes life force and love. It's painted on rose petals and hearts, berries and lips. It's vibrant, bright, and bold. Even when it dims, fades, and dries, even when it seems lackluster after years, the color remains a memory.

But Kurt thinks it's prettiest when it drips down the inside of his wrists. He thinks it's spectacular when it hits the tile of the bathroom floor. He thinks it's loveliest when it first blooms across his milky white skin.

No one else sees, no one else feels, no one else knows.

He screams inside.

"We missed you at Warblers' rehearsal yesterday," Blaine greets in the morning.

Kurt tugs at the sleeves of his blazer impulsively, even though his white uniform shirt covers his arms completely. Since when does Blaine talk to him?

"Sorry. I…had things to do," he apologizes without really apologizing.

"Well," Blaine says with an ignorant smile, patting Kurt on his back, "don't miss today. The council doesn't look too kindly on people who skip."

"I wasn't skipping," Kurt says, shrugging Blaine's hand off him. "I was busy."

Blaine frowns when Kurt pulls away from him. Kurt knows he's acting odd, off kilter, even. He usually enjoys Blaine's friendly touches, but not today, not lately. Because it's all a lie and his smiles are fake and Kurt doesn't have the strength to handle it anymore.

"Busy doing what?" Blaine inquires.

Kurt gives a small shrug of his shoulders, brushing past Blaine to walk to his next class. He doesn't owe Blaine anything. He doesn't have to explain a single thing.

Because they aren't friends.

Not really.

Kurt's not so blind that he can't see that. Blaine brought him here, made sure he was away from his bullies at McKinley and now they're done. Today was the first time he'd spoken to Blaine outside of Warbler rehearsal in two weeks, and even when they were in rehearsal, Blaine never really spoke solely to him. He was always addressing the group or their section of a dance number, but he never spoke to him. He hadn't given Kurt a friendly pat on the back in two weeks.

Kurt had no friends at Dalton at all.

Sure, he wasn't being ridiculed. Yes, he wasn't being shoved around. Yeah, occasionally people would smile at him or say hello in passing.

But no one stopped to talk to him.

No one stopped to ask how his day was. No one stopped to tell him silly stories about outlandish teachers. At lunch, he sat with a group of the Warblers, a group that included Blaine but did not include Kurt in their conversations.

He had no one to laugh with.

He had no one to walk next to in the hallway.

He didn't even have a roommate while he boarded here; he was stuck in a single room since he transferred in the middle of a semester. Not that he wanted a roommate, per say, but a little extra human contact would do wonders for his mental state right now.

And his mental state was absolutely horrible.

Kurt had stopped ironing his shirts.

If that little notion wasn't a sure sign that something was wrong, then nothing was.

Then again, no one here would even take notice of that fact, except for maybe Blaine who knew him for a while before he transferred, because none of them knew a single thing about Kurt. The only thing they knew was that he had been harassed at his old school for being gay. Well, they also knew he had a biting, sarcastic wit about him, thanks to his introduction into the Warblers and the awkward jokes he had made.

But that was it.

So he was alone.

The walls of Dalton Academy were large, tastefully decorated, and the windows allowed beams of light to filter in autumn sunlight.

But Kurt felt small, almost as though he were a wisp of a person, smaller than the specks of dust in the air.

Have you ever felt alone in a crowded place?

He sits next to Blaine at lunch that afternoon, though there is a large amount of space between the two of them and Kurt eats his salad in silence.

Uproarious laughter fills his ears as Trevor tells the group a joke.

Kurt smiles weakly.

He feels so numb, as though every inch of his skin, every bit of bone, every nerve fiber had been doused with local anesthetic. The only bit of himself he can feel is his feet, dragging the ground heavily as he moves through the day, walks to his classes, dances without energy in rehearsal, and stumbles back up to his dorm room.

He locks the door.

His pulse races.

Kurt kicks off his shoes and throws his blazer onto the bed. He claws at the confines of his white button-up and hastily rips the thing off, not caring where it lands because he shuts himself in his small bathroom.

Glancing at himself in the mirror, Kurt absorbs his weary appearance. He looks a little paler, but other than that, he still looks just like him, just like Kurt. Maybe he sees the bruise of dark circles forming under his eyes, but with the proper cream, those can disappear quite quickly.

He tears his eyes away from his reflection and reaches for the small black makeup case that would be his saving grace. He pulls out a single exact-o knife blade and seats himself on the tile.

He's excited.

He shouldn't be this excited.

Metal slips effortlessly against flesh, red blooming where it glides.

The world is warm. And he can feel.

A week later, Kurt begins to panic. The skin of his forearms is covered in red, thin, parallel line streaks. It's almost beautiful in a way, but he's running out of space. He's already started cutting against the base of his palms and those marks are noticeable.

Funny thing was, no one seems to notice.

Sadly, the thought isn't that surprising to him.

He's sitting on his bed, inside his tiny dorm room, staring at the white wall.

He thinks about his body, he thinks about places that no one will see.

He wishes someone would see.

A knock sounds hollowly against his door.

His eyes dart over, nervous and a little bit confused. He pulls the sleeves of his shirt down over his forearms and he walks over to answer it.

Blaine's standing there awkwardly when Kurt opens the door, shuffling back and forth on a pair of socked feet. He isn't still in uniform like Kurt; he's wearing a pair of Dalton sweatpants and a plain grey hoodie.

"Yes?" Kurt prompts impatiently.

He watches Blaine's front teeth worry his bottom lip.

"Have I done something wrong?" Blaine asks after a strained silence.

"What could you have possibly done wrong?"

Because that's the question, isn't it? Blaine's life doesn't revolve around Kurt's. He is in no way obligated to be Kurt's friend. How could he have done anything wrong when nothing existed between them that could even be wrong? He didn't deserve Blaine's attention anyway. He wasn't anyone special. He had no merit. He had no rhyme, no reason.

"You just…you haven't been talking to me, really," Blaine says, scratching at the back of his neck, eyes avoiding Kurt's.

"You haven't been talking to me either," Kurt points out. The truth is the truth.

"Because I thought you were mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?"

"We're talking in circles," Blaine laughs softly.

"Maybe that's why we don't talk."

Blaine's eyes finally meet his. Kurt stands with his arms crossed, as if he can keep Blaine at bay with just his stance.

"You're different," Blaine says slowly.

"Or maybe you just never knew me."

"I knew you well enough to know you've stopped laughing."

"Maybe I have nothing to laugh about."

"Why are you being so morose?" Blaine asks, hurt evident in his eyes.

Oh, if you only knew.

If only you looked beyond your tastefully decorated walls.

"Just go back to your friends, Blaine," Kurt sighs heavily, lifting his arm to close the door in Blaine's face.

"You are my friend," Blaine says forcefully, snapping his hand up to keep the door from closing. "And I'm worried about you."

"You have nothing to worry about," Kurt tells him flatly.

Look, look, look, what aren't you seeing?

Open your pretty eyes and see only me.

"I think I do," Blaine says and it almost sounds like there's a warning in his words. "You should let me in."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because something is wrong and I doubt you're going to tell me while I'm standing in your doorway."

"What makes you think I'd tell you anything at all?"

"Stop trying to be some sort of enigma and move," Blaine says, forcing his way past Kurt and inside the room.

You're blind.

Kurt slams the door.

Blaine whirls around to face him.

"Your clothes are on the floor," he states.

"Quite the detective."

"You never keep clothes on the floor."

"Solving the case."

"Why are you acting like this?" Blaine demands to know, hands coming to rest on his hips.

Kurt despises himself for finding the other boy so adorable, so good looking, even in sweatpants and a hoodie.

He shakes his head.

He refuses to let his thoughts stray there. That is decidedly dangerous territory, a part of his mind he would not acknowledge because feelings like that amount to nothing.

"I'm not acting like anything," he says flatly.

"You used to – to smile so much. You used to tell jokes that no one else seemed to understand but me. You used to freak out over every fashion magazine and you used to be really compulsive about not letting your clothes touch the ground."

"People change," Kurt shrugs, tugging at his shirt sleeves again.

Why won't you see?

I wish you could see.

I want to show you.

"Not that drastically. Not in a month," Blaine states.

I can't show you.

"And to be – to be honest," Blaine continues, "when we met and when we started hanging out, I…I kind of got the feeling that you were…that maybe you were into me."

"Well you were wrong, weren't you?" Kurt speaks, his voice devoid of even a hint of emotion.

I was. I am. I wish you could hold me.

Blaine's eyebrows furrow and his hard gaze falters.

"Yeah," Blaine admits quietly. "I guess – I guess I was."

"Not everyone falls in love with you instantly, you know," Kurt digs at him.

"I-" Blaine shakes his head and Kurt thinks he can see a faint sheen of moisture forming in his eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"You can leave now. I have things to do."

"Like what?" Blaine asks, voice like gravel. "Like sit in here by yourself, the way you do every night? Ignore everybody?"

"They ignore me!" Kurt snaps.

Why did he yell?

"…Is that what's wrong?" Blaine whispers. "Do you…are you lonely?"

"Please leave," Kurt begs.

His arms itch.

I don't want you to see me like this.

I want you to see everything.

"Kurt," Blaine says, reaching out a hand toward him.

It's the hand he needs.

"Talk to me," Blaine pleads. "Let me in."

"Please leave me alone."

Don't go. Don't go.

Please go.

Kurt feels like he's going to collapse.

"I don't think I should," Blaine shakes his head, letting his hand rest gently on Kurt's tense, folded arms.

"Don't," Kurt says sharply, backing away from the hand he so hopelessly wants to hold.

"Stop this," Blaine says, closing the gap of space between them.

He envelops Kurt in a hug, despite Kurt's initial protests.

Kurt wants to cry. He should cry. It's so wonderful here, so secure, so special, so lovely.

But not as lovely as the red when it drips down his wrist and hits the tile floor.

He pushes Blaine away.

"Don't, please don't," Kurt says brokenly. His hands are shaking and he holds them up in front of his chest. "Don't do this."

"Kurt, something is wrong."

"I'm fine. You don't need to – to worry about me."

"I've never seen anyone look so sad without crying before," Blaine tells him softly.

Oh god.

"You just…just go. Please. Leave me alone."

"Seems like you're already alone," Blaine points out. "Even when I'm here with you."

"I need you to leave," Kurt says again.

He's scratching at his arms. He can't help it. He can't stop it. He needs it.

"Kurt…what did you do to your palms?"

Open your eyes, pretty darling.

You'll see everything you never wanted to.

"I fell," Kurt says immediately, folding his arms again in panic.

"That's-" Blaine swallows. He looks terrified. "That's not what it looks like."

"Blaine, please, just leave!"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Stay with me.

Kurt turns and attempts to race to his bathroom, but Blaine grabs him around the waist.

"Kurt, stop fighting me!"

"Please," Kurt begs brokenly. "Please, please, please."

"Stop it," Blaine hushes, directly into his ear. "Stop it."

Kurt collapses.

They fall to the ground together. With one arm, Blaine's grip is still tight, but with the other he pries one of Kurt's arms away from his body.

He tugs the sleeve up.

"Kurt…"

"I'm sorry," Kurt says, his body gone limp. He turns in Blaine's embrace and dissolves into tears against the warm skin of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"Don't – don't be sorry," Blaine whispers, thumb brushing lightly over the faded red lines on Kurt's arms. "It'll be okay."

"No it won't," Kurt cries. "There's no point to me."

"Don't think that," Blaine says into Kurt's hair, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head. "You mean more to me than you know."

You were blind once.

But now you see.

An hour or so later, Kurt steps out of the bathroom, hair wet and dressed in pajamas.

He feels too cold.

"C'mere," Blaine says from his position on Kurt's bed. "Turn off the light."

Kurt walks heavily, flipping off the light switch before climbing into bed. Blaine pulls down the blankets and they settle in together, facing each other. Blaine drapes a tentative arm around Kurt's waist.

It's warmer here.

The room is too dark but Kurt can still make out the glimmer in Blaine's sad eyes.

"Is this okay?" Blaine asks, stroking Kurt's back in lazy circles through his shirt.

"Yeah," Kurt says into the dark.

"Okay," Blaine says, letting his eyes fall shut.

Kurt blinks. "Aren't…aren't you going to make me talk about it?"

Blaine's eyes open once more. "No. I shouldn't have come at you the way I did earlier. You'll talk when you're ready to talk."

Kurt's breath shudders. He moves closer, tucking his head under Blaine's chin, his arms curled up in between their bodies.

Blaine holds on tighter.

"I missed you," Kurt admits weakly.

"I missed you, too, Kurt."

He kisses Kurt's forehead.

"I'm sorry you felt so lonely," Blaine whispers.

"It's not your fault."

"It's partially my fault," Blaine acknowledges. "I was the only person you knew here. And you – you started…withdrawing and closing in on yourself and I thought I'd done something wrong, I thought I came on too strong so I – I avoided you. I shouldn't have done that."

"You didn't know, though."

"I should've paid more attention."

"I don't blame you."

"Well you shouldn't blame yourself," Blaine says softly. "Because that only made you hurt yourself."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Blaine says, pulling Kurt closer. "It's gonna be okay."

"Please don't leave me again."

"I won't."

Kurt hates that he sounds so meek. He hates that he's basically admitting to needing Blaine there, but he can't stop the words from slipping out. It shouldn't be like this, he shouldn't be talking at all.

But Blaine's so warm and his arms are surprisingly strong and everything's nice here.

He can't stop his lips from pressing against Blaine's neck. He can't stop the words that come after.

"You were right," Kurt confesses.

"About what?" Blaine asks as he presses his cheek against the top of Kurt's head.

"About me liking you," Kurt tells him. "I still do. I like you a lot."

Blaine's quiet for a few seconds and those few seconds are the most agonizing things of Kurt's life.

"Good," Blaine finally says. "Because I like you a lot too."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Blaine says. "It…it really hurt when we stopped talking. I don't want that to happen again."

"Me neither."

"I want – I want to be with you," Blaine whispers. "But I want you to make friends here too. I don't want you to just have me."

Kurt swallows, panic thick in his throat.

"I'll help you," Blaine promises. "You don't have to do anything alone."

"…Okay," Kurt finally cedes.

"Can I…can I see your arms?"

Kurt tenses immediately. Now that Blaine knows, now that he's seen, this should be a simple task. This should be the easy part.

But for some reason, it seems like the hardest.

Because suddenly he's ashamed.

"I don't…just…please?" Blaine asks.

Kurt nods shakily and puts some space between their bodies.

He pulls up his sleeves.

It's still very dark, but their eyes have adjusted and moonlight is filtering in through the window.

Blaine holds one of Kurt's arms in his hands tenderly, as if the skin and bone were fragile creations, and peers at the marred flesh with inquisitive eyes.

"They aren't too deep," Blaine whispers, stroking fingers over the thin little lines. "If we treat them properly, they might not even scar."

And then he lifts Kurt's arm to his lips, pressing sweet, soft kisses to every inch of the broken flesh, to every inch of red, and Kurt's breathing ceases for a few, quick seconds.

In that moment, Kurt thinks that the sight of red, the color of it on his skin and on the tile of his bathroom floor is nothing compared to the sight of pale moonlight on Blaine's beautiful face.

He watches in fascination, in surprise as Blaine does the same to his other arm before pulling him close once more. His hold on Kurt is fierce, protective, and noticeably different than it was before.

"I'm right here," Blaine says and that's when Kurt notices he's clinging to Blaine just as fiercely. "Everything's gonna be okay."

Kurt takes a deep, relieved breath.

There is hope for you, little one.

Hope is everywhere.

It's hidden in cracks, beneath closed eyelids, under river stones.

Hope is subtle and sometimes it's laced into poisons.

Don't drink it, little one, don't drink it.

Find it elsewhere.

Hope is all around, hope is where you sleep and dream.

Brick by brick, you've built your wall.

But subtle hope will break it down.

And you will see, in that crowded place, where you feel so alone.

Hope is everywhere.

There is hope for you, little one.

END.