The arm wrapped around Blaine's waist makes him feel the safest he's ever felt, the hand holding on to his gentle but secure, and the smiling eyes stealing glances between turns…Blaine can look into those eyes forever.

That poses a small problem, but Blaine refuses to think about that right now.

A slow, easy waltz plays from the speakers of a Bose stereo hidden in the corner as they glide around the wood dance floor, trading shy smiles along with something else unspoken. They alternate leading and following, making the switch effortlessly from one to the other without missing a step. They seem to know each other's bodies well enough, can read each other's signals without too many questions. When Blaine feels a slight pressure on his hip, he knows to flip positions and adjust his stance. When his hand is squeezed, he pauses on the back side of the beat and changes direction.

Since his first class, when a frustrated Blaine slipped his hand into Kurt's and Kurt put his arm around him, instructing him on how to correctly lock his frame, the two have moved together with such a fluid synchrony, it's as if they were meant to dance with one another.

Blaine doesn't miss how this is the longest song of the evening, how Kurt's eyes seem to light up when he catches Blaine looking at him, how his cheeks flush with a hint of pink and his lips quiver when his smile grows.

Blaine has imagined feeling those lips quiver against his own more times than he should have.

The song enters its final coda, and Blaine's heart speeds up, praying that somehow, this time, the music will bleed into an additional strain, and he and Kurt can continue dancing another minute…or five…or ten.

A half hour, tops.

When the music stops, Blaine feels like his whole world is about to end.

Blaine feels Kurt's chest heave against his own, feels Kurt's heart pound inside his rib cage, and it's like they're sharing a single square of time and space. It stretches on a breath too long, especially with other eyes watching them. Kurt pulls out of Blaine's embrace, acknowledging him with a flourish of his outstretched arm.

“And that, class, was a perfect Cross-Step Waltz,” Kurt says. “Congratulations, Mr. Anderson. You are officially an Arthur Miller graduate. Take a bow.”

Blaine bows slightly, accepting the polite but enthusiastic applause that travels from student to student standing in a ring around them. A few of the students look at one another with knowing grins, some whisper quietly behind their hands and giggle.

It's no secret that Blaine Anderson seems to be Kurt's favorite pupil.

“So, that's the end of this session,” Kurt says, clapping his hands together. “Enrollment for the next session starts Monday. You know you all want to come back.”

I do, Blaine thinks, looking down at his hands folded in front of him, trying to hide his smile.

“Okay, guys,” Kurt continues, waving to the students gathering up their coats and purses, bending in for air kisses and brief hugs, “you've all done well. You should feel so proud. Go forth, and when you audition for So You Think You Can Dance, tell them Kurt Hummel sent you.”

Blaine hangs back, stalling, pretending to re-tie his shoes and pat down every pocket for his keys until the last student walks out of the studio, leaving him and Kurt alone.

Kurt knows Blaine will be there when everyone else is gone. He has since their first class together, chitchatting for the few minutes it takes for Kurt to lock up and head out.

“I can't believe this is our last class,” Kurt says, handing Blaine his coat off the hook by the door and helping him into it. “The last eight weeks have just flown by.” Kurt turns Blaine to face him, fiddling with his lapels and straightening his red cashmere scarf.

“I know,” Blaine agrees. “What am I going to do with my Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights?”

Blaine had originally signed up for lessons only on Friday nights. That was the Waltz class, the dance Blaine absolutely had to learn by Labor Day. He would have thought that all that time he spent dancing with show choirs in his youth would have engrained the steps permanently into his soul, but too many years behind a desk teaching elementary school kids to play Minuet in D on ¾ size violins have taken the sense of rhythm his feet once had right out of him. One night a week to get it back seemed like a commitment he could make, no problem. But after meeting Kurt, after dancing with him, he signed up for a Wednesday night Foxtrot class, and then after he worked up the nerve, he enrolled in the Monday night Tango class.

Mondays had become, by far, his favorite day of the week.

“Considering how well you dance now, I'm sure you'll come up with something interesting,” Kurt says with a wink.

It's a safe tease, Blaine knows, but every time Kurt winks at him, his heart stops for longer than necessary between beats.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says, fidgeting with the ends of his scarf, tangling the fringe between his thumb and index finger.

“I told you to call me Kurt,” Kurt says, throwing a playful scolding glance at Blaine as he starts switching off the studio lights.

“Right,” Blaine says with a chuckle to hide his stomach flips at the thought of calling this beautiful man by his first name. “Kurt. I'll call you…I'll call you Kurt.”

Kurt nods, his lips quirking in the corners as he switches off the last set of lights. The darkness isn't complete, the room and its sole inhabitants illuminated by a single lamp outside on the curb. Seeing Kurt standing in the shadows makes Blaine want. From the bottom of his heart, stuttering dangerously out of sync, he longs to rush up to Kurt, take him in his arms, hold him flush against his body, and kiss him.

Kiss him like this is the last night the two of them will ever see.

“Now remember, if you decide that you want to learn the Charleston…”

“You'll be the first to know,” Blaine finishes.

“I hope I am,” Kurt says, leaning in close as he reaches past Blaine for his own coat hanging on the wall. “It's a great class for couples.”

Blaine swallows hard.

Couples. It was such an innocent comment, but it's such a tempting proposition.

Kurt walks with Blaine out of the studio, pausing on the stoop with key ring in hand to lock the multiple bolts on the door. They walk down the three short steps, and when Blaine's foot hits the street, the sigh that passes through his lips steals the breath from his entire body.

How is he ever going to remember how to breathe if he doesn't see Kurt again?

“Come on,” Kurt says, opening his arms wide, “give me a hug.”

Blaine waits a second, fighting the urge to throw himself bodily into Kurt's arms. He manages the hug part fine, but he can't seem to keep himself from holding Kurt tighter than normal for a friendly hug.

“Oh, Blaine,” Kurt says with a warm chuckle, “you're trembling. Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” Blaine breathes against Kurt's cheek. “Yes, I am.”

Kurt is the first to let go. Blaine's fingers refuse. Even as Kurt takes a step away, Blaine's fingertips lightly trail over Kurt's shoulders and down his arms, needing to stay connected, not ready to say good-bye to him.

“Don't worry,” Kurt says, holding Blaine at arm's length and giving him a small smile. “I promise, you're going to blow everyone away at your wedding.”

Kurt pats Blaine on the arm reassuringly, then turns and walks away. Blaine doesn't leave and he doesn't follow. He watches Kurt take off down the sidewalk, heading for the subway, never once turning around to look back. Kurt disappears down the steps to catch his train, and the glimmer that sparks in Blaine's eyes whenever he sees Kurt - a glimmer that has been steadily dying as Blaine counted down to this day - finally goes out.