“Did they call yet?” Blaine asks, joining Kurt as he holds vigil, head bowed, eyes closed. "Do we have an ETA?"

“No,” Kurt replies in a whisper, “they haven't, but … they're coming. It's only a matter of time. Because life goes on, you know?” Those last few words break, and Blaine takes his hand.

“Oh, Kurt …”

“It just feels so … so barbaric. I mean, the garbage, Blaine? The garbage? There has to be another way!”

“Kurt, honey, we talked about this.” Blaine puts a comforting hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “This is really the only way.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Kurt sniffles. "I just keep thinking that ..." He stops when he catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a parked car window, and laughs. “I must look like a mess.”

"No, you don't. You're holding up fabulously."

Kurt rolls his eyes and tilts his head up, praying his nose doesn’t run. “I just … I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”

“I know how you feel.” Blaine sighs. “I … I didn’t think I would get this emotional but … we’ve had so many good times together – the cuddling, the late night movie marathons, the phone calls, the talks …”

“The sex …” Kurt adds.

“Yup.” Blaine nods solemnly. “The sex.”

“I think … that was my favorite part.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, passing Kurt a tissue from his pocket. “Mine, too.”

“You guys do know you’re getting all weepy over a bed, right?” Santana asks, rushing by Kurt and Blaine on her way to the loft as the two stand guard over the pieces of a busted queen size frame waiting for the garbage truck to come and take it, ironically, to its final resting place.

“It’s not just a bed, Santana,” Kurt snaps from behind his tissue. “It’s the bed. From Blaine’s room in Ohio.”

Santana stops at the foot of the stairs. “What do you mean, the bed?” she asks, looking from Kurt, dabbing his eyes, to Blaine’s mournful stare. “Oh, God!” she exclaims when she puts it together. “Ew! That’s the bed? The official altar of gay virgin sacrifice?”

“What do you mean, ew?” Kurt grumbles. “At least we manage to confine our dalliances to the bed. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve had to disinfect the kitchen table after Brittany would come to visit.”

“That doesn’t make this any less weird,” Santana remarks, continuing up the stairs with a haughty air.

“Yeah, well, at least it’s sanitary!”