“Hey, everybody! Can you hear me over the music?”

“Yeah!”

“I said, CAN YOU HEAR ME OVER THE MUSIC!?”

“YEAH!”

Kurt stuffs a fingertip in his ear to muffle the instructor’s amplified voice. “Yeah, I can hear you,” he grumbles, taking a step back to get away from the booming sound system. But there’s not much further he can go before his back hits the barre on the wall. This is his first exercise class, first day of the session, first session of the New Year, and the studio was packed when he got there. No one told him that showing up a half-an-hour early isn’t just a recommendation, it’s a requirement, especially if you want a decent spot. At least, something farther than a foot away from the largest speaker box he’s ever seen, mounted on the wall. If the studio ever goes belly up (which he doesn’t think it ever will if the size of the waiting list he’s been on for the last few weeks is any indication), their instructor, Bertie, can rent the thing out as a Jacuzzi on weekends.

But because he showed up fifteen minutes ahead of time instead of thirty, he ended up with the worst spot in existence - the back right corner, last row, next to the door.

“Alright, everyone,” fearless leader’s voice booms in surround sound, “we’re gonna take this low and slow. Our first combo is step, step, punch! That’s pretty easy, right?”

The entire room roars with affirmatives, each member of the class cheering as if Ke$ha just showed up to take over. In that case, the music would probably be infinitely better, Kurt decides, not quite getting the hang of the synthesized Samba rhythm and its sampled backbeat that they’re working out to.

But Kurt signed up for this torture. And according to the Weight Watcher’s forum he recently became a member of, Lima local chapter, Bertie’s class is the best. (Bertie. Just a first name. No last name. Like Cher.) Latin Fusion Cardio Kickboxing is Kurt’s latest weapon in an attempt to lose the last five pounds he gained from holiday overindulging. He didn’t think it was all that noticeable. He was going to let it slide and count on his numerous extracurricular activities to help him shed the flab. But the first day back from winter break, he walked into Sue Sylvester’s cheerleading workshop and she kicked him right back out, demanding that he lose five pounds or cut off an ass cheek if he ever intended to be the top of the pyramid again.

“Good, everyone! Now, let’s try it again…step, step, punch!”

Kurt thought the class would be easy.

“Now a little faster…step, step, punch!”

He’s always been a good dancer (not Fred Astaire quality, but passable), and this was kind of like dancing, with self-defense thrown in, which he could always use more of.

“Looking good, class! Okay, now, up to tempo…step, step, punch!”

Kurt usually avoids exercise en masse, preferring to “sweat to the oldies” at home. But those videos weren’t cutting it anymore. Working out with the Cheerios, there was a lot more judging going on than any actual exercise. But in Bertie’s crowded studio, he didn’t feel too self-conscious. This class is filled with middle-aged, average-bodied people of varying skill levels, save a few people up front who look like they could be professional dancers, and a few other high schooler students – one of whom was standing next to him, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face; soft, golden eyes; and a smile that could melt steel.

“Step, step, punch!”

Kurt almost misses that round, gazing at the boy’s unique hazel eyes, admiring his muscular build (strong legs and defined arms performing the combination with magnificent ease), until he’s sure the boy is going to turn around any second and catch him.

Which he doesn’t.

And Kurt is both relieved and disappointed.

“Step, step, punch! Again! Step, step, punch! One more time…”

Apart from avoiding the gaze of the attractive boy (who’s currently paying no attention to Kurt), Kurt feels safe to screw up here, which he never does on the football field. He’s grateful no one from McKinley seems to know about this class. Being one of the only two male cheerleaders at his school is less about his ability to dance and more about looks. To quote his coach, he’s a reasonably attractive, non-threatening boy, strong enough to lift 75% of their current cheer roster, who wouldn’t be distracted ogling the girls who, according to everyone from Coach Sylvester to the principal of McKinley High to the female cheerleaders themselves, were the actual stars of the show. No, he isn’t the best dancer, but he’s definitely working on it. And once he gets the hang of it, he’ll be able to move on to bigger and better things, more befitting of Kurt Hummel.

Like possibly the lead in the school musical.

It’s an ambitious dream, but it could happen.

And Latin Fusion Cardio Kickboxing could be his first step to getting there.

“Step, step, punch! Again! Step, step, punch! Way to go, patriotic headband guy!”

The class cheers. It breaks Kurt’s concentration and jogs his brain. He’s wearing a patriotic headband – red and white stripes, with a blue field of stars front and center. Could she be talking about him? When Coach Sylvester wants their attention, she throws bullet casings at them. Kurt does a quick scan of the room to see if anyone else is wearing a patriotic headband. Nope. No patriotic headbands. No other headbands at all. No one else. Just him. He giggles.

“Hey,” he says out loud to himself, “I think I’m getting the hang of this!” He laughs as the music picks up, and finds himself chanting, “Step, step, punch! Step, step, punch!” along with the rest of the class.

The instructor speeds the tempo a little each time, and Kurt finally discovers his groove. He even adds a little flava to the moves, planting his heel and swinging his hips in time to the music. He gets lost in his head, daydreaming about dancing on stage, and how it would feel to perform in front of an audience, not in a Cheerios uniform, but in costume, with an ensemble cast behind him. The music courses through him, the rapid Latin percussion filling him with adrenaline, with heat.

“Step, step, punch! Feel it! Step, step, punch! Really throw that arm! Step, step, punch! Everybody!”

On the next round of step, step, punch, Kurt’s fist comes in contact with something kind of squishy, but kind of hard. He hears a crack, then a wail, and the sound of someone hitting the floor boards. A few members of their class turn around to look, but for the most part, the music coming from those Jacuzzi-size speakers is loud enough to muffle the noise. Kurt, standing behind the speakers, hears it, and in the reflection of the mirror closest, he sees what his fist, now sore across the knuckles, came in contact with.

Lying on his back on the floor beside Kurt’s feet is the boy with the beautiful hazel eyes, his hands cupped over his nose. Kurt realizes, after a second of confusion, that he just punched this boy in the face, and Kurt is utterly mortified.

“Oh my God!” Kurt drops to his knees. “Oh my God! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“No,” the boy says in a nasal tone, waving away other worried onlookers who turn to see if he’s alright. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t” – He chuckles nervously – “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, it was my fault,” Kurt insists. “I was, sort of, daydreaming, I guess, and dancing more than actual stepping.”

“I know,” The boy says, sounding slightly embarrassed. “You’ve got…uh…quite a hip swing.”

Kurt chuckles back, then stops when he realizes that that’s what the boy must have meant by not paying attention.

He was watching Kurt’s hips.

“That’s a pretty wicked hook you’ve got.” The boy winks at Kurt between blinks, hissing when the action scrunches his nose.

“Yeah, well, my step-brother taught me how to throw a punch.”

“He should get some sort of medal then,” the boy says, groaning as he squints to better see Kurt’s face, “because that was a good one. I box, so I should know.”

“Ah, an expert opinion. I’ll be sure to tell him. Do you think you can stand?” Kurt reaches out a hand to help the boy to his feet.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” The boy takes Kurt’s hand and pulls himself up. He’s heavier than Kurt anticipates. He skips a step forward as the boy finally stands, nearly ending up in his arms. The boy smiles, grabbing Kurt’s elbow to make sure he doesn’t trip. “I’m Blaine.”

“I’m Kurt.” Kurt catches a glimpse of the boy’s uncovered nose, and cringes sympathetically. It’s red up the bridge and looks painful. “I feel just awful about this.”

“Please, don’t. It was an accident.”

“But I do.” Kurt gets a sudden idea, a crazy idea, and he launches ahead before he can talk himself out of it. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Kurt.”

“Yes, I do,” Kurt argues, hoping to save his plan from this chivalrous boy before it lands flat…like Blaine did. “I punched you in the nose! It’s going to get puffy, and it’s going to hurt. You won’t be able to smell. The next week of your life is going to be miserable. So, let me at least take you out to coffee…please?”

Blaine bites his lower lip, awkwardly since, along with his nose, his lip has begun to swell. “Sure. That sounds wonderful actually.” Blaine smiles. His lip feels like it’s cracking, but he doesn’t care. He’s going to take the plunge with this boy that he’s been staring at so hard, he stepped too far to the right and practically walked in to his fist. If coffee turns in to a date, then at least they’ll have an awesome story about how they met. Blaine raises a hand to run through his hair, but his thumb brushes his nose. With a yelp of pain, he brings his hand back to cover it. “But could you take me to the hospital first? I think you broke my nose.”