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Eyes closed, Dirk rested his head on Kai's hip. The smells of sex and sweat hung thick around them, cloying and forcing his breath to slow. The taste of semen lingered in his mouth, his throat; he should savour it while he could, enshrine the feel and the taste and the shape of this instant in his memory to keep him safe through the long nights and days of frustration ahead. He could feel fingers tangled in his hair, the calloused tips moving in small circles, caressing his scalp in – what, thanks?

Gratitude, yes.

For these frantic, filthy moments let us be truly grateful, Dirk thought with a bitter wince. Because Kai could never give him anything else, nothing more than snatched, desperate interludes in dark corners, quick relief from the heat and the excitement that being on stage produced.

He nuzzled his face into the skin exposed by the open zip, buried his face into the scent of the other man. Fingertips dug into Kai's hips, searching for those places that so few heartbeats before had made him buck and curse and thrust with such intensity. A lick, a taste, and he was pushed away, the sound of trousers being fastened reaching his ears a second before the door to the closet opened and banged shut, leaving him on his knees and alone.

Dirk curled into himself, let his hair cascade across his face. Kai was out there, the heat of his attention on everyone else – and he was in here, abandoned, bereft, the physical aches of jaw and knees and balls nothing to the icy chill that cupped his heart.

But if this was all he could have, then this was what he would take.

The closet door banged again, and nothing but a stain on the concrete and a hint of musk in the air remained to mark the pain that had been played out in this place, as in so many others.