Roman doesn’t see the flush, the bulge in his tights until the next moves, until Peter’s back on the floor. They happen in time but the rhythm is off, step, position, spin and turn, and they’re holding hands, two arms-lengths away, and in the split second before Roman draws him back in he can see the ruddy tell-tale blush and the inviting hardness under his blue-gray tights.

Then he draws him in, a would-be-easy spin bringing them back to front and Roman can smell him again, the sex that clings in the air around him and another scent that’s just Peter and sweat and his brand of deodorant. This feels right. Peter belongs here in his arms, not just on stage but off, and maybe he isn’t thinking yet about whether he wants something serious or not, but he isn’t, like Peter might think, planning to fuck him once and push him out of the company. Contrary to popular rumor, it isn’t Roman that makes them leave.

Well, at least not technically.

Roman’s hand moves down Peter’s body, and this isn’t even the slightest bit subtle. They’re preparing for another lift, Roman bent swept down and holding Peter’s body flush to his. It has the added bonus of putting Peter’s ass against his hips, and leaving Roman’s hands near his waist, and this has been Roman’s single favorite part of rehearsal now for weeks, just because of how perfectly their bodies fit together like this.

Roman’s hand is still in full view of anyone looking their way as it moves to obviously cup Peter’s erection, and there’s a lazy, catlike hum of appreciation in Peter’s ear as his fingers move over the length to get a feel for it.

“You’re a fucking liar and everyone knows it,” Roman breathes against Peter’s neck, more than a hint of aggression there as his hand moves up to brace on his body as they — finally — move into the lift.