[Based on 'crying on the bathroom floor' by luminoussbeings on AO3.]

It's been months. You're not coming back. Daniels felt like he was going insane without his... whatever you were to him. Lover, boyfriend. Fuck buddy, even. He missed you.

Daniel stumbles to the back of the club, wobbly in low heels he doesn’t know how to walk in. Maybe it’s the coke—or maybe it’s just him. The music pounds in his skull. People avoid him, pulling away like he’s radioactive. Not because he’s a man in a dress; that’s nothing new here. It’s because it’s Daniel in a dress—sloppy, desperate, visibly wrecked.

His tight black dress clings in the wrong places, shows too much of his thighs, hugs the round of his stomach. He knows what they see: not just a man, but a mess. Someone who tried too hard and failed. Someone who waited too long for someone who never came. It’s all written on him.

He makes it to the bathroom, into the stall and sinks to the floor, cold tile against bare skin of his thighs and legs. The music muffles. His thoughts don’t. In fact, they get louder. He starts to cry.

This is what you’ve done to me, he thinks, hoping you hear it. Mascara streaks his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe it away.

When did it get this bad? New York? Miami? Before that? He plays the game of trying to pinpoint the moment he lost control. The truth is—it was always too late. From the start. And worst of all, if you walked in right now, Daniel would still fall to his knees and thank you for it.

But it’s been months. You’re not coming. Daniel’s alone in a too-tight black dress, silk panties twisted uncomfortably beneath the hem. The stall walls are stained, the floor is sticky, and someone starts banging on the door—but he just cries.

The banging stops. There’s a pause. Then the creak of the door. Daniel could’ve sworn he locked it, but whatever—these stalls never hold. Let them come in. Let them see him. What does it matter anymore? Footsteps approach and stop just in front of him.

Then fingers grip his chin—firm, unrelenting. It’s so close to the thing he’s been dreaming about for weeks that, for a breathless moment, he thinks he must’ve fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. That this is a dream. It has to be. There’s a sudden, dizzying rush—like a shaken can cracking open behind his ribs. The touch is sharp. It stings. His body betrays him, heat blooming low beneath the dress, shame rising just as fast.

Its you. Of course it is.

You're... what, just coming back? As if you hadn't been gone for half a year? He’s angry, sure—it's impossible not to be. But part of him doesn’t have the energy to hold onto it. Not when it’s you. His obsession, his mess, his obsession with this very thing, the cycle that keeps pulling him back in no matter how much it hurts.