Chapter 2: Homecoming - Softness After the Storm
The key turned in the lock with a sound that was meant to mean home, but to Matthew, just back from Helsinki, it felt like the click of a starting gate. The loft was dark, silent except for the distant, familiar hum of the city. He dropped his bags just inside the door, the thud too loud in the stillness.
A shape detached itself from the shadows of the sofa.
“You’re late,” Jonathan’s voice came, soft but edged with something brittle. “Flight got in two hours ago.”
“Traffic from LAX was—”
He didn’t get to finish. Jonathan was on him in three quick strides, his hands cupping Matthew’s face, his mouth finding Matthew’s in a kiss that was less welcome and more accusation. It was all heat and sudden, desperate need. The taste of him—spearmint toothpaste and the faint, sweet hint of the gin he’d been drinking—was so deeply, comfortingly familiar it made Matthew’s chest ache.
“Missed you,” Jonathan murmured against his lips, but the words were swallowed as his hands slid down, fingers hooking into the belt loops of Matthew’s jeans, yanking him closer.
Matthew responded, a reflex honed by two years of easy intimacy. His hands went to Jonathan’s waist, pulling the soft cotton of his t-shirt up, finding the warm, smooth skin of his back. But his mind was a world away, still on the frozen plane of Helsinki, watching Shawn’s face as he finished his program, seeing Benoit’s assessing gaze in the dim pub light.
Jonathan’s touch grew more insistent, more proprietary. He walked Matthew backward until his shoulders hit the cool, flat surface of the wall beside the door. The force of it was a jolt.
“Jon, wait—”
“No,” Jonathan breathed, his mouth moving to Matthew’s neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. “No waiting.” His hands fumbled with the button of Matthew’s jeans, then the zipper, the sound obscenely loud. He shoved the fabric down just enough to wrap a firm, knowing hand around Matthew’s cock, already half-hard from the friction and the surprise.
Matthew gasped, his head thudding back against the wall. The sensation was immediate, a direct line to his base instincts. He let his eyes fall shut, trying to lose himself in the physicality of it, in the known territory of his boyfriend’s desire. Jonathan’s thumb slicked over the head, spreading the wetness that had already gathered there, and a low groan escaped Matthew’s throat.
“That’s it,” Jonathan whispered, his voice gone dark and rough. “Just feel this.” He began stroking, a steady, practiced rhythm designed to short-circuit thought.
For a few moments, it worked. Matthew’s hips pushed forward into that tight, warm fist. He grabbed Jonathan’s shoulders, pulling him into another bruising kiss, trying to outrun the ghost in his head. But the ghost was persistent. It superimposed Benoit’s stern, disappointed face over Jonathan’s passionate one. It replaced the soft wall at his back with the cold, unforgiving plexiglass of a rink board. Benoit had never been gentle like this. Benoit had been a fucking collision.
“Bed,” Matthew grunted, breaking the kiss, needing to change the script, to slow it down. “C’mon.”
They stumbled through the dark loft, a trail of discarded clothing marking their path—Matthew’s shirt, Jonathan’s sweats. They fell onto the large, low platform bed in a tangle of limbs. The city lights painted Jonathan’s skin in silver and charcoal as he knelt over Matthew, his eyes wide and dark with want.
This was different. Here, Jonathan slowed. He leaned down, kissing Matthew deeply, sweetly, his hands roaming over his chest, his stomach. “I really did miss you,” he said, the earlier edge gone, replaced by a vulnerable warmth. “The place is too quiet without you.”
“I missed you too,” Matthew said, and he meant it. He ran his hands up Jonathan’s strong thighs, wanting to connect, to be present. He wanted this to be enough.
Jonathan reached for the nightstand, grabbed the lube. The sound of the cap clicking open was routine, domestic. He slicked his fingers, his gaze locked on Matthew’s. “Just relax,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss his stomach as his hand moved between Matthew’s legs.
The first touch was cool, then a slow, careful pressure. Matthew forced himself to breathe, to open up to it, to Jon. It felt good—of course it felt good—but his awareness was split. Part of him was here, in their expensive bed, with the kind, beautiful man he loved. The other part was an observer, watching from a cold distance, cataloguing the differences.
Jonathan’s preparation was thorough, considerate. Benoit had never been considerate. Matthew shoved the thought away, a violent internal flinch. He reached for Jonathan, pulling him up for a kiss, trying to drown the memory in the present.
“Ready?” Jonathan whispered, lining himself up.
“Yeah,” Matthew breathed. “Fuck, yes.”
Jonathan pushed in slowly, filling him with a steady, stretching burn that was both foreign and deeply known. He sank all the way, hips flush against Matthew’s ass, and stayed there for a long moment, forehead pressed to Matthew’s shoulder, breathing hard. “Christ, you feel good,” he mumbled.
Then he began to move. It was a deep, rolling rhythm, the pace of reclamation and reassurance. Each thrust was a statement: This is us. This is home. This is real. Jonathan’s hands were gentle on his face, in his hair. He murmured words—beautiful, filthy, loving words—against Matthew’s skin.
Matthew wrapped his legs around Jonathan’s waist, meeting his thrusts, his own cock trapped between their sweat-slick stomachs. The pleasure built, a reliable, rising wave. He chanted Jon’s name, clawing at his back, arching into him. It was good. It was so good.
And yet.
As Jonathan’s pace increased, as his breath came in ragged gasps, Matthew’s mind betrayed him. The caring touch became the impersonal, demanding grip of a coach. The loving whispers became cold, technical critique. Your extension is lazy today, Matthew. You are losing form. The face above him, twisted in pleasure, morphed into one of fierce, disapproving concentration. The warmth of the body covering his became the memory of being pressed against a cold rink wall, the smell of ice and ambition and forbidden sweat overwhelming him.
His climax, when it broke over him, was a shuddering, full-body convulsion that felt more like a release of tension than a peak of pleasure. He cried out, a sound that was almost anguished, spilling hot between their bodies.
Jonathan followed seconds later, his own release punched out of him with a choked sob. He collapsed onto Matthew, heavy and spent.
For a long time, they just lay there, skin sticking together, the only sound their slowing breaths. Jonathan traced idle patterns on Matthew’s chest. The afterglow was soft, tinged with the vanilla scent from the diffuser downstairs.
“So,” Jonathan said finally, his voice husky with post-sex sleepiness. “Helsinki. How was it really?”
Matthew stared at the ceiling, the shadows playing across it. The ghost had retreated, for now, leaving behind a hollow, guilty space. “It was… intense. Shawn and Rachel were incredible.”
“You said.” Jonathan propped himself up on an elbow. “And you saw Benoit.”
It wasn’t a question. Matthew had told him, in vague terms, about the meeting in the pub. He’d omitted the comeback plans. He’d omitted a lot of things.
“We did. He… he offered to coach us again. Me and Hill.”
Jonathan went very still. The warmth in the bed seemed to cool by several degrees. “Coach you. For what, exactly?”
“For the comeback.” The words hung in the air, solid and dangerous.
Jonathan sat up fully, the sheet pooling around his waist. “The… Matthew. That was a joke. A crazy idea you and Hillary had over wine. You’re not seriously considering it.”
“I am.”
“Why?” The word was sharp, cracked open. “You’re a champion. You have everything here. You have a life. You have me.” He gestured vaguely at the beautiful, darkened loft. “That world… it eats people. It ate you before. You were a shell when you came out of it. It took you a year to even smile properly again.”
“I wasn’t a shell,” Matthew said, but the protest was weak. He had been. After Benoit, after the gold, he’d been emptier than he’d ever been, a gilded statue with nothing inside.
“You were.” Jonathan’s voice softened. He reached out, touched Matthew’s cheek. “And I pulled you back. We built this. Together.” He took a deep breath. “If you do this… you’d be training with him. Every day.”
“It’s just coaching.”
“It’s never ‘just’ anything with him, and you know it.” Jonathan’s eyes searched his face. The love there was real, and it was currently twisted into raw fear. “What happens when you’re spending twelve hours a day with him? In that rink? With all that… history?”
Matthew had no answer. He looked away, toward the window, where the endless lights of LA shimmered. Somewhere down there, in the complex they could see from this very window, was the rink. Benoit’s rink. Where Shawn and Rachel were probably already training, their bodies moving with a purpose he’d forsaken.
“I need it,” Matthew heard himself say, the truth of it surprising him as much as Jonathan. “I need to know if I can still do it.”
“And what about us? What do we need?” Jonathan’s voice was quiet now, defeated. “I need a partner who’s present. Who comes home at night, not one who’s chasing a ghost on a sheet of ice with a man who…” He stopped, unable to finish.
“Who what?”
“Who still owns a piece of you,” Jonathan said, his voice breaking. “A piece you never got back.”
Silence swallowed the room. The distance between them on the rumpled sheets felt vast, uncrossable. Matthew wanted to reach for him, to promise it would be okay, that this was just a challenge, a chapter. But the words wouldn’t come. They’d be a lie.
Jonathan slid out of bed. The moonlight caught the elegant line of his back as he walked naked to the bathroom. The door didn’t slam. It shut with a soft, final click.
Matthew lay alone in the dark, the scent of their sex still thick in the air, a mockery of the connection that had just shattered. The cool, clean memory of the ice, and the searing, complicated memory of the man who ruled it, called to him with a siren’s pull he was powerless to resist.
He was already gone.
(Continued) Chapter 2
He was already gone.
The thought echoed in the hollow space the sex had left behind. Matthew stared at the closed bathroom door, a seam of yellow light outlining its frame. It felt like a barrier. He touched his own chest, his fingers brushing the cooling streaks of Jonathan’s release on his skin. The physical evidence of their connection felt like a brand of his guilt. Slowly, he pushed himself up. The sheets were twisted, still warm from their bodies. He swung his legs over the side, the polished concrete floor shockingly cold on his bare feet.
He stood, his body feeling both exhausted and strangely electric. He found his boxer briefs in the tangle of clothes on the floor, the black cotton soft and familiar. He pulled them on, the simple act grounding him slightly. He took a breath that shuddered in his lungs, then crossed the room.
He pushed the bathroom door open. Steam fogged the mirror, and the sharp, clean scent of Jonathan’s cedar body wash filled the air. Jonathan stood at the sink, leaning heavily on the porcelain, head bowed. He’d turned the shower on, the water drumming loudly against the glass enclosure, creating a private wall of sound within the room. He hadn’t gotten in yet. He was just standing there, naked and beautiful and radiating a sorrow so profound it tightened Matthew’s throat.
“Jon.”
Jonathan didn’t turn around, but his shoulders stiffened. “You should be asleep.”
“I can’t.” Matthew moved closer, his reflection a ghost in the fogged mirror beside Jonathan’s. “I can’t sleep with this between us.” He reached out, his hand hovering just above the tense muscle of Jonathan’s shoulder before letting it rest there. The skin was warm, damp from the steam.
“There isn’t anything between us, Matty,” Jonathan said, his voice muffled. “You’ve already decided. There’s just… distance.”
“That’s not true.” Matthew turned him gently, forcing him to face the mirror, to look at their blurred reflections together. “Look at me. Please.”
Jonathan’s eyes, red-rimmed, met his in the glass. The pain in them was a physical blow.
“I love you,” Matthew said, the words fierce and immediate. “I love this life we’ve made. This apartment, our stupid dog, watching your terrible cooking shows. It’s real. It’s everything I thought I wanted.” He paused, struggling to find the shape of the gnawing emptiness. “But for the last three years, I’ve felt… finished. Like I peaked at twenty-five and everything since has just been a really nice epilogue. I accomplished the biggest dream of my life before I was thirty. What does that leave?”
Jonathan shook his head slightly, a tear tracking through the condensation on his cheek. “It leaves a life, Matthew. A whole, beautiful fucking life.”
“I know. And I watch you have one.” Matthew’s voice cracked. “I watch you get scripts, I watch you light up talking about a character, I see you growing. You’re in your prime. You’re reaching your potential. And I’m just… here.Watching. Commentating on other people’s primes. I feel like a museum tour guide for my own past.”
He pressed his forehead against Jonathan’s temple, his reflection merging with his lover’s in the steam. “I miss the feeling of my own potential. I miss having a peak I haven’t climbed yet. This isn’t about glory. It’s about being alive in my own skin again.Please. You have to understand where I’m coming from.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the relentless hiss of the shower. Then Jonathan let out a long, shaky breath. He turned within Matthew’s arms, facing him fully, his hands coming up to cradle Matthew’s face. His thumbs brushed away moisture that wasn’t just steam.
“I do understand,” Jonathan whispered, his voice thick. “God, of course I do. That’s the fucking problem. Because I know how deep that need runs in you. I saw the hole it left before. That’s why I’m so scared.”
“You don’t have to be scared of me.”
“I’m not scared of you.” Jonathan’s gaze was unwavering, lucid through the tears. “I’m scared for you. And I’m scared of Benoit. It’s not about thinking you’ll fuck him. I trust you. I do.” He swallowed hard. “It’s about knowing he knows how to get inside your head better than anyone on the planet. He built the machinery of your ambition, and he knows exactly which screws to turn to make it run… or to make it break. I’m worried he’ll dismantle you again, piece by piece, in the name of winning. And you’ll let him, because winning is the only language you both speak.”
The accuracy of it stole Matthew’s breath. It was like Jonathan had x-rayed his soul and seen the fragile, ancient wiring Benoit had installed. “I’m not that kid anymore,” Matthew insisted, the words feeling less certain than he wanted. “I’m stronger now. I have you. I have perspective. I can handle him. I can use him for what I need and leave the rest.”
Jonathan searched his face, his eyes tracing every line, every flicker of doubt Matthew tried to hide. He saw it all. He always did. Finally, with a sound that was half-sigh, half-sob, he pulled Matthew into a crushing embrace. His arms wrapped around him, holding him so tightly it hurt, as if he could physically keep him from flying back toward the ice.
“Okay,” Jonathan breathed into his shoulder, the word warm and damp against his skin. “Okay. If you need to do this, you do it. I’ll be here. I’ll support you. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much it takes from you, from us… I’ll be here.”
Matthew clung to him, a wave of relief so potent it felt like weakness washing through him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice choked.
“But,” Jonathan said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye again. His expression was deadly serious now. “You have to promise me one thing. If it gets too much—if he gets too much, if it starts breaking you—you stop. You walk away.For real. No heroic last stands. No fucking martyrdom on the ice. You promise me.”
Matthew looked into those earnest, fearful eyes. He felt the solid warmth of Jonathan’s body against his, the anchor of the life they’d built. He thought of Benoit’s cold analysis, of Shawn’s silent judgment waiting at the rink, of the yawning hunger in his own gut that felt like it could consume him. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he was already slipping beneath the surface, that the undertow was stronger than his promises.
“I promise,” Matthew said, the lie smooth and easy on his tongue.
Jonathan held his gaze for another second, then nodded, accepting it. He pulled him close again, and they stood there in the steam, holding each other as the shower ran its water hot to cold.