Chapter 10: Old Habits
The morning light was a gentle liar. It streamed through Matthew’s windows, painting Conrad’s sleeping back in warm stripes. Matthew watched the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the familiar curve of his shoulder, and for a suspended moment, the last four years of distance and bitterness evaporated. They were just Matt and Con again, waking up together in a new city. The ache in his body was a pleasant, earned thing.
Conrad stirred, rolled over, and without opening his eyes, pulled Matthew against him. “Morning,” he mumbled into Matthew’s hair.
“Morning.”
“I’m starving. Take me somewhere with chilaquiles that will change my life.”
And so the idyll began.
Conrad never mentioned his hotel. His suitcase migrated from the hallway to the bedroom floor, his toiletries appeared next to Matthew’s in the bathroom, a second toothbrush leaning comfortably in the holder. It was a seamless, unspoken takeover. Matthew let it happen, bathing in the easy domesticity he’d missed. They developed a rhythm: slow mornings with excellent coffee, long days of playing tourist, dinners that stretched for hours, and nights where the sex evolved from the frantic reclamation of the first night into something deeper, more languorous, and infinitely more dangerous in its sweetness.
On Tuesday, they were in the vast, sun-drenched courtyard of the Museo Nacional de Antropología, staring up at the monolithic Piedra del Sol. Conrad was reading the plaque, his brow furrowed. “So this isn’t actually a calendar?”
“More of a cosmovision stone,” a familiar, smooth voice said from behind them.
Matthew’s spine went rigid. He turned. Arturo stood there, holding a museum guide, dressed in casual but impeccable dark jeans and a charcoal sweater. He looked like any other cultured visitor. His eyes, behind his glasses, found Matthew’s, then flicked to Conrad, assessing him with a single, efficient glance.
“Arturo. Hi.” Matthew’s voice sounded thin. “This is, um, my friend Conrad, visiting from Buenos Aires. Conrad, this is Arturo Ramirez, from the embassy.”
“A colleague,” Arturo clarified, extending a hand. His smile was polished, professional. “A pleasure. Matthew’s a fortunate man to have a personal guide to this place. It’s easy to get lost in here.”
Conrad shook his hand, his grip firm. “He’s been showing me the highlights. Seems I was mistaken about the calendar.”
“A common error.” Arturo’s gaze lingered on Conrad, taking in his build, his posture, the casual way his hand found the small of Matthew’s back. “The Aztecs had a more… fluid conception of time. It was cyclical. Destructive and regenerative.” He paused, his eyes cutting back to Matthew. “Some cycles are hard to break.”
The air between the three men grew thick. Conrad’s hand pressed a little more firmly against Matthew’s back. It wasn’t aggressive, just a quiet, definite statement of connection. He smiled, a easy, diplomatic smile Matthew knew well. “Fascinating. Well, we shouldn’t keep you from your visit, Arturo. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Arturo said, his own smile not reaching his eyes. “Enjoy the rest of the museum. Matthew, I’ll see you at the office. We have that backlog on the trade figures.” He gave a slight nod and melted back into the crowd, a shadow absorbed by light and history.
Matthew’s phone buzzed in his pocket ten minutes later, as they stood before the feathered serpent statue of Quetzalcoatl.
Arturo: The exhibit on sacrificial rites is particularly insightful today. You should see it.
Matthew didn’t respond. He deleted the message.
The next encounter was at a crowded taquería in Condesa on Thursday night. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meat and lime. They were laughing, shoulders touching, sharing a plate of suadero, when Matthew looked up and saw Brandon Weber standing at the counter, waiting for his order. He was alone, wearing a tight grey t-shirt that strained across his shoulders and chest. He looked tired.
Their eyes met. Brandon’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle tension locked his jaw. He gave a single, curt nod.
“Who’s that?” Conrad asked, following his gaze. “He looks like he’s about to arrest someone.”
“That’s Brandon. DEA. Works at the embassy.”
“Ah.” Conrad took a slow sip of his beer. He watched as Brandon collected his order—a large takeaway bag—and turned to leave. Instead of heading straight for the door, Brandon detoured past their table. He had to; it was the only route.
“Weber,” Matthew said, forcing a tone of casual collegiality.
“Hayes.” Brandon’s voice was gravel. His eyes, those haunted eyes, flicked to Conrad, then back to Matthew. He didn’t stop walking, but he slowed for a half-step.
“Brandon, this is Conrad, a friend from my last post. Conrad, Brandon Weber.”
Conrad offered a hand. “Good to meet you.”
Brandon looked at the offered hand, then shifted his heavy takeaway bag to his left hand and shook it briefly. His grip was crushing. “You too.” His gaze settled on Matthew again, lingering a second too long. A silent, loaded transmission: I see him. I see you with him. “Enjoy your dinner.” He moved on, a large, solitary figure pushing out into the noisy street.
Conrad watched him go. “Intense guy.”
“Yeah. He’s… going through some stuff.”
“Aren’t we all.” Conrad’s knee pressed against Matthew’s under the small table. A solid, reassuring point of contact. “He seems like the strong, silent type who probably feels things very deeply. And badly.”
Matthew almost choked on his taco. The accuracy was unsettling.
His phone buzzed on the table. A new message from Arturo.
Arturo: The DEA agent looks like he eats sadness for breakfast. And your ghost wears his ownership like a cheap suit. This is a disappointing parade.
Matthew excused himself to the bathroom. He leaned against the cool tile wall, the smell of industrial cleaner sharp in his nose. He typed a reply.
Matthew: Stop. Please.
The response was immediate.
Arturo: Stop what? Observing? The thread is paused, not cut. I can still see the tapestry you’re unraveling.
He didn’t write back. He turned his phone to silent.
The week continued in a beautiful, pressurized bubble. They visited the floating gardens of Xochimilco on a brightly painted trajinera, drinking micheladas as the boatman poled them through ancient canals. They got gloriously lost in the winding streets of Coyoacán. They spent a rainy afternoon in Matthew’s apartment, reading side-by-side on the couch, Conrad’s feet in his lap. The sex at night was conversation, a dialogue of touch that spoke of forgiveness and a desperate, unvoiced hope that maybe this could be rebuilt.
But the texts from Arturo were a constant, corrosive drip.
Arturo: Does he know how you sound when you come? I doubt it. He never listened closely enough.
Arturo: The trade figures are finalized. The numbers are permanent. Unlike visiting ghosts.
Arturo: Does he leave the toilet seat up? A small, telling aggression.
Matthew never responded. But he read every one. They were tiny hooks in his skin, tugging him back to a reality that felt increasingly distant.
On Conrad’s last night, they had a reservation at a sleek, high-end restaurant in Polanco. Conrad was in a blazer, handsome and relaxed. Matthew felt a desperate, clinging sadness beneath his own smile.
“This has been…” Conrad started, swirling his wine.
“I know,” Matthew finished.
“It’s felt right, Matt. Hasn’t it?”
“It has.” The words were true and they felt like a betrayal—of Arturo, of himself, of the messy present he’d been building.
The waiter glided over, refilling their water glasses, the ice cubes cracking in the sudden silence. Conrad waited for him to leave.
“I don’t want this to end,” Conrad said, his voice low. He set his wine glass down with precise finality. “I think we should try again. For real this time.”
Matthew’s breath caught. The noise of the restaurant—the clatter of cutlery, the murmur of other conversations—seemed to recede. “Try again,” he echoed.
“Yeah. I know it’s complicated. I’m in Buenos Aires, you’re here. But we make trips. We schedule it. We fucking video call every night if we have to.” Conrad leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his expression intense. “The last four years were a waste. This week proved that. We’re better than that stupid fight. We’re better than the distance.”
“I want that,” Matthew heard himself say. The words came out in a rush, surprising him with their force. “God, Con, I do. I’ve missed you. This has felt… it’s felt like coming home.”
A visible relief softened Conrad’s shoulders. “Okay. Good. Okay.” He reached across the table, and Matthew took his hand, their fingers lacing together. It felt solid. “We’ll figure out the logistics. I have more seniority now, I can maybe swing a transfer in a year, or you could come to BA. We’ll make it work.”
They talked like that for a while, spinning a fragile new architecture of plans. Four visits a year, minimum. Shared calendars. Better communication. They spoke in hopeful, practical terms, building a bridge over the chasm of their past failure. The dessert menu came and went unnoticed.
Then Conrad’s thumb stopped moving over Matthew’s knuckle. His grip tightened, just slightly. “There’s one condition, Matt.”
Matthew knew. He felt it coming, a cold stone dropping in his gut.
“You need to end whatever this is here.” Conrad’s eyes were dark and unblinking. “The colleague. The DEA guy. Whoever. I don’t need details. But I won’t share you. I can’t do that again.”
The memory of London, of vague infidelities and late-night excuses, hung between them. Conrad was drawing a line. It was fair. It was also terrifying.
“It’s not… it’s not like that with Brandon,” Matthew said, which was mostly true. “But Arturo…”
“The ‘colleague’,” Conrad finished, his voice flat. “Yeah. I got the museum tour. End it. Cleanly.”
Matthew looked down at their joined hands. He thought of Arturo’s lips against his ear in the dark, of the clever, scathing texts, of the professional disaster waiting to ignite. This was an exit ramp. A painful, necessary one. “I will,” he said, the promise tasting like ash. “It’s already over. I’ll make it clear.”
Conrad studied him, searching for the lie. He must have found enough truth, because he nodded, once. “Good.”
They paid the bill and walked back to the apartment through the cool night air. Conrad’s arm was around him. Matthew leaned into the warmth, trying to absorb it, to let it fortify him. Upstairs, as Conrad began to pack his suitcase, the reality of the promise solidified into a cold, hard weight in Matthew’s chest. He had just agreed to detonate his life in Mexico City. Arturo would not receive this news politely. The landmine was armed. All he had to do now was step on it.
All he had to do now was step on it. The thought was a hollow drumbeat in his chest as he watched Conrad zip the suitcase closed. The sound was too final. “Don’t look so grim,” Conrad said, straightening up. He crossed the room and put his hands on Matthew’s shoulders. “This is a good thing. We’re choosing us. Finally.”
“I know,” Matthew said, forcing a smile. “It just feels like I’m about to start a war.”
“Then you’re fighting the wrong person.” Conrad’s voice was gentle but firm. He leaned in, his forehead resting against Matthew’s. “Come on. One more time before the driver gets here. A proper goodbye.”
The last time was slow, a deliberate mapping of memory. The city lights bled through the blinds, painting shifting stripes across the sheets. There was no frantic heat, only a deep, aching reverence in every touch. Conrad’s mouth was soft on his, his hands cradling Matthew’s face with a tenderness that felt like an apology and a vow. It was a silent conversation, each press of skin a promise to rebuild, to be better, to fit the broken pieces back into a whole that could live in the daylight. Matthew clung to him, trying to imprint the exact weight of Conrad’s body, the scent of his sweat, the rhythm of his breaths. This was real. This was a future. He chanted it to himself like a prayer, drowning out the whisper of Arturo’s name in the dark corners of the room.
Afterward, they lay tangled, silent. The buzz of Conrad’s phone on the nightstand was a brutal alarm. “Car’s downstairs,” Conrad murmured, not moving.
“Okay.”
They dressed in quiet tandem, the romantic spell shattered by the mundane ritual of putting on socks. Matthew walked him to the elevator, the polished hallway floor cold under his bare feet. Conrad pulled him into one last, fierce hug. “I’ll call you when I land.”
“Please do.”
“And you’ll handle your situation.”
“I will.” The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Conrad stepped inside, turning to hold Matthew’s gaze until the doors closed. The silence that flooded the apartment was immediate and absolute. Matthew stood there for a long minute, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, feeling the ghost of Conrad’s presence already fading from the air. The bed was a rumpled testament. The empty wine glasses stood sentinel on the coffee table. The choice was made.
He fetched his phone from the bedroom, its screen blazing in the dim room. His thumb hovered over Arturo’s name. No more delay. He typed, the message box stark and white.
Matthew: We need to talk. Can you meet me tomorrow?
He set the phone down on the kitchen counter and walked to the window, staring down at the street where Conrad’s car had vanished. The phone vibrated, skittering on the marble. The response was impossibly fast.
Arturo: I already know what you want to say.
Matthew watched the three dots pulse, a digital heartbeat.
Arturo: And the answer is no.
Arturo: We aren’t done yet.