Chapter 5: The Morning After
The scent of Arturo’s cologne lingered in Matthew’s apartment like a guilty secret. He’d scrubbed himself raw in the shower, but the memory of touch was a phantom imprint on his skin. He dressed with mechanical precision, knotting his tie twice before it felt right. The mirror showed him a familiar face, pale under the bathroom lights, the slight-worried expression now deeply entrenched. Diplomat face. He practiced it in the elevator down to the garage: neutral, pleasant, removed.
The embassy corridor was a study in muted power. Polished floor, sealed windows buffering the chaotic symphony of Reforma, the soft click of his own Oxfords on tile. His office door felt heavier than usual. He pushed it open.
And there he was.
Arturo stood at the window, holding two paper cups from the café downstairs. He turned, his smile exactly as it had always been—disarming, professional, devoid of any midnight intimacy.
“Buenos días, jefe,” he said, his voice smooth as poured coffee. “I took a liberty. Americano, black. Correct?”
Matthew’s throat closed. He managed a nod, dropping his briefcase by the desk. “Thanks. That’s… correct.”
Arturo placed the cup on the desk blotter, perfectly centered. Not a single glance at the rumpled couch against the far wall. Not a hint of anything beyond polite, subordinate efficiency. He was wearing a crisp blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the same glasses framing his dark eyes. He looked rested. Unaffected.
Matthew’s mind flashed: the heat of his mouth, the clinical snap of latex, the weight of him. The utter quiet of his departure.
“The quarterly report on legislative sentiment is drafted,” Arturo continued, leaning a hip against the visitor’s chair. “I’ve highlighted the sections where the new party rhetoric contradicts their voting record. It’s a bit of a mess, but the analysis is solid. You’ll want to review before it goes to the DCM.”
“Right. The report.” Matthew’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. He sat, fumbling for the cup. The coffee was scalding. He drank it anyway, the pain a welcome anchor. “And the meeting with the Interior Ministry liaison?”
“Moved to three PM. Their office. I’ve already loaded the briefing materials onto your iPad.” Arturo took a sip from his own cup, watching Matthew over the rim. “You look tired. The film run late?”
The question was innocuous. A colleague’s casual concern. It was also a landmine.
“It was fine,” Matthew said, too quickly. “Brandon enjoyed it. I think.”
“The DEA agent.” Arturo nodded slowly, as if filing the information. “Good. Networking is important.” He set his cup down and picked up a folder from the chair. “Here’s the draft. I’ll be at my desk if you have edits.”
He was leaving. This was the script. Supervisor and staff member. The night before might as well have been a dream, a feverish break from reality that daylight had sterilized.
“Arturo.”
He paused at the door, hand on the frame. “Yes?”
The words piled up behind Matthew’s teeth: What was that? What am I to you? Do you do this often? They were pathetic, unprofessional, dangerous. He swallowed them, tasting bitter coffee.
“The analysis. On page four. The citation from the Proceso article—is that the most recent one?”
Arturo’s smile returned, a faint, knowing curve. He’d heard the real question. He chose to answer the spoken one. “October issue. The latest. I’ll double-check the page number for you.” He gave a slight, respectful nod. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence, thicker than before. Matthew stared at the report. The words blurred into a grey smear. He couldn’t stop the replay. The feeling of Arturo’s hands, sure and deliberate. The stark contrast to Brandon’s desperate, frozen embrace outside the cinema. One had been a consuming fire; the other was a glacier, immense and immovable. And he, Matthew, was caught between, already scorched and already cold.
He tried to focus on the document. “…the populist rhetoric masks a pragmatic, albeit fragmented, coalition-building strategy…” His own heartbeat was louder than the traffic twelve stories below.
His email pinged. A meeting alert. Then another. The mundane machinery of his day was grinding on, oblivious to the fault line that had opened up beneath him. He was expected to be Matthew Hayes, Political Officer, not the man who’d let his local staff analyst fuck him into a state of blank oblivion just hours ago.
A knock. His heart jackhammered.
It was just Carla from Econ, dropping off a cable. She chatted about the peso volatility. He nodded, smiled, made a vague sound of agreement. His performance was flawless. It felt like watching himself on a screen.
When she left, he closed his eyes. The phantom scent of mezcal and cologne wrapped around him again. I have slept with American political officers before. The statement hadn’t been a boast, or a warning. It was a simple fact. A piece of data. Matthew was now part of that dataset.
His phone vibrated with a text. Not Arturo. Brandon.
Brandon: That scene at the bridge is stuck in my head. The look on his face. Like he knows he’s already lost.
Matthew stared at the words. They weren’t about the film. They were a confession in code, a tiny crack in the glacier. He thought of Brandon’s haunted eyes in the taquería light, trying to speak the unspeakable.
He typed back, his thumbs clumsy.
Matthew: He had a choice. Even at the end.
The reply came fast.
Brandon: Did he?
Before Matthew could respond, his desk phone rang. The internal line. “Hayes,” he answered, his voice miraculously steady.
“Matthew, it’s Susan from the DCM’s office.” The administrative assistant’s tone was all business. “The Deputy Chief of Mission needs to see you. Four o’clock. It’s about your reporting chain on the Cartel-Related Political Influence memo.”
A cold trickle, unrelated to Arturo or Brandon, seeped into his gut. “My reporting chain? That goes through the Narcotics Affairs Section, with an info copy to…”
“He’d like to clarify it. Four o’clock.” The line went dead.
Matthew slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle. The memo was Brandon’s domain. It was their professional intersection, a piece of paper that linked them officially. The DCM wanted to ‘clarify’ it.
He looked at his closed office door. Beyond it, in the bullpen, Arturo would be at his desk, typing calmly, a perfect employee. Down in the fortified annex, Brandon was probably staring at a case file, his own life a tangled web of secrets. And Matthew was in the middle, his careful new life already fracturing along every possible line—professional, personal, moral.
He had three hours until the meeting. He picked up Arturo’s draft report. The words finally snapped into sharp, terrifying focus. He began to read, line by line, forcing his mind into the text, seeking refuge in the analysis of other people’s politics, a temporary shelter from the ruin of his own.
He began to read, line by line, forcing his mind into the text, seeking refuge in the analysis of other people’s politics, a temporary shelter from the ruin of his own.
The charade held, day after grueling day.
Arturo was a master of the plausible deniability their situation required. He was nothing but courteous, efficient, and slightly distant in the office, his demeanor a polished wall Matthew couldn’t scale. The only hint was an occasional, fleeting glance that lasted a half-second too long, or the deliberate brush of a finger when passing a file. It was a silent, maddening language of almosts and not-quites. Matthew’s meeting with the DCM about the reporting chain was a bureaucratic tangle, a warning shot across his bow about stepping on interagency toes. He thought of Brandon’s clenched jaw, his hidden life, and felt a surge of protective guilt.
“You’re chewing your pen, jefe,” Arturo noted on Thursday afternoon, not looking up from his laptop. “It’s a bad habit. The ink is toxic.”
Matthew stopped, lowering the mangled plastic. “Just thinking.”
“A dangerous pastime.” Arturo finally met his eyes, a spark of the old mischief there. “You should get out more. Remember there’s a city beyond these walls.”
The invitation came on Friday, just after five. The week’s tension had condensed into a thick, static haze. Arturo leaned in Matthew’s doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Some friends and I are going to a place in Roma Norte. Dancing. You should come.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge wrapped in casual offer.
Matthew’s protest was automatic, weak. “I’m not much of a dancer. And with the team…“
“They’re my friends. Not from the embassy.” Arturo said it slowly, dismantling the professional objection. “It’s just music. You look like you could use some.”
He thought of his silent apartment, of the ghost of Conrad in his inbox, of Brandon’s coded, sorrowful texts. He thought of the couch in his office. “Okay,” he heard himself say. “Where?”
The club was a cavern of throbbing sound and fractured light. The bass line vibrated up through the soles of Matthew’s shoes, into his bones. Arturo’s friends were a whirl of easy laughter and rapid Spanish, welcoming him without scrutiny. A girl named Sofia pushed a cold beer into his hand. “Arturo says you work too much,” she shouted over the music. “We are here to fix this!”
And then Arturo was there, pulling him into the swell of bodies on the dance floor. “Don’t think,” Arturo said directly into his ear, his breath hot. “Just move.”
Matthew was stiff, awkward, a marionette with tangled strings. But the beer, the heat, the merciful anonymity of the dark, began to work on him. The lights strobed, turning the world into a series of vivid, disconnected snapshots: Arturo’s smile, a flash of teeth; the sheen of sweat on his throat; the confident roll of his hips.
He stopped thinking.
He let the rhythm unspool him. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Arturo was closer, his hands on Matthew’s hips, guiding him. There was no space left for pretense. The office, the rules, the careful life he’d built—it all dissolved in the sweat-slick air.
Their foreheads touched. The music pounded, a physical force.
Matthew surrendered to it, to him. He grabbed Arturo’s shirt, crumpling the fabric in his fists, and pulled him into a kiss. This was all hunger and public claim, a collision of teeth and tongue under the spinning lights. Arturo kissed back with a growl of possession, one hand fisted in Matthew’s hair, the other splayed against the small of his back, holding him tight against the evidence of his own desire.
Time slipped its gears.
They broke apart, breathing ragged, the world crashing back in a roar of sound and color. Arturo’s eyes were black, unfathomable pools. He didn’t speak. He simply took Matthew’s hand, his grip firm and final, and began cutting a path through the crowd.
Matthew followed, wordless, pulse hammering in his throat.
The night air outside was a shock, cool and smelling of diesel and fried food. Arturo hailed a cab with a sharp whistle, his authority absolute. He opened the door, nudged Matthew in, and barked an address in Condesa.
The cab lurched into traffic. Streetlights strobed across Arturo’s profile, a study in determined silence. He kept Matthew’s hand locked in his, thumb stroking over his knuckles, a relentless, soothing motion. Matthew stared out the window, watching the elegant, tree-lined streets of Condesa blur past, his blood still singing with the club’s rhythm.
The cab stopped. Arturo paid, led him through a wrought-iron gate into a courtyard, up a flight of stairs to a weathered blue door. His keys jingled, a sharp, metallic sound in the quiet.
The door swung open onto darkness. Arturo pulled him inside, into the warm, intimate smell of books and sandalwood, and pushed the door shut with a soft, definitive click.
Arturo pushed him against the closed door, the wood solid and unyielding against Matthew's back. His mouth found Matthew's again, but this was nothing like the dance floor. This was darker, devoid of play, all demand and swallowed groans. The taste of him was beer and salt and something fiercely proprietary. Matthew's hands fluttered, then gripped Arturo's shoulders, the muscle there hard as stone under his shirt.
"Still thinking, jefe?" Arturo murmured against his lips, his voice a gravelly scrape. He didn't wait for an answer.
He slid a hand between them, palming Matthew's cock through the fabric of his trousers, a rough, knowing squeeze that made Matthew gasp and buck into the touch. "I can feel you," Arturo said. "Always so fucking tense. All those rules in your head."
He stepped back, taking the heat with him, and Matthew nearly stumbled forward. Arturo watched him, eyes gleaming in the sliver of light from the courtyard window. He began to unbutton his own shirt, slow, deliberate. "Take your clothes off," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.
Matthew's fingers were clumsy on his belt, his buttons. The cool apartment air hit his skin, raising goosebumps. Arturo finished undressing first, standing there fully erect, a shadowy, powerful figure. He closed the distance and wrapped a firm hand around Matthew's cock, his grip almost tight enough to hurt. "This is what you wanted in the office, isn't it?" he breathed into Matthew's ear. "Every time I handed you a file. Every fucking briefing."
He walked Matthew backward, not to a bedroom, but into the living room, towards a large, worn leather sofa. The city's glow through the balcony door limned Arturo's body in silver. He pushed Matthew down onto the cool leather, his frame looming over him.
"No games tonight," Arturo said, his voice low. He reached for a small bottle on the side table, slicked his fingers with a viscous sound that was obscenely loud. "And no rubber."
Matthew’s breath caught. "Are you—"
"Clean. I'm tested. You?" Arturo’s gaze was unblinking.
Matthew nodded, a frantic jerk of his head. The clinical part of his brain, the part that wrote risk assessments, screamed. It was drowned out by the pounding in his veins, by the memory of the barrier last time, a symbol of the very distance Arturo was now annihilating.
"Good." Arturo’s slick fingers pressed against him, not gentle, a blunt, insistent pressure. Matthew tensed, a sharp inhale cutting through him.
"Relax," Arturo commanded, his other hand pinning Matthew's hip to the sofa. "You want it. I felt you on the dance floor. Your whole body begging for it."
He worked his finger in, a slow, merciless stretch. The burn was acute, a bright line of pain that made Matthew dig his heels into the couch. Then Arturo crooked his finger, and the sensation shattered into a bolt of shocking, electric pleasure. Matthew cried out, back arching.
"See?" Arturo added another finger, scissoring him open. The stretch was fuller, deeper. "You take it so well. All that proper diplomacy, and you just want to be filled up."
Matthew could only gasp, his hands fisting in the leather. The alcohol haze had narrowed his world to this: the sting, the unbearable fullness, the dark hunger on Arturo's face. He was utterly exposed, split open, more vulnerable than he'd ever been with Conrad, than he could ever imagine being with Brandon.
Arturo withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself, the broad, slick head of his cock pressing where his fingers had been. He looked down at Matthew, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Tell me you want it," he growled.
"I want it," Matthew rasped, the words torn from him.
"Say my name."
"Arturo. Please."
With a grunt, Arturo pushed in.
It was a brutal, breathtaking invasion. Matthew saw white, his mouth open in a silent scream. Arturo buried himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust, sheathing himself completely in the tight, clenching heat. He held there, trembling with the effort of control, letting Matthew's body adjust to the overwhelming intrusion. The feeling of being so utterly penetrated, with nothing between them, was obscene. It was a claim.
"Fuck," Arturo hissed, his composure cracking. "You're so fucking tight."
He began to move.
It wasn't love-making. It was a fucking, pure and simple. Arturo set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each drive punching the air from Matthew's lungs. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, filthy sounds of their joining, filled the room. Matthew grabbed at Arturo's back, his fingers slipping on sweat-slick skin, feeling the powerful muscles working.
"Look at me," Arturo demanded.
Matthew forced his eyes open. Arturo's expression was fierce, unguarded, a mask of raw need. This was the man hidden behind the embassy smiles. This was the truth of him.
"Whose are you?" Arturo grunted, driving into him with a force that jolted the sofa.
"Yours," Matthew choked out, the admission terrifying and true in the moment. "God, yours."
Arturo’s pace became erratic, desperate. He hooked Matthew's legs over his shoulders, bending him nearly in half, and the new angle made Matthew shout. Arturo's cock dragged over that spot inside him with every thrust, lighting a fire in his gut. The pleasure was a coiled spring, tightening beyond bearing.
Matthew's own cock, trapped and leaking between them, twitched. He was so close, the pressure building with each brutal, perfect slam.
"Come for me," Arturo ordered, his voice ragged. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
It was the filthiness of the command that did it. The spring snapped. Matthew's orgasm ripped through him, violent and silent for a second before a broken cry escaped. He spilled over his own stomach, stripes of white on his skin, his body clamping down viscously around Arturo's shaft.
The convulsions of Matthew's climax tipped Arturo over the edge. With a choked, guttural sound, he plunged deep and held, his body rigid. Matthew felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release filling him, a shocking, intimate heat. Arturo collapsed forward, catching his weight on his forearms, his forehead dropping to Matthew's shoulder. They stayed like that, joined, panting, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, Arturo softened and slipped out. Matthew winced at the sudden, empty ache, the slow trickle of fluid down his thigh. Arturo shifted, pulling Matthew against him, turning them so they lay tangled on the sofa. He didn't speak. He just wrapped his arms around Matthew, his breath gradually slowing against Matthew's neck.
The city hummed outside. Matthew waited for the regret, the cold shock of what they'd done. It didn't come. A heavy, spent warmth spread through him instead. The professional chasm between them, once an uncrossable line, now felt like a fiction. This was real. This messy, raw, physical truth.
Arturo’s fingers traced a lazy path down Matthew's spine. "You're staying," he said, a quiet statement in the dark.
Matthew nodded against his chest. He had nowhere else he needed to be. The fear, the complications, they were for the daylight. For now, in the unfamiliar room, wrapped in the scent of Arturo and their own spent bodies, he felt a peace he hadn't known in years. His eyes grew heavy, the rhythm of Arturo's heartbeat a lullaby against his ear.
Sleep pulled him under, deep and dreamless, and he did not stir until the first gray light of morning filtered through the balcony door, painting their limbs in shades of ash and silver.