Chapter 6: The Morning After
The smell of coffee, rich and dark, was the first thing to permeate Matthew’s consciousness. It was undercut by the faint, clean scent of Arturo’s sheets and the distant, perpetual soundtrack of a Condesa morning: a blender whirring next door, the tinny melody of a gas truck, the shuffle of footsteps on the sidewalk below. Sunlight, filtered through a lush monstera plant on the balcony, painted dappled shadows across the rumpled bed.
Matthew lay still, his body humming with a pleasant, unfamiliar ache. Arturo was a warm line against his back, one arm thrown possessively over Matthew’s ribs, his breathing deep and even. The intimacy of it was a shock to the system, more profound than the night before. Last night existed in a haze of tequila and boldness, of stolen touches in his sterile office and the reckless decision to follow Arturo home. Morning brought clarity, and with it, a slow-rolling wave of panic.
He carefully extricated himself, the cool air hitting his skin as he sat on the edge of the bed. He found his boxers and pulled them on, his movements feeling clumsy. The apartment was a museum of Arturo’s life: shelves bowed under the weight of books on political theory and art history, vibrant folk art masks stared from the walls, a well-used guitar leaned in a corner. It was lived-in, authentic. It made Matthew’s own temporary, embassy-provided apartment look like a hotel suite.
“The coffee’s just finished,” Arturo’s voice, husky with sleep, came from the bed. He was sitting up now, glasses on, smiling a little. He looked effortlessly perfect, the sheets pooled around his waist. “You look like you’re calculating the geopolitical ramifications of last night.”
Matthew managed a weak laugh. “It’s a lot to process.” He accepted the mug Arturo handed him from the bedside table, his fingers brushing Arturo’s. The simple contact sent a jolt through him. “Arturo… what is this? What are we doing?”
Arturo took a sip of his own coffee, watching Matthew over the rim. His dark eyes were perceptive, unflinching. “We are drinking coffee. Later, we will probably get dressed.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Arturo set his mug down. He swung his legs out of bed, unselfconscious, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants hanging from the bedpost. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “What do you want it to be, Matthew?”
“I asked you first.”
“Fair.” Arturo pushed his glasses up his nose. “I want this. I enjoy having sex with handsome, brilliant men. It’s a hobby of mine.” He said it plainly, a simple statement of fact. “And you are particularly handsome. And surprisingly brilliant, for a diplomat.”
Matthew flushed, the compliment landing awkwardly amidst his anxiety. “But… at work. I’m your supervisor.”
“And you will sign my time sheets, and I will write your reports, and we will both be professional. We are adults. We can hold two ideas in our heads at once.” Arturo walked to the balcony door, looking out at the street. “But let’s not pretend, Matthew. You are here for two, maybe three years. Then you will get a promotion, or a ‘hardship’ post in London, and you will leave. You will send a polite, generic farewell email to the local staff list, and you will never think of me again. That is what you people do.”
The bluntness was a slap. “You people?”
“Diplomats. Temporary residents. Professional friends.” Arturo turned back, his expression softening, but it wasn’t warm. It was resigned. “It is not an insult. It is the mechanism. I have worked at the embassy for eight years. I have seen it. You arrive eager, you make ‘deep connections,’ you promise to keep in touch. You leave. The mechanism continues.”
He walked back over, stopping in front of Matthew. “So, I am under no illusions. I do not expect promises. I do not want your guilt, or your long-term planning. I just want to enjoy the moments we can steal. The coffee. The conversation. The sex. It is enough. We have no obligation to each other beyond basic human decency.”
Matthew stared into his coffee. The liquid was dark, revealing nothing. He had never done this. His relationships were series of escalations: dates, definitions, moving in, discussions about futures. Even his breakup was a messy, protracted negotiation over shared assets and wounded expectations. The concept of something with an built-in expiration date, something that existed purely in the present tense, was as foreign to him as the distant sound of the Spanish-language news broadcast from the apartment below.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Matthew said quietly. “Separate it all like that.”
Arturo crouched down, putting himself in Matthew’s eyeline. “Then you should say so now. Walk out that door, go to your sleek apartment, and we will have a perfectly fine, boring professional relationship. It is okay.” He placed a hand on Matthew’s knee. “But if you stay… understand the terms. This is a stolen moment. There will be others, if we are careful. If we are lucky. But they are just moments. They do not have to mean anything more than the joy they contain.”
Matthew looked at him—the intelligent eyes behind the glasses, the disarming smile that held a lifetime of understanding Matthew could only guess at. He thought of the cold emptiness of his own apartment, the spreadsheets waiting on his laptop, the endless diplomatic receptions filled with surface-level chatter. He thought of the way Arturo had looked at him in the office, not as a superior, but as a man.
He placed his mug on the floor. He reached out, his hand finding the side of Arturo’s neck, his thumb brushing the line of his jaw. He felt the steady pulse under his fingers. It was a reckless, terrible idea. A career-ending idea. A heart-breaking idea, probably.
But in that sun-drenched apartment, with the city humming its chaotic song just beyond the balcony, the promise of joy, however temporary, felt like the only real thing he’d been offered in months.
“Okay,” Matthew whispered, the word leaving him like a surrender.
Arturo’s smile then was different. It reached his eyes. He leaned in, closing the gap, and his kiss tasted of coffee and a future that was blissfully, terrifyingly short.
The kiss was an answer, and a new question. It dissolved the last of the morning’s brittle negotiations into something warmer, something fluid. Arturo stood, pulling Matthew up with him, their bodies aligning from chest to knee in the bright, revealing light.
“You think too much,” Arturo murmured against his lips, his hands sliding down Matthew’s back to the waistband of his boxers. “The coffee is gone. The talking is done.” He hooked his fingers and pulled, the fabric sliding down, and Matthew stepped out of them, a shiver running through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. Arturo’s apartment felt suddenly enormous, every detail in sharp focus.
He took Matthew’s hand and led him across the worn hardwood floor, past the books and the staring masks, into a small, tiled bathroom. Steam from the shower Arturo must have turned on earlier still clung to the mirror in a faint haze. The daylight here was diffused, soft through a frosted window, stripping away every shadow they’d used for cover the night before.
Arturo turned, his back to the sink, and looked at him. Really looked. His gaze traveled over Matthew’s shoulders, the pale span of his chest, the lean lines of his hips, with a deliberate, appreciative slowness that felt more intimate than any frantic touch in the dark. Matthew did the same, seeing the scattering of dark hair, the old, faint scar on Arturo’s ribcage, the way his glasses were already beginning to fog.
“See?” Arturo said, his voice quiet. “Nothing to be afraid of in the light.” He reached out, his fingertips tracing the contour of Matthew’s collarbone, a touch so specific it felt like a map being drawn.
Then Arturo pushed his own sweatpants down and stepped into the shower, pulling the glass door shut behind them. The water was a shock, perfect and hot, sluicing over Matthew’s head and shoulders. It plastered Arturo’s dark hair to his forehead instantly. He reached for a bar of soap, something sandalwood and sharp, and worked it between his palms.
“Turn around,” he said, and Matthew obeyed, facing the tile wall. Arturo’s soap-slick hands began on his shoulders, kneading the tension there, then moved down the ladder of his spine with a firm, knowing pressure. It was methodical. It was worshipful. Matthew let his forehead rest against the cool tile, a low groan escaping him as the knots he’d carried for months began to loosen under Arturo’s hands.
This was different. The night had been about claiming, about hunger and discovery through touch alone. This was a visual catalog. Arturo turned him back, his glasses now abandoned on the sink outside, his eyes dark and unguarded. He soaped Matthew’s chest, his thumbs circling his nipples until they peaked, then followed the trail of hair down his stomach.
Matthew’s breath hitched. He reciprocated, taking the soap, learning the plains of Arturo’s torso in the clear, steam-thick light. He traced the scar with a fingertip. “How?” he asked, the word almost lost in the spray.
“Football. When I was fifteen and thought I was immortal.” Arturo’s smile was a brief flash. “Your turn. The one on your knee.”
“Slipped on ice. Boston.” Matthew said, sliding his hand lower, soaping the coarse hair on Arturo’s thigh. The act of washing became the act of exploration, a slow, shared unveiling. There was no rush. The water beat down on them, a private cocoon.
When the soap was rinsed away, they were just two bodies, clean and gleaming. Arturo’s erection pressed against Matthew’s hip, a hard, familiar heat. Matthew’s own arousal was a full, aching weight between them. Arturo leaned in, kissing him deeply, the taste of clean skin and water replacing the coffee.
He broke the kiss, his breathing uneven. “Here,” he said, his voice rough. He took Matthew’s hand and wrapped it around both of them, his own hand covering Matthew’s. The fit was tight, slick with water and pre-come. “Just like this.”
Matthew’s head fell forward, resting against Arturo’s. He moved his hand, Arturo’s guiding the rhythm, a slow, building friction that was profoundly different from anything they’d done before. It was shared, intensely focused, a closed circuit of pleasure. He watched, mesmerized, as his own fist moved over their combined length, the skin flushed and sensitive.
He could feel every hitch in Arturo’s breath, every tremor in the thighs pressed against his own. Arturo’s free hand clutched at Matthew’s hip, his nails biting in just enough to sting. The steam filled their lungs. The world shrank to the space inside the shower, to the point where their bodies connected.
“Matthew,” Arturo gasped, the name a ragged prayer. It was the sound of his own name that undid him. The climax tore through Matthew first, a white-hot wave that made his knees buckle, his seed striping the wet tile between their feet. Arturo followed a second later, a harsh cry swallowed by the sound of the water, his body shuddering violently against Matthew’s as he spilled over their joined hands.
For a long moment, they just stood there, leaning into each other, the hot water washing the evidence away as quickly as it had come. Their breathing slowly syncopated. The frantic energy of the night was gone, replaced by a deep, spent calm that felt heavier, more consequential.
Matthew finally loosened his grip, his arm falling to his side. He felt boneless, clean, and utterly transparent. Arturo reached past him and turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and the distant, relentless city.
Arturo pushed the door open, the cooler air a shock. He grabbed two towels, handing one to Matthew. They dried off without speaking, the thick cotton rough on oversensitive skin. Matthew watched the muscles in Arturo’s back work, the water droplets caught in the hollow of his spine.
He wanted to say something, to give a name to the quiet devastation blooming in his chest. But Arturo’s terms were clear. This was a stolen moment, now completed. Naming it would be a violation of their agreement.
The silence stretched, thick with everything unspoken. Matthew focused on the simple mechanics of drying his hair, the rough towel a welcome distraction from the weight in his chest. Arturo moved first, padding back into the bedroom towards a weathered dresser.
“You have a choice,” Arturo said, pulling out a pair of dark jeans and a simple grey t-shirt. He tossed a similar ensemble onto the rumpled bed near Matthew. “You can put on yesterday’s embassy uniform, which will smell like anxiety and regret. Or you can wear these.” He gestured with his chin. “They’ll be short in the leg, but you’ll look less like a man who spent the night compromising State Department protocols.”
Matthew managed a weak smile. “Is that what I did?”
“Among other things.” Arturo pulled his shirt on, his voice muffled by the fabric. “The clothes, Hayes. Choose a persona.”
Matthew picked up the soft cotton t-shirt. It was a small act of surrender, wearing Arturo’s clothes. He dressed quickly, the jeans indeed ending a few inches above his ankle, the t-shirt snug across his shoulders. He felt absurd, and strangely comfortable.
“I look like a kid who had a growth spurt,” Matthew said, examining himself in the fog-streaked mirror.
“You look relaxed,” Arturo corrected, appraising him. “It’s a good look. A rare one.” He finished lacing his shoes. “I’m starving. I know a place.”
The morning air in Condesa was a balm, washing away the last of the shower’s steam and the room’s heavy intimacy. Sunlight dappled the cobblestone streets, filtering through the canopy of jacaranda trees. The neighborhood unfolded around them, a vibrant tapestry of art nouveau buildings, colorful storefronts, and the constant, pleasant hum of a Saturday. Matthew felt hyper-aware of the space between their arms as they walked, a gap of six inches that felt like a canyon.
“This is my weekend ritual,” Arturo said, leading them around a corner where the smell of roasted coffee and frying masa bloomed in the air. “A place called ‘El Rincón de los Olvidados.’ The Corner of the Forgotten.”
“Cheery name.”
“It’s ironic. No one who goes there is ever forgotten. By the cholesterol, if nothing else.”
The spot was a hole-in-the-wall with three tables spilling onto the sidewalk under a faded green awning. An older woman with a severe bun and a kind smile greeted Arturo by name, her eyes flicking to Matthew with open curiosity. Arturo replied in rapid, fluid Spanish that Matthew could only half-follow, catching the word “colega” — colleague. It felt like a lie, sharp and clinical.
They sat at a small wrought-iron table. Arturo ordered for them both without consulting the menu: chilaquiles verdes con huevos estrellados, two glasses of fresh orange juice, and a plate of pan dulce to share. “Trust me,” he said, seeing Matthew’s hesitation. “You’re not in Kansas anymore. Or Virginia.”
The food arrived, a vibrant, steaming masterpiece of crispy tortilla strips smothered in green salsa, topped with perfectly fried eggs whose yolks bled gold. It was a riot of flavor and texture, completely unlike the sanitized room-service brunches of Matthew’s previous life. As they ate, Arturo pointed out passersby—a famous poet walking his pug, a painter who lived above the pharmacy, the son of a former presidential candidate who now owned a failed skate shop.
Matthew listened, captivated. This was Arturo’s world, dense and interconnected, rooted in centuries of history and sidewalk gossip. It was the antithesis of the embassy’s transient, policy-driven bubble. For a fleeting, dangerous hour, Matthew let himself slip into a daydream.
He imagined this as a routine. Waking up in Arturo’s sunlit apartment, coming here every Saturday, bickering lightly over the last piece of concha. They’d read the newspapers together, Arturo translating the sharp political cartoons. They’d plan a trip to Oaxaca, argue about movies, host dinner parties for Arturo’s fascinating, chaotic friends. It was a vivid, full-color fantasy of a life built not on a tour of duty, but on a choice.
He saw it so clearly it ached: their hands brushing as they both reached for the sugar, Arturo laughing at his mispronunciation of chilaquiles, the comfortable silence between them as they watched the neighborhood wake up. It felt possible. It felt real.
Arturo drained his orange juice and sat back, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Consider this your unofficial briefing. The real city doesn’t care about your diplomatic plates.”
The fantasy shattered, the sounds of the street rushing back in. Matthew’s fork hovered over his plate. Of course. The briefing. The office. The mechanism. Arturo was already delineating the borders, gently herding him back into the proper lane. Colleague.
“Right,” Matthew said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. He set the fork down. “The real city is better.”
“It usually is.” Arturo signaled for the check. “I should get you back. You probably have important… whatever it is you people do on weekends. Polo?”
The joke was a wall, elegantly constructed. Matthew had already violated their careful truce, building a future in his mind over shared pastries. He’d taken a stolen moment and tried to mortgage it into a lifetime. The realization was a cold hollow in his gut, more chilling than any air-conditioned embassy corridor.
He nodded, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in plaster. “No polo. Just reports.” He stood, the iron chair scraping loudly against the pavement, a harsh sound that severed the morning’s delicate spell. The fantasy was gone, but its ghost lingered, a haunting blueprint of everything he couldn’t have.