Chapter 13: Balcony Confessions
The ceasefire, over the next week, held. It evolved.
Henry didn’t demand his time. He offered it, with a low-key consistency that surprised Matthew. It wasn’t more late-night gallery raids or yacht club champagne. It was a text: Dumpling restaurant in Chinatown. No PR. Just soup and chili oil. Or, My father’s garden is empty tonight. There’s a massive treehouse from when I was eight. Come look at the stars with me.
Matthew went.They ate. They talked. They argued about political scandals and obscure French cinema. They kissed under banyan trees. Henry told him, one night in the treehouse, about the crushing pressure of being the ‘disappointing heir’, about his mother’s genteel depression in Surrey and his father’s silent, volcanic disapproval.
In turn, Matthew talked about Patrick. The real stuff. The slow, corrosive feeling of being chipped away at for five years. The lawyerly precision with which Patrick would undermine his confidence. Not the grand drama of the affair, but the daily, quiet devaluations.
“He made me feel… fungible,” Matthew said, the word tasting clinical and right. “Like I could be replaced by a newer, shinier model if I ever stopped being useful.”
Henry listened, his eyes reflecting the distant city lights through the rustling leaves. “You know,” he said softly, “my father sees me as an asset in a portfolio. An underperforming one. I think I understand fungible.”
And then Henry would reach for him, and the talking would stop, and it wasn’t frantic, floor-shattering sex. It was deliberate. Henry mapping his body with a curiosity that felt like reverence. Matthew, in turn, learning Henry’s quiet spots, the places that made him sigh rather than shout.
It was a truce that felt dangerously like peace. Matthew didn’t reply to the text that night after the port briefing, but the next morning he sent one: Holding, surprisingly well. And Henry had simply responded with a photo of an absurdly ornate birdcage he’d seen at a flea market.
The weekend arrived, humid and heavy. Matthew hadn’t heard from Brian, which was a relief. Mo remained a wall of cordial professionalism at work, filing photos with robotic efficiency. It was Saturday, and the energy of the city shifted, a collective exhalation after the week's relentless drive.
Liana’s party was a famed institution, a monthly explosion of journalists, artists, NGO workers, and colorful strays she collected. Matthew had forgotten about it until her reminder, a text that morning in all caps: DO NOT DIE TONIGHT BEFORE MY APARTMENT.7 PM. BRING BOOZE. DO NOT BRING TROUBLE (unless it’s funny trouble).
He went alone. He told Henry, who’d been invited by association. Henry had just shrugged, a lazy, amused gesture. “I’d be bad energy. A room full of people trying to save the world doesn’t want a living reminder of what’s wrong with it.Go. Have fun. Tell me about the proletariat later.”
Liana’s apartment in Queenstown was a kaleidoscope of color, music, and overlapping conversations. The warm light from countless mismatched lamps spilled onto her packed balcony, where the silhouettes of the gridded HDB blocks created a geometric canyon against the twilight sky. The air smelled of fried plantains, spilled beer, and Liana’s signature adobo simmering in the kitchen.
“You came!” Liana descended on him at the door, a whirl of bold-print fabric and sharp perfume. She thrust a cold bottle of Tiger Beer into his hand.“And alone. Where’s your posh destabilizing influence?”
“Said he’d be bad for your vibe.”
“Probably accurate.” Her eyes scanned the room behind him. “Mo’s here. By the speaker. Looking morose and unfairly handsome in a grey Henley. Don’t be an idiot.” She squeezed his arm and was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Matthew felt his pulse stutter. He took a long pull of his beer and let the current of the party pull him in. He greeted colleagues from other bureaus, was introduced to a painter whose hands were stained blue, and listened patiently to a data analyst’s passionate, drunken rant about marine conservation.
Across the room, Mo leaned against a bookshelf, nursing a bottle of water. He was indeed wearing a simple grey Henley that stretched across his broad chest. He was nodding at something Liana was saying to him, a faint, polite smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes.
They orbited. The party was large enough to avoid direct contact, small enough to feel the other’s gravitational pull. Every laugh from Mo’s direction was a magnet. Every time Matthew caught a glimpse of that thick, dark hair, his stomach flipped.
Drinks flowed. The music got louder, a pulsing Afrobeat that vibrated in Matthew’s ribs. He switched to whiskey. The sharp buzz softened the edges of his tension, blurred the sharp lines of the last week. He found himself laughing too loudly at a joke, telling an anecdote about Henry’s birdcage photo with a performative flair.
During a lull, he slipped out onto the balcony for air. The heat was still dense, but the sky was now a deep indigo, pierced by the first stars.
He didn’t hear Mo approach.
“You’re drunk,” Mo’s voice came from beside him, not unkindly.
Matthew turned. The light from the living room framed Mo’s face in gold and shadow, highlighting the strong line of his nose, the heavy stubble on his jaw. He looked tired.Solid. Real.
“Borderline,” Matthew admitted. “It’s a party. That’s the point.” He leaned on the railing, the warm concrete rough under his palms.
“You’re having fun, then.” Mo leaned beside him, a careful foot of space between them. He was looking out at the city, not at Matthew.
“It’s a good party.”
A shout of laughter erupted inside. Someone dropped a glass. The cheer that followed was raucous.
“Have you seen him this week?” Mo asked abruptly, his voice lowered, almost drowned by the music. He still didn’t look over.
Matthew didn’t pretend not to understand. “Yes.”
“Good.” Mo nodded, a short, tight gesture. “That’s good.” He finally turned his head. The yellow light caught the dark, intense focus of his eyes. “Are you happy?”
The question was a shiv to the ribs.Simple. Direct. Landscaping talk, office talk, quiet kitchen floor talk with Henry—none of it had prepared him for this. The truthful answer was a tangle.
“It’s… easy,” Matthew said, the words loosened by whiskey and the suffocating pressure of Mo’s gaze.“With Henry. It’s complicated, but it’s easy. There are no… expectations. No risk.”
“No risk?” Mo’s eyebrow arched. He gave a soft, incredulous huff of air. “That man is a walking risk assessment. He’s a liability column in human form.”
“You don’t understand,” Matthew said, defensiveness creeping in. “He’s honest about it. We’re both using it. Each other. For a ceasefire.”
“And you think that’s better than something real?”
The air between them crackled. The noise of the party faded into a dull roar.
“What was real, Mo?” Matthew’s voice was low, urgent. “One kiss in a darkroom? A week of you treating me like a contagious disease at work?”
“I was giving you space!” Mo’s own control snapped. He pushed off the railing, turning to face Matthew fully. The raw frustration was plain now, flushing his neck. “You kissed me, then you told me it was a mistake! You’re running some rich fuck-up’s emotional errands, and you show up at work looking like you’ve been through a war and a spa day simultaneously. What was I supposed to do? Fall at your feet and complicate your beautiful, convenient chaos?”
“Yes!” The word tore out of Matthew, louder than he intended.“Maybe! Because this…” He gestured vaguely between them, at the chasm of the last week. “This ‘professional’ bullshit feels worse. It feels like losing you.”
The confession hung in the humid air. Mo’s chest rose and fell with a heavy breath. The angry flush receded, replaced by a deep, wounded exhaustion. The music thumped inside. A couple stumbled onto the far end of the balcony, saw them, and quickly retreated.
“You haven’t lost me,” Mo said, his voice gravelly. “You never had me to lose. We had a moment. A good one. Then you chose.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture weary. “Just… live with your choice, Matthew. Don’t come to me looking for permission to feel bad about it.”
He moved to go back inside.
It was the dismissal.Final. Unforgiving. The sight of Mo’s broad back turning away was a trigger.
“Wait.”
Mo paused, but didn’t turn.
“I think about it,” Matthew said, the whiskey making him reckless, making him true. “The kiss.All the time. It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like coming up for air. Like the only real thing in this whole goddamn year.”
Mo went very still.
“You asked if I’m happy with him,” Matthew continued, stepping closer, invading that careful foot of space. He could smell Mo now, clean soap and warmth. “No. I’m not happy. I’m… distracted. With you, for one minute, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was just feeling. And it terrified me.”
Slowly, Mo turned around. His expression was unreadable, a mask carved from stone. But his eyes were alight, a dark fire burning in them.
“You don’t get to say that,” Mo whispered, his voice strained. “You don’t get to unload your confusion on me to make yourself feel better. I’m not his fucking cure.”
“I know.” Matthew was close enough now to see the individual lashes framing Mo’s dark eyes, the faint scar through his eyebrow. “I’m not asking you to be. I’m just telling you the truth.”
Mo searched his face, looking for the lie, the convenient escape clause. He must not have found it. The rigid set of his shoulders relaxed, infinitesimally. The fight drained out of him, leaving a raw vulnerability that was far more dangerous.
“The truth,” Mo repeated, tasting the word.
They stood there, locked in the charged silence, the party a distant planet. The tension wasn’t anger anymore. It was the slow, terrifying drag of something giving way.
Mo’s gaze flicked down to Matthew’s mouth, then back up. The decision happened in the space between heartbeats. He didn’t hesitate this time. He didn’t ask.
He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to frame Matthew’s face, his touch warm and calloused and deliberate. His eyes held Matthew’s for one more searing second—a question, a warning, a claim—before he kissed him.
It wasn’t like the first time. That had been surprise and heat, a collision.
This was a conquest.
Mo’s mouth was firm, demanding. He tasted of mint and warm beer. There was no tentative exploration. His tongue swept in, claiming the space, and Matthew opened for him with a desperate groan, his hands clutching at the thick fabric of Mo’s Henley. The kiss was deep, hungry, and devastatingly sincere. It held all the frustration of the silent week, the shared assignments, the stolen glances. It was an answer and a challenge.
Matthew’s mind, so adept at analysis, simply shut off. The whiskey haze burned away, replaced by a pure, electric clarity. This was the feeling. The not-thinking. The terrifying, solid ground of Mo’s body against his, the scent of him, the possessive sweep of his tongue. He kissed back with everything he had, his fingers tangling in Mo’s hair.
When Mo finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. Their foreheads rested together. The din of the party rushed back in, a surreal soundtrack to the quiet hurricane between them.
Mo’s eyes were closed. He kept his hands on Matthew’s face, his thumbs brushing his cheekbones, as if memorizing the shape of him. “Shit,” he breathed, the word a prayer and a curse.
He opened his eyes, and the raw want in them made Matthew’s knees weak.
“My place is ten minutes away,” Mo said, his voice low and rough, leaving no room for misinterpretation. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a statement of intent. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He took Matthew’s hand, his grip firm and final, and pulled him away from the railing, away from the party lights, back through the crowded living room. Matthew followed, the world narrowing to the feeling of Mo’s hand in his, the broad back cutting a path through the crowd, the irreversible forward momentum.
He barely registered Liana’s wide-eyed, knowing look from the kitchen doorway as they passed. He just held on.
They didn't speak in the elevator of Mo's block, a nondescript building near the Redhill MRT. The air was thick with the buzz of the whiskey and the heavier, more potent charge of what had just been unleashed on the balcony. Mo’s hand remained clasped around his, a hot, grounding brand. The elevator chimed. A silent walk down a beige corridor. A key in a lock. The door swung open into a dim living room, lit only by the sodium-orange glow of the city leaking through vertical blinds. It smelled of leather, camera gear, and a faint, clean spice—Mo’s soap, his skin.
The door clicked shut. The lock engaged. In the sudden, profound quiet, the dam broke.
Matthew turned and pushed Mo against the closed door. He didn’t kiss him. He grabbed the hem of the grey Henley and dragged it up, pulling it over Mo's head in one impatient, unceremonious movement. Mo didn’t resist; he raised his arms, letting the fabric go. The shirt fell to the floor.
Matthew exhaled, a sharp, reverent sound. The office darkroom had offered shadows and suggestions. This was the full, breathtaking reality. Mo’s torso was a landscape of powerful, clean lines, a solid wall of muscle layered with a lush, dark mat of hair. It spread across his broad chest, whorled around his flat brown nipples, and trailed in a thick line down the taut plane of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Matthew’s hands went to it immediately, his fingers sinking into the warm, coarse pelt.
“I’ve thought about this,” Matthew breathed, his voice ragged. “Every goddamn day since the office.” He scraped his nails through the hair, then circled a nipple, feeling it harden instantly under his touch. He leaned in and licked it, tasting salt and sweat and man. Mo’s head thumped back against the door with a solid thud, a low groan ripping from his throat.
Mo’s hands came up, not to push him away, but to reciprocate with the same urgent efficiency. He fumbled with the buttons of Matthew’s shirt, his big fingers surprisingly clumsy. A button pinged off and skittered across the wooden floor. He didn’t care. He yanked the shirt open and shoved it down Matthew’s arms. The cool air hit Matthew’s smooth chest. Mo’s gaze was a physical heat, scanning him, before he pulled Matthew against him, skin to skin.
The sensation was electric. The coarse, masculine hair on Mo’s chest scratched against Matthew’s smoothness, a delicious, possessive friction. Mo’s hands slid up Matthew’s back, pulling him flush. They kissed again, standing there in the orange gloom. This kiss was deeper, slower, more corrosive than the one on the balcony. It was a mutual dismantling. Tongues tangled. Teeth scraped. The taste of whiskey was gone, replaced by a darker, more fundamental flavor. Mo’s hands roamed over the curves of Matthew’s shoulder blades, down the dip of his spine, gripping his ass through the chinos and squeezing hard.
“Jesus, Matthew,” Mo muttered against his mouth, his breathing already labored. “This is fucking insane.”
“Yeah,” Matthew agreed, sucking on Mo’s lower lip. “Don’t stop.”
They didn’t. They staggered from the door, a tangled, four-legged creature, toward the low couch. Mo half-fell onto it, pulling Matthew on top of him. The position was perfect. Matthew straddled his thighs, their hard cocks aligning through the frustrating layers of denim and cotton. They ground together, a slow, building rhythm, kissing with a desperate hunger that felt starved. Matthew rubbed his smooth chest against Mo’s hairy one, savoring the raw, animal contrast. Mo’s hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his ass, palming his jaw—as if trying to confirm his reality.
The urgency built, a pressure cooker threatening to blow. Mo’s hips bucked up, seeking more friction. A guttural, possessive noise vibrated in his chest. He broke the kiss, his dark eyes glazed, pupils blown wide. “Bedroom,” he commanded, his voice rough with need. It wasn't a request. It was the next logical, inevitable step in a sequence they’d both been running in their heads for weeks.
Matthew stood, his legs unsteady. He offered a hand, and Mo took it, letting himself be pulled up. The short walk to the bedroom felt like a procession. It was a spartan room: a large platform bed with a rumpled grey duvet, a single closet, a pile of photography books stacked neatly on the floor. The blinds here were open, the city’s night glow providing enough light to see by.
They faced each other. No more words were needed. Their hands went to each other's belts. The metallic clinks of buckles being undone were loud in the quiet. Zippers were lowered with a harsh, rushing sound. Matthew pushed Mo’s jeans and briefs down over his hips in one motion. Mo kicked them off, his erection springing free, thick and curving upwards, the head already slick. Matthew’s breath hitched. He shucked his own pants and underwear, stepping out of the pooling fabric.
They were naked. Fully, completely. Mo looked him up and down, his gaze a physical caress that made Matthew’s skin prickle. Then Mo closed the distance. He backed Matthew toward the bed until his calves hit the mattress. A gentle push, and Matthew fell back onto the cool duvet. Mo followed, covering him, his weight a delicious, anchoring pressure. The feeling of Mo’s hairy thighs against his smoother ones, their cocks sliding together, was almost too much.
Mo kissed him again, deeply, before breaking away and moving down his body. He took Matthew’s cock into his mouth without preamble, swallowing him whole in one astonishing, wet, tight glide. Matthew cried out, his back arching off the bed. “Fuck! Mo!” But Mo wasn’t rushing. He set a deep, languid rhythm, his tongue working the sensitive underside with focused, devastating intent. His big hands held Matthew’s hips down, pinning him, owning him. Every pull of his mouth, every swirl of his tongue, was a promise and a punishment for the week of silence. Just when Matthew felt his orgasm coil dangerously tight at the base of his spine, Mo pulled off.
“Not yet,” Mo said, his own voice strained. He moved back up, kissing Matthew’s stomach, his sternum, his throat. He reached over to the bedside drawer, fumbling inside. He retrieved a bottle of lube and a condom. The tear of the foil packet was obscenely loud. He sheathed himself, his eyes locked on Matthew’s the entire time.
Matthew spread his legs. The invitation was silent, absolute. Mo settled between them. He slicked his fingers, his gaze never leaving Matthew's face. The first fingertip pressed against him, and Matthew forced himself to relax, to open. Mo was methodical, patient, working him open with one, then two fingers, stretching him with a careful, almost reverent thoroughness that belied the raw hunger in his eyes. He crooked his fingers, brushing the spot that made Matthew gasp and jerk, his cock leaking onto his own stomach.
“I’ve waited,” Mo whispered, finally removing his fingers. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently at Matthew’s entrance. “I’ve thought about this. How you’d feel. How you’d sound.” He pushed forward, a slow, relentless, breathtaking invasion. The stretch was immense, burning, perfect. Matthew’s mouth fell open in a silent cry as Mo sank deeper, filling him completely, the thick hair at the base of Mo’s cock tickling his skin.
Mo paused, fully seated, buried to the hilt. A fine tremor ran through his entire body. He braced his forearms on either side of Matthew’s head, his face inches away. Sweat beaded on his temple. “Look at me,” he demanded softly.
Matthew opened his eyes, meeting Mo’s intense, dark gaze. In them, he saw everything: the weeks of longing, the professional frustration, the wounded pride, the raw, unvarnished want that had simmered beneath it all. This wasn't Henry's chaotic fire. This was the deep, sustained heat of a forge.
Then Mo began to move. He started with long, slow, devastating withdrawals and returns. Each thrust was a deliberate, measured claiming. He didn't pound; he fucked, with a profound, focused intensity that shattered Matthew's sense of self. The world narrowed to the sound of their ragged breathing, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed. To the feeling of Mo’s heavy body moving over him, inside him, the coarse hair on his thighs rasping against Matthew’s sensitive skin.
"God, you're tight," Mo grunted, his rhythm beginning to falter, to quicken as his own control frayed. "So fucking perfect. Tell me you feel it."
"I feel it," Matthew choked out, his own hips rising to meet every thrust. The pleasure was a white-hot coil, winding tighter with every deep stroke. "Don't stop. God, Mo, don't you dare stop."
Mo’s reverence broke into pure need. His thrusts became harder, faster, more desperate. The bed rocked. He dropped his head, his forehead resting against Matthew's shoulder, his breaths hot and ragged in his ear. "Gonna come," he warned, the words a guttural groan. "You feel me? I'm gonna fill you up."
That was all it took. The filthy promise, the sheer physical mastery of Mo’s body working his, the weeks of pent-up tension—it all crested and broke. Matthew’s orgasm tore through him with a silent, searing violence, his cock pulsing between their sweat-slicked stomachs, stripes of hot release splashing against his own chest. The clenching of his body around Mo’s buried cock triggered Mo’s own climax.
Mo drove in one final, deep, brutal time and held there. A raw, broken shout was muffled against Matthew’s neck. Matthew felt the throbbing pulse of him through the condom, the full, final surrender. Mo’s entire body shuddered, his weight collapsing onto Matthew, heavy and spent and perfect. They stayed locked together, breathing in shattered unison, as the climax receded into a deep, trembling aftershock.
Mo, still buried inside him, shifted his head. His lips found Matthew’s ear. His voice was ruined, a barely audible rasp. “That wasn’t a mistake,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Matthew, his body humming, his mind utterly quiet for the first time in months, simply shook his head.No. It wasn’t.