Chapter 5: Distraction
The damp San Francisco fog clung to Matthew’s skin like a shroud as he stood outside Jake’s apartment building. The Lower Haight felt miles away, yet the phantom pressure of Ian’s hands on his face, the scorching memory of that kiss, vibrated under his skin like a live wire. He hadn’t planned on coming here. His feet, apparently disconnected from his reeling brain, had carried him across the city, guided by muscle memory and a desperate, animal need to be anywhere but alone with the echo of Ian’s groan in his ears. The taste of rum and desperation still lingered on his tongue, clashing violently with the sharp scent of wet asphalt.
He buzzed Jake’s apartment. No costume. Just his rumpled grey hoodie, the stiff fake blood streak cracking on his cheek, and eyes wide with a hunted look. Music pulsed faintly from inside, bass vibrating the worn brick facade. Halloween wasn't over everywhere.
The intercom crackled. "Yeah?" Jake’s voice, slightly distorted, filtered through the speaker.
"Jake? It’s Matt." His voice sounded raspy, alien.
A beat of silence, then the buzzer blared, unlocking the heavy front door. Matthew pushed it open, the warmth and noise hitting him like a wall after the damp chill outside. He climbed the narrow stairs, the thumping bass growing louder, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses. The door to Jake’s apartment stood ajar, spilling warm light into the dim hallway.
He pushed it open. Jake’s place was a cozy chaos of exposed brick, mismatched furniture draped with throws, and hundreds of tiny fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, casting a warm, intimate glow despite the crowd. People in half-discarded costumes – a flapper missing her headband, a zombie with smudged makeup, someone in a fuzzy animal onesie – milled about, holding plastic cups. The air was thick with the sweet, spicy scent of pumpkin ale, cigarette smoke (probably weed, knowing Jake’s crowd), and the greasy aroma of late-night pizza.
Jake himself was leaning against the doorway to his cramped kitchen, nursing a beer. He’d gone as… well, Jake. Fitted black t-shirt showcasing his tattooed forearms, dark jeans, maybe a bit more product in his messy dark hair. His eyebrows shot up as he took in Matthew’s disheveled state, the fake blood, the shell-shocked expression. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.
"Walker," he drawled, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. He didn’t offer a hug, just stood there, assessing him with those sharp, dark eyes that missed nothing. The smirk didn't quite reach them. "Rough night? Thought you were slumming it at the fancy Google shindig." He took a swig of his beer, his gaze dropping pointedly to the smear of fake blood, then back to Matthew’s haunted eyes. "Need a distraction?" The question hung in the air, loaded with implication. It wasn’t gentle concern; it was a throw of the dice, a familiar offer in their unspoken arrangement.
Matthew flinched internally. Distraction. That’s why he’d come, wasn’t it? To bury the seismic shift, the terrifying intimacy of Ian’s mouth on his, under something simpler. Something meaningless. The thought felt like ash. He looked past Jake’s shoulder, at the laughing faces, the careless ease. He didn’t belong here, not tonight. But where else did he have? His own apartment echoed with silence and the phantom scent of cedarwood and rum.
He met Jake’s gaze, the challenge implicit in the raised eyebrow. Matthew’s throat felt tight, raw. He couldn’t speak. He just gave a single, jerky nod, stepping fully into the apartment’s noisy warmth, shutting the door on the foggy street behind him. The party sounds pressed in, a cacophony that couldn't quite drown out the roaring in his own head.
Jake watched him for another moment, the smirk softening into something more calculating, perhaps even faintly concerned beneath the surface bravado. He gestured towards the crowded living room with his beer bottle. "Grab a drink. Try not to look like you’re waiting for an execution. Unless that’s the costume?" He chuckled, a low rumble.
Matthew forced himself to move, weaving through bodies, the laughter and chatter feeling distant, muffled, like he was underwater. He snagged a lukewarm beer from a cooler near the window, the condensation slick on his palm. He found a sliver of space on a worn armchair, sinking into it, trying to make himself small, invisible. He took a long pull from the bottle. It tasted flat.
He saw flashes of Ian everywhere. The dark hair of a guy laughing too loudly by the stereo. The line of a jaw turning away near the kitchen. The press of bodies felt suffocating, too close, too reminiscent of being pinned against the Victorian wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image burned brighter: Ian’s intense, focused gaze in the lamplit guest room, the rough heat of his hands, the devastating vulnerability in his eyes when Matthew shoved him off. Years, maybe. The words echoed, a fresh wave of nausea rising. What had he done? What had he almost done?
A warm body dropped onto the armrest beside him. Jake. He’d shed his beer bottle. His scent – coffee grounds, cigarette smoke, cheap body spray – cut through the party smells. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur near Matthew’s ear, barely audible over the music. "Okay, spill. You look like you saw a ghost. Or pissed off a particularly vengeful one." His gaze was direct now, lacking the earlier teasing. "Who hurt you?"
The blunt question, the unexpected directness in Jake’s usually sardonic tone, punched through Matthew’s numbness. Who hurt you? It wasn’t hurt, not exactly. It was cataclysm. It was desire met and violently rejected, leaving everything shattered. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he explain? My boss, the guy I’ve been stupidly in love with for years, who lives with his girlfriend, drunkenly kissed me like it was oxygen, and I kissed him back like I was dying, and then I shoved him onto the floor and ran. Oh, and he said he’s wanted me for years. Happy Halloween.
He looked away, focusing on a loose thread on the armchair. "It's nothing," he rasped, taking another swig of the awful beer. "Just... bad party. Weird vibes." The lie tasted worse than the beer.
Jake snorted softly. He didn’t push. He knew the rules of their arrangement. Deep probing wasn't on the menu. He shifted, his thigh pressing lightly against Matthew’s arm. A grounding pressure, or just proximity? "Bad vibes, huh?" he mused, watching the crowd. His hand came up, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed the stiff, cracking fake blood on Matthew’s cheekbone. "This feels like more than bad vibes, Walker. You're vibrating." His thumb traced the edge of the fake wound, the touch lingering a fraction too long. "You need a different kind of distraction."
Matthew froze. Jake’s touch was familiar territory, but tonight it felt alien. It didn’t spark the usual low thrum of uncomplicated want. It felt like an intrusion on skin still humming with the memory of Ian’s mouth. He pulled his head back slightly, a tiny flinch Jake didn’t miss.
Jake’s hand dropped. His expression didn’t change, but something hardened in his eyes. A flicker of annoyance? Understanding? "Right," he said, his voice regaining its usual careless edge. "Well, the offer stands. My room’s quieter. Less… vibes." He pushed himself off the armrest, looking down at Matthew. "Or you can keep brooding on my armchair. Your call." He walked back towards the kitchen, leaving Matthew alone in the crowded chaos.
Quieter. The word echoed. Quieter meant facing the roaring silence inside his own head. Quieter meant the relentless replay of the kiss, the hurt in Ian’s eyes. Quieter meant the terrifying abyss of Monday morning. The noise, the people, the cheap beer – they weren’t working. The distraction was failing.
He watched Jake lean against the kitchen counter, lighting a cigarette, talking animatedly with the guy in the fuzzy onesie. Effortless. Uncomplicated. Matthew closed his eyes again, but all he saw was the lamplit room, the quilt, Ian’s face. Years, maybe.
The beer bottle was empty. He set it down on the floor with a dull thud. He stood up. The room swayed slightly – adrenaline crash, cheap booze. He made his way towards the kitchen, towards Jake. Jake watched him approach, a plume of smoke curling from his lips, his expression unreadable.
"Okay," Matthew said, the word barely a breath. "Okay. Quieter sounds good."
Jake took a long drag, exhaling slowly. He stubbed the cigarette out in a chipped mug on the counter. Didn't smile. Just nodded once, a curt dip of his chin. He turned and walked towards the short hallway leading to his bedroom. Matthew followed, the noise of the party fading behind them, replaced by the frantic pounding of his own heart and the relentless, taunting echo of the word tearing through his mind: coward.
Jake’s bedroom was a smaller pocket of chaos – clothes piled on a chair, band posters tacked haphazardly to the walls, more fairy lights strung around the window frame. The scent of weed and laundry detergent hung thicker here. Jake kicked the door shut behind them, muffling the party sounds to a dull throb. He turned, leaning back against the door, arms crossed, watching Matthew.
The forced nonchalance from earlier was gone. His gaze was sharp, appraising. "You sure about this, Walker?" The question was flat, devoid of its usual teasing lilt. "You look like you’re about to bolt."
Matthew stood in the middle of the small room, feeling exposed, ridiculous. The fake blood itched. The memory of Ian’s hands burned. He needed the noise in his head to stop. He needed to feel something, anything, besides the crushing weight of his own panic and regret. He needed not to think about Monday.
He didn’t answer Jake’s question. Instead, he stepped forward, closing the distance. He reached up, his hands clumsy, and pulled Jake’s face down to his. The kiss was abrupt, desperate, fueled by a frantic need to obliterate thought. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t exploring. It was a collision.
Jake stiffened momentarily in surprise, then responded. His arms uncrossed, one hand sliding around Matthew’s waist, pulling him closer with practiced ease, the other tangling in his hair. His kiss was familiar – demanding, confident, a direct counterpoint to the chaotic vulnerability of Ian’s. He tasted of smoke and cheap beer, a stark contrast to the spiced rum burned into Matthew’s senses.
Matthew leaned into it, pushing harder, trying to lose himself in the physicality, the known quantity of Jake’s body against his, the press of his mouth. He fumbled with the hem of Jake’s t-shirt, fingers seeking skin, seeking proof he was here, now, not back in that lamplit room filled with devastating possibility and betrayal.
But his body betrayed him. Where Ian’s touch had ignited a wildfire, Jake’s felt… transactional. Efficient. The scrape of Jake’s stubble was rough, not thrillingly unfamiliar. The grip on his hip was possessive, not desperate. The scent of smoke and body spray couldn’t mask the phantom aroma of cedarwood that seemed to cling to his hoodie, to his own skin.
He kissed Jake back with grim determination, trying to force the connection, trying to spark the old, easy chemistry. But his mind was a traitorous cinema. Instead of the present moment, he saw Ian’s stunned, hurt eyes looking up from the rug. He heard the ragged sound of his own breath as he’d fled. He felt the ghost pressure on his lips, the searing heat of Ian’s mouth claiming his.
A wave of self-loathing washed over him, colder than the San Francisco fog. He was using Jake. Trying to erase Ian with Jake’s body. And Jake, perceptive beneath the careless exterior, would know it. Matthew broke the kiss, pulling back sharply, gasping for air that felt suddenly thin. He couldn’t meet Jake’s eyes, staring instead at the band poster behind him – blurred colors, angry faces.
Jake didn’t move. His hand stayed on Matthew’s hip, but the pressure was different. Lighter. Assessing. He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound their ragged breathing and the muffled bass from the living room.
"So," Jake said finally, his voice low, completely devoid of its usual lazy confidence. It was flat. Tired. "That's what this is." He didn't sound angry. He sounded… unsurprised. Disappointed, maybe. "Someone got under your skin tonight. Someone who isn't me." He paused, his gaze heavy on the top of Matthew's bowed head. "And you thought fucking me would scrape them off."
Matthew flinched. The raw accuracy of it was a physical blow. He squeezed his eyes shut. Silence stretched, thick with the unsaid.
Jake sighed, a soft, weary sound. His hand lifted from Matthew’s hip. He stepped back, putting a foot of space between them, leaning against the door again. "Go home, Matt," he said, not unkindly, but with a finality that slammed shut any possibility of continuing. "Go home and figure out who the hell you kissed tonight that’s got you running scared into my bed." He turned, opening the bedroom door. The noise of the party surged back in, a wave of careless celebration. "And don't come back until you know what you actually want."
He didn’t look back as he walked out, leaving Matthew alone in the small, suddenly stifling room, the fairy lights casting mocking, cheerful patterns on the walls. The scent of smoke and Jake’s body spray hung in the air, but all Matthew could smell was the phantom cedarwood. All he could taste was rum and regret. He stood frozen, Jake’s words echoing louder than the distant music: Go home and figure out who the hell you kissed tonight. He already knew. That was the terrifying, impossible truth. He knew, and the knowing felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the inevitable fall. Monday loomed, an executioner's dawn.
The heavy door of Jake’s building clicked shut behind Matthew, sealing him into the damp, fog-chilled silence of the San Francisco street. The cheerful chaos of the party, Jake’s flat dismissal, the lingering shame – it all pressed down, heavier than the marine layer clinging to the Victorians. He walked, not really seeing the costumed stragglers or the glowing pumpkin eyes in windows, the taste of Jake’s smoke and Ian’s rum a nauseating cocktail on his tongue. Go home and figure it out. As if the answer wasn’t a branding iron on his heart: Ian Nakamura. He flagged down a cab, the heater blasting stale air onto his face, the city lights smearing past the window like tears.
His apartment greeted him with a profound, accusing silence. He shed the hoodie, the stiff smear of fake blood catching on the fabric. He tossed it towards the laundry basket, missing. It landed face-up, the crimson gash staring at the ceiling. Coward. The word, Jake’s or his own, echoed in the quiet. He showered mechanically, the water scalding, trying to wash away the phantom feel of Ian’s hands, Jake’s assessing gaze, the crushing weight of his own indecision. But the images burned brighter: Ian’s drunken intensity, the raw vulnerability as he hit the rug, the sheer, terrifying hunger in his eyes. Years, maybe. Matthew scrubbed his lips until they stung.
Sleep was a taunting mirage. He lay rigid in the dark, the city’s distant hum a monotonous backdrop to the internal cacophony. Every creak of the building became a footstep outside his door. The rumpled sheets felt suffocating, trapping the heat of remembered touches. He replayed the shove, the flight, the desperate, failed collision with Jake. He saw Allison’s trusting smile, imagined it dissolving. Guilt, a cold serpent, coiled in his gut. Dawn crept in, grey and unwelcome, painting long shadows across his floor when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. 6:17 AM. Ian’s name glared on the screen. Matthew’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic prisoner.
The text was simple, brutal: Need to talk. Coffee? Mission Creek Cafe. 8am?
His thumbs hovered, leaden. No, screamed every instinct of self-preservation. Run. But the part of him that had yearned for Ian Nakamura for three years, the part still humming from that single, world-shattering kiss, won out. His reply was a single, traitorous word: Ok.
Mission Creek Cafe buzzed with the mundane energy of Sunday morning. The air hung thick with the scent of burnt coffee beans and toasted bagels, punctuated by the sharp hiss of the espresso machine and the clatter of cups. Matthew spotted Ian immediately, hunched over a small table near the back, nursing a large black coffee. He looked like Matthew felt: wrecked. Shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his usually impeccable stubble was thicker, unruly, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the mug. The effortless charisma was gone, replaced by a palpable tension that vibrated off him. Matthew’s own stomach churned as he slid into the opposite chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly on the tile floor.
"Ian."
"Matthew." Ian’s voice was gravelly, stripped raw. He didn’t meet his eyes, staring instead into the dark depths of his coffee. A long, taut silence stretched between them, filled only by the cafe’s cheerful dissonance. A barista called out an order. Someone laughed too loudly. Ian finally looked up. The intensity Matthew had seen last night was still there, but stripped of alcohol, it was terrifyingly clear. Desperate. "About last night," he began, then stopped, swallowing hard. "I… I meant every word, Matt. Every single thing I said." He leaned forward, his voice dropping, straining with conviction. "That I’ve wanted you. That it wasn't just the booze."
Matthew’s breath hitched. The raw sincerity hit him like a physical blow, cracking open the fragile dam he’d tried to build. He couldn’t lie. Not to that face, not with the truth clawing its way up his own throat. "I know," he whispered, the admission tearing free. "I meant it too. I… I have for a long time." The words hung in the air, fragile and dangerous. Relief, profound and terrifying, washed over Ian’s features, his shoulders slumping slightly. A hesitant, almost disbelieving hope flickered in his exhausted eyes.
It vanished just as quickly. Ian leaned closer still, his next words a low, urgent rush, meant only for Matthew’s ears. "So… we could figure this out. See where this goes. Just… quietly." He searched Matthew’s face, pleading. "No one needs to know yet. Not Allison. Not work. Just… us. Exploring this. Seeing if it’s… real."
The cold serpent in Matthew’s gut tightened, constricting his chest. Quietly. No one needs to know. The words landed like shards of ice. The fantasy – Ian, finally his – collided violently with the stark reality: Allison’s laugh, her hand on Ian’s arm at the party, her trusting eyes. The messy, painful truth of betrayal. The image of sneaking around, stealing moments, became instantly repulsive. Morally bankrupt. Matthew recoiled, physically pushing his chair back an inch, the scrape echoing his internal revulsion. "An affair?" The word tasted like ash. "You want me to be your secret? While you go home to Allison?" His voice, low and tight, vibrated with a fury that surprised even him. "Hurting her like that? Lying? That’s your solution?" He saw the flinch in Ian’s eyes, the dawning realization that he’d misjudged the situation catastrophically.
"I can’t," Matthew stated, the words final, absolute. The brief, fragile connection evaporated. "I won’t be that. Not for you. Not for anyone." He stood up abruptly, the chair legs shrieking against the floor, drawing a few glances. His own coffee sat untouched, cold. The hurt and confusion on Ian’s face was a physical pain, mirrored in Matthew’s own chest, a raw, tearing sensation. "I need… I need space, Ian. Distance. To not get completely destroyed by this." He couldn’t look at him anymore. The shattered hope, the dawning devastation, it was too much. "Don’t contact me. Not unless it’s strictly work."
He turned and walked away, weaving through the crowded tables, the aroma of coffee suddenly nauseating. The weight of Ian’s stunned, wounded gaze followed him to the door. He pushed out into the cool morning air, the city noise rushing in, but it sounded distant, muffled. Confusion warred with the sharp ache of rejection and the bitter tang of righteousness. He’d done the hard thing. The right thing. So why did it feel like his chest had been ripped open, leaving only a howling void where certainty and hope had briefly, treacherously flared? The fog, thicker now, swallowed him as he walked, directionless, into the uncertain grey.