Chapter 7: Beer and Brutal Honesty
The fluorescent hum of the Googleplex felt permanently etched into Matthew’s skull. Four days of navigating Ian Nakamura like a live minefield had left him strung tight, every nerve ending raw. The carefully constructed "friendship" facade felt like wet paper, dissolving under the weight of every awkward hallway nod, every Slack message stripped of its usual warmth. He needed escape. Oblivion, preferably. Something loud and warm and completely unlike the cool, controlled chaos of work.
Jake Ryan’s apartment building buzzed him in without question. The climb to the third floor was steep, the worn carpet smelling faintly of old cooking and weed. Matthew shifted the cold six-pack of Lagunitas under his arm, the condensation slick against his jacket. Behind Jake’s door, bass thumped – not the generic pop of Halloween, but something deeper, grittier. Grunge, maybe.
He knocked, the sound swallowed by the music. The door swung open, revealing Jake. No costume tonight, just faded black jeans hanging low on his hips and a worn band tee stretched tight across his dense chest. His dark hair was messy, eyes slightly bloodshot but alert, a joint smoldering between his fingers. The scent of good weed and something spicy – chili? – washed over Matthew, instantly warmer, more human, than the office air.
"Walker," Jake greeted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Matthew’s bones. A slow grin spread across his face as he took in the beer. "Bringing offerings to the temple of forgetting, huh? Come on in." He stepped aside, the music swelling – Nirvana, Matthew identified belatedly. "Unplugged," somehow fitting the raw edge in the air.
The apartment was cozier than Matthew remembered, bathed in the soft, multicolored glow of fairy lights strung haphazardly around the main room. A few people lounged on mismatched furniture, nursing beers, their conversation lazy and punctuated by laughter. The scent of simmering chili mingled with weed and the faint, ever-present aroma of coffee grounds. It felt lived-in, unpretentious. Safe, in a way the Googleplex no longer did.
"Party's kinda winding down," Jake said, leading Matthew towards the small kitchenette, nodding at the lingering guests. "Mostly stragglers." He grabbed two beers from the six-pack Matthew offered, popping the tops with a practiced flick of his thumb against the edge of the counter. He handed one to Matthew. Their fingers brushed. Jake’s were warm, calloused. Different.
Matthew took a long pull. The beer was cold, hoppy, bracing. He leaned against the counter, trying to mirror Jake’s easy slouch, failing miserably. He felt stiff, brittle.
"Rough day at the space station?" Jake asked, his eyes scanning Matthew’s face with unnerving focus. He took a drag from the joint, holding the smoke, then exhaled a slow, fragrant plume. "You look like you wrestled a server rack and lost. Or..." His grin turned sharper, more knowing. "Still mooning over Prince Charming Nakamura?"
Matthew flinched, the casual barb hitting its mark with brutal accuracy. The careful compartmentalization he’d maintained cracked. The rooftop conversation, Ian’s haggard face, the crushing weight of pretending "friends" was enough – it all surged up, hot and acidic in his throat. He stared into his beer bottle, the golden liquid suddenly blurring.
"Jesus, kid," Jake murmured, his teasing tone evaporating. He stubbed out the joint in a chipped saucer on the counter. "That bad?"
The simple question, devoid of judgment, was the final straw. The story tumbled out in jagged fragments, his voice low, thick with exhaustion and shame. The Halloween kiss in the guest room, the dizzying high of Ian’s whispered confession. The coffee shop meeting, the devastating proposition – the secret affair. His refusal. The tense avoidance at work. The rooftop apology and the hollow lie about being "just friends."
"...and now I have to see him every damn day," Matthew finished, his knuckles white around the beer bottle. "Pretend like my chest isn't caving in. Pretend I didn't spend years wanting him, only for him to offer me scraps like I’m… like I’m nothing. Like Jake the barista who’s good for a fuck but not for anything real." The bitterness tasted like ash.
Jake listened, silent, his expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer platitudes. He just absorbed it, his dark eyes fixed on Matthew’s face, occasionally taking a slow sip of his beer. When Matthew finally ran out of words, the silence stretched, filled only by Cobain’s raw vocals and the murmur from the other room.
Jake pushed off the counter. He moved closer, invading Matthew’s personal space with an easy confidence that was purely Jake. The scent of weed and clean sweat enveloped Matthew. Jake reached out, not to touch him, but to gently pry the near-crushed beer bottle from his trembling hand, setting it aside on the counter. His touch was surprisingly careful.
"Okay," Jake said, his voice low and steady, cutting through Matthew’s spiraling thoughts. "First off? Fuck him." The casual brutality of it startled a wet, choked sound from Matthew, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Seriously, Matt. That ‘secret affair’ bullshit? That’s coward shit. Grade-A, top-shelf cowardice. Dude’s got a whole life, a girlfriend, and he tries to stash you in the closet like a shameful pair of shoes? Nah." Jake shook his head, his gaze intense. "You were right to shut that down. Respect."
Matthew blinked, stunned. He’d expected more teasing, maybe crude advice, not this blunt affirmation. "I… I just feel like an idiot," he confessed, the words scraping out. "For believing him. For wanting it."
"Wanting ain't stupid," Jake countered, his voice losing its edge, softening slightly. He leaned a hip against the counter beside Matthew, their shoulders almost touching. The heat radiating from him was a tangible contrast to the chill inside Matthew. "He's… shiny, right? Got that whole put-together, golden boy vibe. Makes you feel special when he looks your way. I get the appeal." He took another sip of beer. "But that shine? It’s cheap plating over a fuckload of confusion and zero guts. He doesn’t know what he wants, and he’s willing to let you bleed while he figures it out. That ain't shiny. That’s just… messy."
Hearing Jake, of all people, articulate the painful truth so clearly was strangely cathartic. It stripped away the romantic haze, leaving the raw, ugly mechanics of Ian’s indecision exposed. "Messy is… accurate," Matthew managed, swiping a hand across his eyes.
"Damn right," Jake grunted. He was quiet for a moment, studying Matthew’s profile. The fairy lights reflected in his dark eyes. "This ‘friends’ thing you agreed to? On the roof?" He raised an eyebrow. "You can’t do it, can you?"
Matthew met his gaze, the honesty in it disarming. "No," he whispered. "Every time I see him… it feels like dying a little. Pretending."
"Then stop pretending." Jake’s voice was firm, pragmatic. "Tell him that. Tell him the ‘friends’ ship sailed when he tried to make you his side piece. Tell him you need space. Real space. Not this… avoidance ballet you’re doing. Get reassigned if you have to. File a fucking HR complaint about a hostile work environment caused by his unwanted advances if he won’t back off." A ghost of his old smirk appeared. "Though knowing you, you’d rather chew glass."
The suggestion was shocking, almost violent in its directness. An HR complaint? Against Ian? The thought was unthinkable, yet… the sheer practicality of it, the agency it implied, cut through his helplessness. "I… couldn’t," Matthew breathed.
"Didn’t say you had to," Jake shrugged. "Just saying you got options besides slowly poisoning yourself. Protect your peace, Walker. Dude forfeited the right to your energy the minute he offered you crumbs." He finished his beer, the bottle clinking loudly on the counter. "You’re worth more than being someone’s existential crisis project."
The words landed with unexpected weight. Coming from Jake, the king of no-strings, the person who openly mocked sentiment, this fierce, protective pragmatism felt like a lifeline thrown into dark water. Matthew stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time that night – not just the convenient hookup, the tattooed barista, but someone observant, unexpectedly insightful, and fiercely loyal in his own rough way. The fairy lights haloed his messy hair, softening the sharp lines of his jaw.
"Thanks, Jake," Matthew said, the words thick but sincere. "I… didn’t expect that."
Jake just gave a dismissive grunt, but a faint flush crept up his neck. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "Yeah, well. Don’t let it get around. Ruin my carefully cultivated asshole image." He glanced towards the living room, where the last of the stragglers seemed to be gathering their things. "Party’s officially dead." He looked back at Matthew, his gaze lingering. The air between them shifted, charged with the intimacy of the shared confidence, the dim light, the sudden quiet settling over the apartment as the music ended. "Wanna stay?" Jake asked, his voice dropping lower, rougher. It wasn't just an invitation. It was an offer of distraction, of warmth, of physical oblivion. A familiar escape route.
Matthew looked at him – at the steady, uncomplicated heat in his eyes, so different from Ian’s tortured confusion. The ghost of Ian’s touch from the Halloween party flickered, cold and distant, against the immediate, grounding reality of Jake’s presence. His body ached with exhaustion and longing, a confusing tangle of hurt and need.
He hesitated, the echo of Jake’s words – You’re worth more – warring with the desperate craving for simple, uncomplicated touch. The quiet of the apartment pressed in, expectant. The fairy lights twinkled, casting shifting patterns on Jake’s face, waiting.
The quiet hum of the fridge filled the sudden void left by the music and the departing guests. Jake’s question hung between them, warm and heavy, far more significant than any Grindr message. Matthew studied the shifting light on Jake’s stubbled jaw, the surprisingly soft curve of his mouth, so different from Ian’s sculpted perfection. His chest felt tight, a tangled knot of heartache and a startling, growing warmth. He needed something real, something simple, something that didn’t demand dissection.
"Yeah," Matthew breathed, the word escaping like a sigh of surrender. "I want to stay." He pushed off the counter, closing the small distance.
Jake didn’t move, just watched him approach, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. It wasn’t his usual hungry smirk. This was different. Softer. More open. Matthew reached out, his fingertips brushing the worn cotton of Jake’s t-shirt, tracing the solid line of his collarbone beneath. The touch sparked a low current, familiar yet charged with a new, unfamiliar potential.
Jake caught Matthew’s wrist, not restraining, just holding. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of Matthew’s inner wrist, a gesture startlingly gentle. "Okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble Matthew felt in his own bones. "Okay, Walker." He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving Matthew time to pull away. He didn’t. Their lips met, not with the frantic urgency of their usual encounters, but with a slow, searching pressure. It was tentative, almost questioning, a discovery instead of a collision.
The kiss deepened gradually, a slow unfurling. Matthew’s hands slid under Jake’s shirt, mapping the hard planes of his back, the ridges of muscle defined by years of hauling coffee sacks and lifting weights. He felt the familiar landscape of tattoos under his palms – the intricate sleeve, the Japanese koi he knew snaked across Jake’s ribs. But touching them now felt completely new. Jake’s hands, usually demanding, traced slow circles on Matthew’s waist, his touch deliberate, almost reverent.
They moved towards the bedroom, shedding clothes with none of the usual frantic energy. Each button undone, each layer peeled away, felt like a deliberate unveiling. The fairy lights from the main room cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, painting their skin in shifting patterns of gold and blue. The air was cool, but their bodies radiated heat, creating a pocket of warmth between them.
Jake guided Matthew down onto the bed, the sheets cool against his back. He covered him, not crushing him, but settling his weight with a careful awareness. Every touch was measured, intense. His lips traced the line of Matthew’s jaw, the hollow of his throat, the curve of his shoulder. His calloused fingers, usually rough, moved with unexpected delicacy, learning the contours of Matthew’s ribs, the dip of his spine, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.
The slowness was agonizing, exquisite. It stripped away Matthew’s frantic thoughts, the constant loop of Ian’s face, the sting of rejection. There was only this: the rasp of Jake’s breath against his skin, the solid warmth of his body, the intense focus in his dark eyes whenever he looked down at Matthew. It wasn’t about oblivion anymore. It was about connection, startlingly deep and undeniable. Matthew arched into every touch, whispering Jake’s name, a sound caught between surprise and surrender. He felt cherished, seen in a way that transcended the purely physical.
The intensity built slowly, a rising tide rather than a crashing wave. When release finally came, it wasn’t explosive, but profound, a deep, shuddering warmth that flooded Matthew’s limbs and settled in his bones, leaving him utterly spent, utterly grounded. He gasped, clinging to Jake as the tremors subsided, burying his face in the warm, damp hollow of Jake’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat, weed, and something uniquely Jake.
Jake held him tightly, his own breathing ragged, his arms locked around Matthew like anchors. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Matthew’s temple, his exhale a warm puff against his hairline. They stayed fused together, tangled in the sheets, the only sounds their gradually slowing breaths and the distant city hum filtering through the window.
Slowly, Jake shifted, rolling onto his back but keeping one arm firmly around Matthew, pulling him close against his side. Matthew rested his head on Jake’s solid chest, ear pressed to the strong, steady thump of his heart. Jake’s fingers idly traced patterns on Matthew’s bare shoulder, his touch light, soothing.
The frantic energy of Matthew’s day, the sharp edges of his heartache, had dissolved. A deep, quiet calm settled over him, thick and warm as honey. He listened to the rhythmic drumbeat beneath his ear, felt the rise and fall of Jake’s chest against his cheek. This wasn't the usual fleeting post-hookup awkwardness or the immediate roll-away. This felt… necessary. Anchoring.
He stared at the shifting patterns the fairy lights cast on the ceiling, fragmented colors dancing in the near-darkness. Jake’s words from the kitchen echoed: You’re worth more than being someone’s existential crisis project. The fierce protectiveness, the blunt wisdom cutting through his fog of self-doubt – it hadn’t just been advice. It was a revelation about the man holding him. Matthew traced the edge of a tattoo visible on Jake’s bicep, feeling the raised ink under his fingertip.
Had he been seeing Jake all wrong? Was this gruff, tattooed barista, with his surprisingly tender hands and fierce, pragmatic loyalty, the real thing he’d been overlooking while chasing Ian’s shimmering, complicated mirage? The question hung in the warm, shared silence, profound and unsettling. He sank deeper into Jake’s embrace, soaking in the solid, steady presence, the uncomplicated warmth, the quiet certainty of his breathing. The city lights bled orange through the blinds, painting stripes across their legs tangled under the thin sheet. Jake’s thumb continued its slow, absent stroke on Matthew’s shoulder, a silent anchor in the quiet room.