Chapter 13: The Long Journey Home
The shower in his own room felt like an act of treason. Matthew stood under the punishing spray, scrubbing at his skin as if he could remove the scent of Oliver, the memory of his mouth, the feeling of being claimed. It was useless. His body hummed with the ghost of every touch. When he emerged, the room was sterile and silent, a sarcophagus for the person he’d been forty-eight hours ago.
Packing was a mechanical process. He folded the shirt he’d worn to dinner, a faint trace of Oliver’s cologne still clinging to the collar. He zipped his suitcase closed. It sounded final.
The taxi to the airport was a capsule of quiet. They sat in the back, shoulders touching, hands resting on the seat between them. The Strip receded in the rearview mirror, a garish dream dissolving in the harsh morning light.
“Think anyone noticed we vanished?” Matthew asked, staring out at the bleached landscape.
Oliver’s knee pressed against his. “Don’t care.”
On the plane, they had a row to themselves. The moment the seatbelt sign dinged off, Oliver’s hand found his, their fingers lacing together with a quiet certainty that made Matthew’s breath catch. He rested his head on Oliver’s shoulder, inhaling the clean cotton of his shirt, and pretended to sleep. Oliver’s thumb stroked the back of his hand, a slow, rhythmic pulse that said everything the silence couldn’t.
The San Francisco fog was a physical shock, a cold, damp slap after the desert oven. It seeped into the bones, a return to reality.
“Let me drive you,” Oliver said at the curb, his voice low. His Uber was idling nearby.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
The ride into the city was a study in tense quiet. The radio played softly, some indie folk nonsense about heartache. Oliver drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding Matthew’s, their joined hands resting on the center console. The contact was a live wire. Matthew watched the familiar streets scroll by—the vibrant chaos of the Mission, the chic monotony of Hayes Valley—and felt like a stranger in his own life.
When Oliver pulled up outside Matthew’s apartment building in the Lower Haight, the car’s engine ticked as it cooled. The silence expanded, thick and suffocating.
“So,” Oliver said. He didn’t let go of Matthew’s hand.
“So.”
Oliver turned to him. His eyes were dark, serious. The playful glint from Vegas was gone, replaced by something raw and uncertain. “This isn’t where it ends, Matt. It can’t be.”
Before Matthew could answer, Oliver leaned across the console and kissed him. It was not a gentle goodbye kiss. It was desperate, hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue that tasted of fear and want. Matthew grabbed the front of Oliver’s jacket, pulling him closer, the gear shift digging into his ribs. He didn’t care. The kiss was a vow, a protest against the world outside the car.
“Come up,” Matthew panted against his mouth, the words tumbling out before his brain could catch up. He didn’t think about Dominic, about the mess, about the catastrophic implications of bringing Oliver here, into the heart of his mundane life. “Just for a bit. Please.”
Oliver searched his face, then nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. “Okay.”
The apartment was dark and smelled of turpentine and last night’s stir-fry. A single light was on in the kitchen. Dominic’s latest canvas—a chaotic swirl of red and black—leaned against the far wall. Empty wine bottles stood sentinel on the coffee table.
“Dom?” Matthew called out, his voice tight.
No answer. A relief so acute it felt like nausea washed over him.
Oliver stood just inside the door, taking in the chaotic living room, the evidence of Matthew’s actual life. His gaze lingered on a framed photo on the bookshelf—Matthew and Conrad, smiling at a beach picnic, taken just three weeks ago. Matthew watched him see it, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
Matthew watched him see it, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He crossed the room in two quick strides, took Oliver’s hand, and led him down the short hall. His bedroom door closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing them in from the ghost of Conrad in the frame.
“Hey,” Oliver whispered, his back against the door.
Matthew didn’t answer with words. He pushed Oliver’s leather jacket off his shoulders, letting it slump to the floor. His fingers found the hem of Oliver’s soft henley and pulled it up. Oliver lifted his arms, compliant, his breath hitching as the fabric cleared his head.
And there it was. Matthew’s favorite landscape. The dense, dark hair that spread across Oliver’s pecs, trailing down the rigid plane of his stomach in a perfect line. He placed his palms flat on the warm skin, feeling the strong beat of Oliver’s heart. He bent his head and inhaled, his nose and mouth buried in the coarse hair, taking in the clean sweat and airport musk.
“Fuck, you love this, don’t you?” Oliver murmured, his hands coming up to cradle Matthew’s head.
“Yeah,” Matthew breathed against him. He dragged his tongue over a nipple, feeling it peak instantly, then kissed a slow, worshipful path down the trembling abdomen. He nipped at the hip bone above Oliver’s belt, his fingers fumbling with the button.
“My turn,” Oliver growled, his voice thick. He spun them, pressing Matthew against the door. He made quick, efficient work of Matthew’s clothes—shirt unbuttoned and shoved back, jeans and briefs pushed down in one rough motion. The air was cool on Matthew’s exposed skin. “Bed. Now.”
They stumbled toward it, a tangle of wanting limbs, and fell onto the rumpled comforter. Matthew lay back, watching as Oliver stood to finish undressing. He shoved his own jeans and briefs down, his cock springing free, already thick and flushed. Matthew reached for him.
“No condom,” Oliver said, not as a question. It was a statement, low and graveled with intent.
Matthew’s heart hammered against his ribs. “No condom,” he confirmed, the permission sounding like a vow in the quiet room.
Oliver found the lube in Matthew’s nightstand, the familiar click echoing. He coated his fingers, his eyes locked on Matthew’s as he pushed one inside, then two, working him open with a focused, burning stretch. It was faster than before, urgent, the glide made slick and easy by their shower-freshness and sheer need.
“Ready?” Oliver asked, sheathing himself in lube, his hand trembling slightly.
“Do it. Fuck me raw.”
Oliver positioned himself, the broad, slick head of his cock pressing against Matthew’s entrance. He pushed in with one relentless, deep stroke, burying himself completely, and Matthew screamed into the crook of his own arm, the fullness utterly devastating. There was no barrier, just the hot, maddening slide of skin on skin, a dizzying intimacy that felt like truth.
“Oh god, you’re so fucking tight,” Oliver groaned, dropping his forehead to Matthew’s. He began to move, setting a deep, grinding rhythm that punched the air from Matthew’s lungs. Each thrust was a claim, a brutal punctuation. “You feel that? All of me. Fuck. Just for me.”
Matthew could only wrap his legs around Oliver’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in deeper. The slap of their bodies was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Oliver’s thrusts grew ragged, his control fraying. “Gonna come inside you,” he panted, a filthy promise. “Mark you. Mine.”
The words tore the climax from Matthew. He came between them with a shattered cry, his release striping his stomach and Oliver’s in hot pulses. The clenching of his body pushed Oliver over the edge. With a guttural shout, Oliver drove in one last time, shuddering as he emptied himself deep into Matthew’s body, his hips jerking through the aftershocks.
He collapsed, careful to keep his weight on his forearms. They lay like that, joined, breathing in ragged sync. Slowly, Oliver softened and slipped out. Matthew winced at the feeling of release, the physical evidence of what they’d done already cooling on his skin.
Oliver rolled onto his back and pulled Matthew against him. Matthew rested his head on the familiar, hair-covered chest, listening to the frantic gallop of Oliver’s heart slowly decelerate. Oliver’s hand traced idle patterns on his bare shoulder.
“Toby will be wondering where I am,” Oliver said softly, the words landing like stones in the peaceful dark.
Matthew’s gaze drifted to the nightstand. His phone screen lit up, casting a blue glow. Another text notification appeared. Conrad: Welcome back. Missed you. Dinner tomorrow? The cold knot in his stomach returned, tighter now.
They both stirred at the same time, the spell broken by the twin specters of their other lives. Matthew sat up, reaching for his briefs. Oliver swung his legs off the bed, searching for his jeans.
The front door of the apartment banged open. Dominic’s loud, off-key whistling filled the hallway. “Matty?” he called, his voice echoing. “You’re back! Your keys are here, you degenerate.”
They froze, looking at each other with wide eyes. Matthew pulled his jeans up, his fingers clumsy on the button. Oliver yanked his henley over his head, his torso vanishing.
“You will not believe the shit that went down at the gallery,” Dominic chirped, his footsteps coming closer. “I have so much gossip. Open up, I need to vent.”
“Dom, wait a minute!” Matthew called, his voice strangled.
The knob turned. The door swung open.
Dominic stood in the doorway, his animated smile freezing, then collapsing. His eyes darted from Matthew, shirtless and flushed, to Oliver, hurriedly pulling his jeans up over his bare hips. The silence was absolute, a vacuum sucking all sound from the world.
“Holy shit,” Dominic breathed, the words flat with disbelief.
Matthew opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Oliver just stared at the floor, his face a mask of profound embarrassment.
“Uh,” Oliver managed. He grabbed his leather jacket from the floor, not looking at either of them. “I should… go.” He sidled past a stunned Dominic, giving a small, helpless wave. “Bye, Matt.”
The front door opened and closed. A car alarm chirped faintly outside.
In the bedroom, Dominic and Matthew stared at one another. Dominic’s expression cycled from shock to dawning comprehension to a sharp, judgmental anger. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe.
“So,” Dominic said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Vegas was eventful.”
Dominic didn’t move from the doorway. His eyes scanned the room—the discarded clothes, the rumpled sheets, the palpable heat still lingering in the air like a confession. He sniffed once, a sharp, disgusted sound. “It smells like bad decisions and ball sweat in here.”
Matthew finally found his voice, but it was a weak, defensive thing. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really?” Dominic pushed off the doorframe and stepped fully into the room, his arms still tightly crossed. “Because I think I just saw Oliver Jackson, a man with a live-in boyfriend, pulling his pants up in your bedroom. I think I can see the hickey on your neck from here. So enlighten me, Matty. What is it, exactly?”
The dam broke. The words tumbled out of Matthew in a feverish, disorganized rush. He told Dominic about the adjoining doors, the skipped workshop, the day on the Strip feeling like a real couple. He described the dinners, the holding hands, the raw, condomless sex that felt more like bonding than fucking. His voice climbed, pleading for understanding.
“He’s going to end it with Toby,” Matthew insisted, his hands gripping his own knees. “He said it was already over. He said he’s head over heels for me. We’re going to tell them. We have a plan.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout. Dominic’s face had lost all its usual animated mischief. He looked older, tired, and profoundly disappointed.
“A plan,” Dominic repeated flatly. He ran a hand over his mouth. “Matthew. Listen to yourself. Oliver and Toby share a mortgage. They have a dog, for fuck’s sake. They go to couple’s BBQs in Noe Valley. That’s not a boyfriend, that’s a life.”
“He said it was a facade,” Matthew shot back, but the conviction was already bleeding from his words.
“And you believed him?” Dominic’s laugh was a short, harsh bark. “Of course he did. He needed the script to get laid, and you handed him the perfect fucking lines. You made it so easy for him. A convenient, adoring side piece at a conference. No strings, no mess back home. Until you brought the mess home.”
“You’re wrong,” Matthew whispered, staring at a paint stain on his floor. “What we had… it was real.”
“Was it?” Dominic knelt in front of him, forcing eye contact. His voice dropped, becoming deadly calm. “Or was it just you finally getting the guy you’ve been mooning over at work for two years? You’re not in love with Oliver. You’re in love with the idea of him finally choosing you. You’re an idiot for throwing Conrad away for this fantasy.”
The name landed like a physical blow. Conrad. Matthew’s gaze flickered involuntarily to his phone, still glowing on the nightstand. Another text notification illuminated the screen, casting a faint blue light on the rumpled sheets where he and Oliver had been entwined minutes before.
Dominic saw the look. “Check it,” he said, not unkindly.
Matthew’s hand trembled as he picked up the phone. He unlocked it. The screen was a barrage of gentle, eager messages from Conrad, sent over the last two days.
Conrad: Hope the conference is fruitful. Saw a recipe I want to try with you.
Conrad: Thinking of you. The city feels quieter.
Conrad: Welcome back. Missed you. Dinner tomorrow?
Conrad: Just picked up that wine you liked from that shop in Sonoma. For whenever I see you.
Each message was a stitch pulling tight in his chest. They were simple, specific, and brimming with a quiet, assured devotion. They spoke of a future, of shared tastes, of being missed in a fundamental way. He thought of Conrad’s steady hands, his direct blue-gray eyes that never flinched from hard conversations, the safe harbor of his apartment.
He contrasted it with Oliver’s frantic, possessive touch, the secretive, stolen moments, the grand, explosive promises made in the dark. Oliver’s parting words echoed: Toby will be wondering where I am. He had left to go back to that shared mortgage, that dog, that life.
A cold, clarity washed over him, so violent it felt like vertigo. Dominic’s words weren’t an attack; they were a diagnosis.
“Oh, god,” Matthew breathed. The phone slipped from his fingers onto the comforter. He looked at his best friend, his eyes wide with a horrified, dawning understanding. The intoxicating high of Vegas crashed, leaving only the brutal hangover of reality in his own messy bedroom. The phantom feel of Oliver inside him now felt like a violation. A mistake etched into his very cells.
He had torpedoed something real and gentle for a spectacular fantasy. The weight of it, the sheer, stupid, catastrophic loss, pressed down on him, crushing the air from his lungs. The question wasn’t if he had been used. The question was if he had been a willing accomplice in his own destruction, and if the man he’d truly wronged would ever look at him with anything but hurt in his kind, traveler’s eyes again.