Chapter 1: First Day Shock
The atrium of the U.S. Embassy was a monument to calm efficiency, all cold, reflective glass and the soft echo of professional footsteps on polished stone. Matthew adjusted the strap of his leather briefcase on his shoulder, his eyes scanning the space. The grand seal loomed, a silent sovereign. The marble fountain beneath it was dry, a few forgotten euro cents gleaming at the bottom. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and, underneath it, the ever-present damp salt of Dublin, seeping in even here.
He took a steadying breath. A new posting was always a reset, a chance to be someone slightly new. Dublin promised rain, quiet pubs, and a political section that, by all accounts, was competently managed. It promised a clean slate.
“Matty?”
The voice, unchanged and instantly familiar, cut through the ambient hum like a shard of glass. It was a nickname he hadn’t heard in five years, spoken in a tone that belonged to a different lifetime.
He turned.
Patrick stood ten feet away, a stack of files tucked under one arm. Dark curls, a little greyer at the temples. The same warm smile, now etched with happy lines that hadn’t been there before. He looked settled. He looked like he belonged here, in this gleaming hallway, in a way Matthew suddenly felt he never could.
“Patrick.” Matthew’s own voice sounded strangely flat to his ears. “Wow.”
“I heard a Matthew C. was incoming to Pol,” Patrick said, closing the distance with easy strides. No hesitation. “I didn’t let myself believe it was you. But here you are.”
Here he was. They hadn’t seen each other since a rushed, agonizing goodbye at Dulles, all promises and panic. Five years of silence, broken by the occasional diplomatic gossip chain or, more painfully, Instagram updates. Patrick in front of the Lincoln Memorial with a handsome, smiling man. Patrick wearing a ring. Patrick looking utterly, infuriatingly content.
“Here I am,” Matthew echoed, forcing a wry smile. “Small world service.”
“It really is.” Patrick’s gaze was direct, searching. “You look great, Matt.”
“You too.” And he did. The athletic build was still there, the open affability. He looked like a man who slept soundly. Matthew felt a confusing lurch in his stomach—a messy cocktail of old attraction, fresh resentment, and pure, unadulterated shock. “I take it you’re… stationed here?”
“Economic section, going on two years now.” Patrick shifted the files. “Mike’s with me, of course. He’s loves it here. Opens his laptop in coffee shops, tells people to engage their glutes. It works for him.”
Mike. The husband. The name was a necessary anchor, a splash of cold water. Matthew grasped for it. “That’s great. Really. I’m happy for you both.”
“Thanks.” Patrick’s smile softened, and for a second, the easy warmth felt genuine, not polite. The silence stretched a beat too long, filled with everything they couldn’t say. “Look, we should—"
“Matthew C.? Welcome to the madhouse.”
The new voice was pure Dublin, a melodic baritone that cut the tension like a knife. A man leaned against the doorframe of a side office, tall and wiry with a riot of dark hair and a spray of freckles across his nose. He wore a slightly rumpled oxford shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms dusted with dark hair.
“I’m Sean. Your new minder, officially a Political Specialist. They said to look for the handsome American looking vaguely lost.” He pushed off the frame and extended a hand, his eyes—a lively, intelligent green—crinkling at the corners. “That’s you, I presume.”
Matthew shook his hand, grateful for the interruption. “Vaguely lost is my permanent state. Matthew. Good to meet you.”
“The feeling is mutual. We’re desperate for the help.” Sean’s handshake was firm, his gaze flicking between Matthew and Patrick with undisguised curiosity. “Pat. You two know each other?”
“Old friends from orientation,” Patrick said smoothly, the diplomatic answer. “Seven years back.”
“Is that right?” Sean’s smile turned speculative. “Well, isn’t that a lovely twist. Welcome to the club, Matthew. First order of business is acquiring a proper security badge from that terrifying fortress they call the RSO office. I’ll walk you.”
“I should let you get to it,” Patrick said, taking a subtle step back. “It’s really good to see you, Matt. We’ll… we’ll catch up properly soon. Laura’s around, too. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Laura’s here?” Another jolt. Their old triad, reassembling on foreign soil.
“HR. She runs the place.” Patrick gave a final, easy wave and turned, his stride confident as he disappeared down a corridor.
Sean let out a low whistle as they walked. “Orientation, huh? That’s a lifetime in this business. He’s a good lad, Patrick. His husband’s a riot. You’ll meet him at the next terrible embassy barbecue, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Matthew murmured, his mind reeling.
The RSO office was a bunker of bulletproof glass and stern faces. As Sean chatted amiably with the uniformed guard behind the desk, Matthew’s attention was pulled to a young Marine checking equipment near the door. Blonde, clean-cut, with the unmistakable gym-built physique that strained against his dress blues. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. As Matthew watched, the Marine looked up, his blue eyes meeting Matthew’s directly. There was a flicker there—a quick, assessing glance that lingered a second too long before snapping back to professional neutrality. It wasn’t the casual look of one colleague to another. It held a charge.
Matthew looked away first, a strange heat on his neck.
“That’s Lucas,” Sean said sotto voce, following his gaze. “New guard. First overseas post. Eager as a puppy. Quite fit, isn’t he?”
Before Matthew could formulate a non-committal response, Sean was already steering him away, badge in hand, talking about the best pub for a lunchtime pint.
The whirlwind of the day left little room for processing. Sean was a relentless guide—charming, effortlessly funny, and deeply knowledgeable about the intricate dance of Irish politics. He was also, Matthew noted, a relentless flirt, his compliments and teasing barbs landing with a practiced, breezy precision that kept Matthew perpetually off-balance. Was this just how Sean was? Was it an Irish thing? Or was it… something else?
By five o’clock, the emotional whiplash was taking its toll. He was unpacking a box of books in his modest new office when a familiar head of blonde hair poked around the doorframe.
“Sir? Mr. I was told to deliver this to you.” It was Lucas, the Marine, holding a sealed diplomatic pouch. His stance was rigidly correct, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the pouch.
“Matthew is fine. Please.” He took the pouch, their fingers brushing. Lucas’s hand was warm. “Thank you, Lucas.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” A slight pause. “Matthew.” A faint, almost imperceptible blush crept up the young man’s neck before he executed a sharp, formal nod and retreated.
Matthew stood holding the pouch, utterly bewildered. The direct, charged look from the morning hadn’t been his imagination.
“So. Day one. How’s the head?” Laura stood in his doorway, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her face. She hadn’t changed a bit—same shrewd eyes, same practical bob.
“Spinning,” he admitted, gesturing her in. “I saw Patrick.”
“I heard.” She closed the door softly and sat. “He’s genuinely happy to see you, Matt. He’s just… happy in general. It’s disgusting, really.”
“And Mike?”
“A gem. Kind, smart, utterly devoted. The kind of person who remembers your favorite type of sparkling water. It’s annoying how perfect it all is.”
Matthew sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. “I saw his Instagram. It looked perfect. Seeing it in person is… different.”
“And?” Laura prompted.
“And I met Sean. From the political section.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Sean O’Connell? He’s a legend. And trouble. Delightful, brilliant trouble.”
“He’s something.” Matthew hesitated. “And one of the Marine guards, Lucas… he…”
“Brought you a pouch and nearly short-circuited?” Laura finished, a grin spreading. “Yeah, he’s got a little crush. Poor kid’s figuring a lot of things out. You, my dear, have walked into a beautifully complicated ecosystem.”
Matthew let out a shaky laugh, the tension of the day finally cracking. “What am I supposed to do? Patrick is here. He’s married. He’s happy. And I’m… I’m apparently a magnet for confusing attention from Irish co-workers and baby Marines.”
“You survive,” Laura said, her voice gentle but firm. “You do your job. You go to the pub with Sean. You’re politely, professionally warm to Patrick and Mike. You don’t lead the Marine on. You live your life.”
“For three years?”
“For three years.” She leaned forward. “It’s a posting, Matt. Not a prison sentence. You’ve done harder things.”
He looked out his window at the grey Dublin sky, already darkening in the late afternoon. The clean slate was gone, smudged with the indelible ink of the past and the bewildering pencil sketches of new possibilities. He felt the old, guarded walls inside him, walls built over five quiet years, tremble at their foundations.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “I suppose I have.”
The rain had started, a fine, persistent mist that beaded on the wool of his coat as he fumbled with the keys to his new apartment building. The taxi ride from the embassy had been a blur of wet asphalt and glowing shop windows. He’d chosen the place for its location—a quiet, Georgian-style building in Ballsbridge, close enough to walk to work on dry days. The brass number 4 was polished to a soft gleam.
Inside, the hallway was hushed, smelling of beeswax and old wood. His flat was on the first floor. He hauled his suitcase up the single flight of stairs, his shoulders aching with the accumulated tension of the day. All he wanted was a shower, a glass of whiskey, and the profound silence of unfamiliar walls.
He was fitting the key into the lock of flat 1B when the door next to his, 1A, swung open.
A man stepped out, holding a blue recycling bin. He was Asian-American, probably mid-thirties, dressed in expensive-looking athleisure wear that showed off a frankly ridiculous physique. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, muscles defined even in the soft hallway light. He had a kind, open face, sharp intelligent eyes, and a smile that appeared instantly.
“Oh, hey. You must be the new neighbor. The embassy guy, right?” His voice was warm, Californian. He set the bin down and extended a hand. “I’m Mike. My husband Patrick works at the embassy too.”
The world narrowed to the space between their two doorways. The hum of the old refrigerator in his new flat seemed to grow deafening. This wasn’t happening. This was a specific, cruel joke.
Matthew’s hand moved on autopilot, meeting Mike’s firm grip. “Matthew. Yes. Just arrived. Today, actually.”
“No kidding? What a small world.” Mike’s smile was genuinely friendly, devoid of any calculation or hidden knowledge. It was worse that way. “Patrick mentioned a Matthew was starting in Pol, but we had no idea they’d put you right next door. The housing bureau works in mysterious ways.”
“Mysterious,” Matthew echoed, his voice thin. He was face-to-face with the living, breathing embodiment of Patrick’s moving on. And the man was… perfect. He radiated a relaxed, happy-kindness that felt alien and utterly disarming.
“Well, welcome to the building. It’s great. Thin walls, but great.” Mike laughed, a easy sound. “Seriously, it’s quiet. You need anything—wifi recommendations, where to find decent tacos in this town, a spare egg—just knock. Patrick’s always getting lost in some policy paper, so I’m the building’s social committee.”
Before Matthew could formulate a coherent response—a polite dismissal, an excuse to flee into his flat—the main door downstairs opened and closed. Footsteps, familiar in their rhythm, came up the stairs.
Patrick appeared at the landing, shrugging off a damp coat. He saw them, and his expression shifted through a rapid series of emotions: surprise, mild alarm, and then a forced, pleasant neutrality. “Hey. You two have met.”
“Just now,” Mike said, slipping an arm around Patrick’s waist with natural ease. He kissed Patrick’s temple. “See? I told you the new neighbor would be cool. It’s Matthew, from your orientation.”
“Yeah.” Patrick’s eyes found Matthew’s, holding a silent, frantic apology. “Small world keeps getting smaller.”
“Apparently,” Matthew said, finding a shred of his diplomatic composure. It felt like wearing a costume. “Mike was just giving me the neighborhood intel.”
“He’s the expert,” Patrick said, leaning into Mike’s side. The simple domesticity of the gesture was a physical blow. “He’s conquered Dublin in a way I never will.”
“Nonsense. You conquered the visa waiver program,” Mike teased, giving him a squeeze. He looked back at Matthew. “You know, we should have you over. A proper welcome. I’ll cook. Nothing fancy, but I make a mean mapo tofu that’ll make you question all your life choices.”
“That’s a great idea,” Patrick said, the words a little too quick. “Maybe next week? Once you’ve found your feet?”
The invitation hung in the damp hallway air. Refusing would be pointed, strange. Accepting felt like volunteering for a unique form of torture. Matthew felt the weight of the future—three years of this, of shared hallways and casual invites and watching the life he’d once dreamed of playing out through potentially thin walls.
“That sounds… really nice,” he heard himself say. “Thank you.”
“Excellent!” Mike beamed. “We’ll pin down a night. I’m telling you, you’re gonna love it here.”
A moment of awkward silence followed, filled only by the distant sound of a television behind another door.
“Right,” Matthew said, jangling his keys. “I should probably start unpacking. Good to meet you, Mike. Patrick.”
“Absolutely. Sleep well,” Mike said.
Patrick just gave a small, tight nod. “See you tomorrow, Matt.”
Matthew finally got his door open and pushed inside, closing it softly but firmly behind him. He didn’t turn on the light. He stood in the dim, empty space, boxes silhouetted against the tall windows. The echo of their voices seemed to linger in the empty room.
He walked past the unpacked boxes, past the suitcase spewing clothes onto the floor, and fell face-first onto the bare mattress of his new bed. The cool cotton pressed against his skin. He didn’t move.
The storm of his past wasn’t just a memory anymore. It had a key. It was recycling its bins next door. It was making dinner plans. It was pounding at his door with a charming smile and a husband who remembered to buy spare eggs. And he was locked inside with it, for the foreseeable future, with absolutely no idea what to do when morning came.
And he was locked inside with it, for the foreseeable future, with absolutely no idea what to do when morning came.
He lay there for a long time, the damp wool of his coat still clinging to his back. The silence of the flat was a physical presence, heavy and accusatory. He closed his eyes, and immediately, stupidly, he was transported.
Not to Dublin, but to a sterile conference room in Arlington, seven years ago. The first day of diplomatic orientation. The buzz of two hundred overachievers, the smell of bad coffee. He’d been scanning the room, a practiced detachment in place, when his gaze snagged on a man laughing by the window. Dark curls, an ease in his posture that seemed to bend the rigid room around him. Patrick. Their eyes met, and Patrick’s smile had widened, just for him. A current passed through the stuffy air, undeniable and terrifying. They’d talked during the first break. It wasn’t flirting. It was a recognition.
The memory shifted, rewound, played a clearer film. The class offsite, a “team-building” retreat in the Virginia woods. A forced hike. He and Patrick had deliberately lagged behind, the sound of their classmates fading into a symphony of rustling leaves and birdsong. They’d stopped at a crooked overlook. Patrick was talking about his family’s farm in Ohio, his hands moving, and Matthew just watched his mouth. The pause that settled wasn’t awkward. It was thick, charged. Patrick had stopped talking. He’d looked at Matthew, really looked, and then stepped close. The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was a claiming. Patrick’s mouth was warm, insistent, his stubble scratching in the most perfect way. The world—the career, the future, the rules—narrowed to the press of lips, the taste of mint and coffee, the solid feel of Patrick’s shoulder under his grasping hand.
That same night, after cheap wine and forced camaraderie in the lodge, they’d slipped away. A fumbled key card, a hotel room door clicking shut behind them. Then, a different kind of silence, breathless and hot.
Hands were everywhere. Clumsy, desperate. Patrick had backed him against the door, kissing him until Matthew saw stars. They’d staggered toward the bed, shedding clothes. Matthew remembered the feeling, electric and raw, when he finally pulled Patrick’s polo shirt over his head. The expanse of skin revealed was pale in the cheap lamplight, covered in a lush, crisp mat of dark chest hair. He’d dug his fingers into it, a possessive, animal thrill shooting straight to his groin. It was coarse and soft at the same time. He’d lowered his face, inhaling the scent of sweat and cheap soap, dragging his tongue through that hair to find a nipple.
“Fuck, Matthew,” Patrick had groaned, arching into his mouth.
They’d fallen onto the bed. There was no grace, just hunger. Patrick was a powerful, eager weight. They’d rutted against each other like teenagers, jeans around their thighs, until Patrick had rolled them over, panting, “I need to be inside you. Now. Please.”
There had been a frantic search for a condom, a slick fumbling of fingers. Patrick had pushed in, and the burn was exquisite, a brilliant, white-hot stretch that made Matthew cry out, his legs locking around Patrick’s hairy waist. It was fast and hard and deep, the bed slamming against the wall with a rhythmic, shuddering bang. Patrick had fucked him with a focused intensity, his face buried in Matthew’s neck, his hips pistoning. Matthew had come untouched, the orgasm ripped from him, a shocking, messy eruption between their stomachs. Patrick followed seconds later with a choked, shuddering gasp, collapsing onto him, that sweat-slicked, hairy chest heaving against Matthew’s own.
The memories came faster, a cascade. Steamy nights in Patrick’s Columbia Heights apartment after class, their relationship an open secret among their peers. Laura winking at them over textbooks. The feel of Patrick’s body, familiar and intoxicating, sleeping beside him as a late-summer storm rattled the windows.
Then, Flag Day. The auditorium. The unbearable tension as assignments were called. “Patrick Donnelly… Beijing.” A roar of applause. His own stomach dropping. “Matthew Wright… New Delhi.” The distance yawned between them, vast and geopolitical, even as they stood close. They’d promised, drunk on fear and cheap champagne later that night. Promised to make it work. They’d clutched each other in Patrick’s bed, fucking with a new, desperate sorrow, as if they could seal the promise with sweat and come.
And they’d tried. Amazing, stolen trips. Patrick’s hair damp from a Bali rain shower, his skin tasting of salt and sunscreen. The riot of Bangkok’s streets, Patrick’s hand tight in his. A perfect weekend in Paris, Patrick feeding him a strawberry in a Montmartre café, the future still seeming possible. Then, COVID. The world shut down. The borders sealed. A year of missed flights, frozen screens, conversations that grew thinner, filled with the unsaid. The silence where passion lived became just… silence. The distance didn’t just strain the relationship; it dismantled it, brick by digital brick, until one day, a call ended without a plan for the next one. A mutual, quiet surrender.
He’d watched Patrick move on from afar. On Instagram. Patrick and Mike at a farmer’s market. Patrick and Mike hiking. Patrick and Mike, married. He’d told himself he was fine. He’d had flings. A handsome attaché in Mexico City whose name he forgot. A curator in Amsterdam who loved art more than people. Empty vessels. None of them had chest hair he wanted to map with his tongue. None of them laughed with their whole body. He had, he realized now, lying in this dark Dublin flat, simply archived Patrick. Put him in a mental box labeled “Past,” but never discarded him. The box was here, opened, its contents spilling all over his new life.
A low, muffled thump from the other side of the wall.
Then a laugh. Patrick’s laugh. Not the diplomatic one from the hallway. The real one, breathy and unguarded.
Matthew’s eyes flew open. He was back on the mattress, the past dissolving into the cold, present dark.
Another thump. Bed frames hitting walls. He knew that sound.
A deep, rhythmic creaking started. It was unmistakable. It was the same sound his bed had made against the Virginia hotel wall.
Then, Mike’s voice, too low to decipher words, but the tone was a rumble of affection and want. A sharp, soft gasp from Patrick. A whispered “Yeah… there.”
A dagger, sharp and white-hot, twisted in Matthew’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut again, but now it was a different movie. Vivid, brutal imaginings painted in the dark. Patrick, pinned beneath Mike’s ripped physique. Patrick’s legs wrapped around Mike’s waist. Mike’s mouth on that chest hair, on his neck. Patrick’s cries, the ones Matthew used to elicit, now given freely to someone else. The creaking grew more urgent, a relentless, brutal metronome marking time he was forced to witness.
He couldn’t breathe. The air was glue.
He scrambled off the mattress, hands over his ears, but it was futile. The sounds were in the bones of the building. He stumbled to his suitcase, digging past crumpled shirts until his fingers closed around his noise-canceling headphones. He fumbled with the charging case, his hands shaking violently.
He jammed the buds into his ears, sealing them tight. He activated the noise cancellation, a sudden, artificial silence roaring in his head. He cranked the volume on his phone, pulling up a white noise app, selecting “Heavy Rain.”
But it was a lie. He could still feel it. The ghost of the vibration in the floorboards. The memory of the sound now etched into his skull. He slid down the wall next to his unpacked boxes, drawing his knees to his chest, the relentless digital rain pouring into his brain.
He sat there in the manufactured storm, a cold certainty dawning. The headphones were a flimsy barrier. A temporary fix for a permanent condition. This was his life now. The love of his life, his greatest regret, was a happy, fucking, married man on the other side of a wall that might as well have been made of paper.
Three years.
The word echoed in the hollow space beneath the white noise, a death sentence.
He wasn’t sure he could take three days.