Chapter 2: Morning After Confessional
The rain had stopped, leaving Dublin washed in a fragile, silver light. Matthew walked to the embassy, the headphones still nestled in his ears like prosthetics, the white noise a constant shield against the city’s sounds and his own thoughts. He’d slept in fitful bursts on the bare mattress, waking each time to the profound silence of his own flat, a silence that now felt accusatory. The memory of the other silence—the one punctuated by thumps and creaks—was a live wire in his chest.
He beelined for Human Resources.
Laura’s cubicle was a shrine to organized chaos. Faded laminate, a explosion of colorful sticky notes, safety posters advising against talking to strangers. A moribund fern gasped on a filing cabinet. She was sipping coffee from a chipped mug, the ghost of a peeling “MATTHEW” nametag still visible on its side.
“You look like you fought a bear,” she said, not looking up from her screen. “And lost.”
Matthew slumped into the plastic chair opposite her desk. He pulled the headphones off. The embassy hum rushed in—printers, distant phones, the low murmur of confidential conversations. “I need to request a housing transfer.”
Laura finally looked at him, her expression shifting from amusement to concern. “On day two? What’s wrong? Rats? Damp? A haunting?”
“Worse.” He lowered his voice, leaning in. “The walls are paper. I could hear… everything.”
“Everything?” She blinked, then her eyes widened with dawning, wicked comprehension. “Oh. Oh. You don’t mean…”
“I mean everything, Laura. The pre-game. The main event. The… commentary.” He ran a hand over his face, the lack of sleep gritty in his eyes. “It was like a live-stream of my own personal hell. With stereo sound.”
A beat of silence hung between them. Then Laura’s shoulders began to shake. A snort escaped her, then another. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was useless. She erupted into helpless, wheezing laughter, tears springing to her eyes.
“It’s not funny!”
“It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” she managed, gasping for air. “The universe has a vicious, impeccable sense of comic timing. You get over him by moving to another continent, and it puts him in the bedroom next door! And he’s a vigorous lover! Of course he is!”
“Laura.”
“No, no, let me savor this.” She wiped her eyes, composing herself with visible effort. “Okay. Practicalities. A transfer now would raise flags. It would require a justification. ‘Undue acoustic intimacy with a married former paramour’ isn’t on the HR form. You’re stuck.”
“I can’t be.”
“You are. Buy a white noise machine. Invest in heavy drapes. Learn to meditate.” Her grin returned, sly. “Or, you know, get a love life of your own so you have better things to listen to.”
He stared at her, mortification giving way to a bleak acknowledgment. She was right. There was no graceful exit.
“Fine,” he muttered, standing up. “I’m going to go pretend to understand Irish fisheries policy.”
“That’s the spirit!” she called after him, still chuckling.
The political section was a bright, open-plan space. Matthew’s desk was near a window overlooking a sliver of the embassy courtyard. He’d just logged into his computer when a familiar scent of cedar and coffee announced Sean’s arrival.
“The look of a man who spent his first night battling the legendary Dublin damp,” Sean said, perching on the edge of Matthew’s desk. He wore a dark green sweater that made his eyes look even greener. “It gets into your bones. Also, your wallpaper.”
“Something like that,” Matthew said, attempting a smile.
“I’ve a salve for that.” Sean produced a stainless steel travel mug and placed it on Matthew’s desk. “Proper tea. Strong enough to strip paint. Courtesy of your orientation guide.”
Matthew picked it up. It was warm. “You didn’t have to.”
“I absolutely did. You’re my project. Keeping you from drowning in despair is a point of personal pride.” Sean’s gaze was appraising, playful. “So? How’s the head?”
Matthew took a sip. The tea was strong, malty, exactly what he needed. “Cluttered. I’m trying to figure out who’s who in the zoo here. The organizational chart reads like a Russian novel.”
“Ah, forget the chart. I’ll give you the real map.” Sean leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “See the woman by the potted palm? Sheila. Sweet as pie, remembers everyone’s birthday, also files the most pedestrian expense reports known to man. The bloke by the window with the triumphant mustache? Gareth. Brilliant on EU trade, but he will lecture you for forty minutes on the proper way to store cheese. And me?” He spread his hands, a mock-humble gesture. “I’m the charming rogue who knows where all the bodies are buried and which pub actually has a functioning fireplace.”
Matthew felt a genuine laugh bubble up, the first since yesterday. “And what’s my designation on this map?”
Sean’s eyes held his, the playfulness softening into something more pointed. “You’re the intriguing new landmark. Still being surveyed.” He tapped the desk twice and stood up. “The DPC report on data privacy is on the shared drive. It’s drier than toast, but it’s your baptism. I’ll be at my fortress of solitude if you need a translator for the bureaucrat-speak.”
He winked and walked back to his own desk, a loose, effortless gait. Matthew watched him go, the wiry frame, the roll of his sleeves. The stirring he felt was undeniable, a low hum of attraction that was separate from the gut-churn of Patrick. It was curiosity, laced with a sharp, intellectual appeal. But was Sean just like this with everyone? The friendly, flirtatious Irishman? The map was indeed unclear.
He buried himself in the report, losing two hours to the mind-numbing specifics of EU regulatory frameworks. A bladder finally demanded attention. He took the long way back from the men’s room, cutting through the atrium near the RSO office, hoping the walk would clear the legal jargon from his head.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a solid, uniformed chest.
“Oh! Sorry, sir—Matthew.”
Lucas jumped back as if scalded, his posture snapping to attention even though they were just in a hallway. His blonde hair was neatly regulation, his face clean-shaven and flushed. He was holding a stack of what looked like security manuals.
“At ease, Lucas,” Matthew said, gently mocking the formality. “It’s just a hallway.”
“Right. Sorry.” Lucas’s shoulders dropped a millimeter. He shuffled the manuals. “How’s… your first couple days going?”
“Surviving. Learning the difference between a briefing note and a suicide note.”
Lucas gave a quick, nervous smile that transformed his face, making him look even younger. “It’s a lot. I remember my first week. I saluted a janitor.”
Matthew chuckled. “I believe it.”
A silence fell, but it wasn’t entirely awkward. Lucas was looking at him with that same charged, direct attention from the day before, but now it was mixed with a palpable shyness. He took a breath. “So, some of the Marines… we’re having a sort of BBQ. At the Marine House. Tomorrow night. It’s nothing fancy, just burgers. A few people from the embassy usually come.” He rushed the words out, then forced himself to slow down. “I thought… you might want to come. If you’re not busy. Sir.”
Matthew was taken aback. Marine House events were notorious for their boisterous, beer-soaked fraternity. He’d avoided them meticulously at previous posts. They were the polar opposite of his preferred quiet drinks or museum visits. An image flashed: himself leaning against a wall, a plastic cup of warm beer in hand, surrounded by shouts and competing stories of boot camp.
He opened his mouth to formulate a polite, diplomatic refusal.
But he stopped. Lucas’s blue eyes were earnest, hopeful beneath the nervousness. There was a sweetness to his demeanor, an unjaded openness that was disarming. It was so different from Sean’s practiced charm or Patrick’s complicated warmth. It was… simple. And after the night he’d had, simple held a powerful appeal.
“I…” Matthew began. “I don’t usually—”
“It would be good for you,” Lucas interjected, then immediately looked horrified at his own forwardness. “I mean, socially. To meet people outside your section. Sir.”
Matthew studied him. The kid was practically vibrating with anticipation. “Let me check my calendar,” he said, which was his default stall tactic.
“Sure. Of course.” Lucas nodded, a little deflated. He shifted the manuals again. “Well. I should…”
“Lucas.” The name stopped him. “Text me the address and time. I’ll let you know.”
The smile that broke across Lucas’s face was radiant, utterly transforming his professional guard-face into one of pure, unguarded delight. “Yes. Okay. I will. Thank you, Matthew.”
He almost clicked his heels before turning and walking away, his stride suddenly buoyant.
Matthew stood in the hallway for a moment, bemused. He walked slowly back to Laura’s cubicle and dropped into the chair again.
“I think I was just invited to a Marine House BBQ.”
Laura swiveled away from her computer, her interest sharp. “By whom?”
“Lucas. The baby Marine.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “He asked you directly? Bold. And?”
“And I told him I’d check my calendar.”
“Which is empty.”
“Which is none of your business.” He sighed, slumping. “It’s not my scene, Laura. It’ll be a testosterone festival. I’ll be the oldest, gayest wallflower in the room.”
“Exactly!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “It’s not your scene. It’s something new. It’s a distraction. And that kid clearly has a crush on you the size of Texas. Going would be a kindness. A harmless, potentially flattering kindness. You get a free burger, you do some cultural immersion with America’s finest, and you avoid sitting in your acoustic nightmare of an apartment listening to the Patrick and Mike show.” She leaned forward. “Go. Say yes. Have one beer. Be friendly. It’s not a marriage proposal, it’s a burger.”
Matthew looked out her tiny window at the grey sky. The memory of the relentless creaking echoed in his bones. The attraction to Sean was a confusing, intellectual knot. Patrick was a settled, agonizing fact next door. But Lucas… Lucas was an uncomplicated invitation. A smile in a hallway. A chance to be someone simply liked, without history or baggage.
He took out his phone. A text from an unknown number had already arrived.
> Lucas here. BBQ is tomorrow 1900 at 42 Wellington Rd. No pressure. Just if you’re free.
He typed back, his thumb hovering for only a second.
> I’m free. See you then. Thanks for the invite.
He showed the screen to Laura.
She beamed, looking supremely satisfied. “Good. Now, go buy a six-pack."
The six-pack felt alien in his hand, a cardboard handle attached to local lager he’d grabbed blindly from a chilly shelf. Standing outside 42 Wellington Road the next evening, he heard the roar before he saw the source. Bass thumped through the old red-brick terrace house, a visceral pulse underlaid by shouts and laughter. Light spilled from every window, casting long shadows on the damp street. He hesitated, the cold seeping through his jacket. This was a spectacularly bad idea.
He pushed the gate open.
The small backyard was a crush of bodies, a fog of grilled meat and cigarette smoke hanging in the cool air. Marines in civvies—polo shirts, jeans, athletic shorts despite the chill—clustered around a dented kettle grill. A few embassy faces dotted the crowd. The energy was aggressively cheerful, a wall of sound.
“Matthew! You came!”
Lucas emerged from the scrum near the back door, holding two red plastic cups. His smile was so bright it seemed to carve a path through the chaos. He was wearing a simple grey Henley that stretched across his shoulders and chest. He handed Matthew a cup. “This is for you. It’s just beer, I promise.”
“Thanks.” The beer was cheap and too cold, but Matthew took a grateful sip. “You’ve got a full house.”
“It’s always like this,” Lucas shouted over the music. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to some of the guys.”
For the next twenty minutes, Matthew was paraded through a series of brief, loud handshakes. Names vanished into the noise immediately. He nodded, smiled, drank his beer. He felt like an anthropologist observing a foreign tribe, the rituals of camaraderie both fascinating and utterly impenetrable.
Then he saw them.
Patrick and Mike were over by the fence, talking with a woman from the management section. Mike had his arm slung loosely around Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick was laughing at something, his head thrown back, the lines of his throat familiar. They looked like a magazine spread: The Happy Diplomatic Couple at Ease.
Matthew’s gut tightened. He turned abruptly, pretending to examine a sad-looking hydrangea bush.
It was no use. A moment later, he felt a presence at his elbow.
“Matt. Hey.” Patrick’s voice was warm, careful.
Matthew turned, forcing his diplomat’s smile. “Patrick. Mike. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Mike loves a good BBQ,” Patrick said. Mike just smiled, his perceptive eyes taking in Matthew’s stance, the white-knuckle grip on his cup.
“The burgers are actually decent,” Mike offered, his tone easy. “Avoid the mystery sausage. How are you settling in?”
“Fine. It’s… fine.” The small talk was agony. He could smell Patrick’s cologne, something citrus and wood, cutting through the smoke. A memory flashed: nuzzling that same scent on the pulse point of Patrick’s neck. He took another swallow of beer. “The apartment is great. Quiet.”
The lie hung there. Patrick’s eyes flickered with something—guilt, understanding.
“Good, good,” Patrick said. “Well, don’t be a stranger.”
“Right.” Matthew gave a tight nod. “Enjoy the mystery sausage.”
He moved away before they could say more, weaving through the crowd until he found a relatively quiet corner by the side gate. He finished his beer, wishing it were something stronger. He watched the party swirl, feeling completely detached. He decided he’d finish this cup, make a circuit, and leave. He’d fulfilled his social obligation.
“Hiding?”
Lucas appeared again, holding two fresh cups. He leaned against the wall beside Matthew, their shoulders almost touching.
“Just… observing,” Matthew said, accepting the new beer.
“It’s a lot. I know.” Lucas took a long drink. “Thanks for coming. Really.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the noise around them fading to a buzz. Matthew glanced at Lucas. Up close, he could see faint freckles across the bridge of his nose, a small scar through his eyebrow. He wasn’t just handsome; there was a sweetness in his features, an untouched quality.
“So, Wisconsin, right?” Matthew asked, recalling the dossier Laura had mentally provided.
“Yep. Door County. Cherries and cows and frozen lakes.” Lucas smiled, but it was smaller, more personal. “My dad’s a mechanic. My mom teaches fourth grade. They think me being over here is the most exotic thing that’s ever happened to anyone.”
Matthew asked about boot camp, about the shock of first posting. Lucas talked, his words initially measured, then loosening. He spoke about the relentless structure, the weird loneliness of constant companionship, the fear of fucking up. He wasn’t reciting a Marine brochure; he was being honest.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m playing a part,” Lucas confessed, staring into his cup. “The confident guard. But inside I’m just… figuring it out.”
The beer flowed. Matthew shared snippets of Mexico City, the surreal beauty of Amsterdam’s canals at dawn. Lucas listened intently, his body angled toward Matthew, creating a pocket of privacy in the crowded yard.
“Can I ask you something?” Lucas’s voice had dropped, the music masking it from anyone else.
“Sure.”
Lucas took a steadying breath. “I’m… figuring myself out, too. With guys, I mean. I’m bisexual.” He said it quickly, like pulling off a bandage. “I’ve only ever been with one guy, back home, and it was… confusing. We never talked about it. After, he joined the army and didn’t answer my texts.”
Matthew just nodded, giving him space.
“I don’t know the rules here,” Lucas continued, his words gaining momentum, fueled by alcohol and isolation. “In the Corps, with security clearances… it’s a minefield. But seeing you that first day? It was like a punch. You’re so… composed. And handsome. I invited you tonight because I wanted to talk to you. Just talk. Maybe more. I didn’t really have a plan past that.”
The confession hung between them, raw and startling. Matthew was stunned by the vulnerability, the directness. This wasn’t Sean’s flirtatious game or Patrick’s complicated history. This was a naked truth, offered with trembling hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew saw a figure by the back door. Patrick. He was leaning against the frame, a bottle in his hand, his gaze fixed across the yard. Fixed on them. Watching. Not with anger, but with a focused, unreadable intensity. The same way he used to watch Matthew from across a crowded room at embassy functions years ago, a secret signal they’d meet in ten minutes.
A reckless heat shot through Matthew’s veins, burning away the inertia and the politeness. The memory of the sounds through the wall fused with Patrick’s watchful eyes. A bolt of pure, defiant boldness seized him.
He turned fully to Lucas, blocking Patrick’s view. “Show me your room.”
Lucas blinked. “What?”
“Your bedroom. In this madhouse. Show it to me.”
Understanding dawned, followed by surprise, then a slow, dawning excitement. Lucas set his cup down on the wall. “Okay. Yeah. It’s upstairs.”
The stairs were narrow and dim, the thumping bass vibrating through the banister. Lucas’s room was the first door at the top—small, neat, dominated by a single bed with a dark blue blanket. A desk held a laptop and a framed photo of an older couple, his parents. The door clicked shut, muting the party to a dull roar.
Matthew didn’t hesitate. He pushed Lucas back against the door and kissed him.
It was not gentle. It was all the pent-up confusion, the jealousy, the loneliness of the past week channeled into a single, claiming action. Lucas made a muffled sound of shock that melted into a groan, his hands coming up to grip Matthew’s hips. He kissed back with an eager, untutored hunger that was incredibly hot.
They stumbled toward the bed, falling onto it in a tangle of limbs. Lucas was solid, muscle yielding under Matthew’s weight. Matthew kissed his jaw, his throat, feeling the frantic pulse under his lips. Lucas’s hands slid under Matthew’s shirt, palms hot and slightly rough against his back.
For several minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the creak of the bedsprings. Matthew lost himself in the physicality of it, the taste of beer and salt, the feel of Lucas’s athletic body arching beneath him. He ran his hands over the hard planes of Lucas’s torso, the cotton of his Henley dampening with sweat.
Lucas fisted his own shirt, starting to pull it over his head.
Matthew caught his wrists. “Stop.”
Lucas froze, his eyes clouded with confusion and desire. “What’s wrong?”
“This is crazy,” Matthew breathed, his voice ragged. “This house is packed. People could walk in. This is…”
He pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair. The logical part of his brain, the diplomat, reengaged with a jolt. This was a security guard’s bedroom in a Marine House. The risk was astronomical.
Lucas sat up, his hair mussed, his lips swollen. He looked devastated.
“My place,” Matthew said, the idea forming as he spoke it. “It’s quiet. The walls are… thick.”
A slow, mischievous grin spread across Lucas’s face, erasing the hurt. It was a grin of adventure, of conspiracy. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “That is a great idea.”