Chapter 7: A New Spark
The week passed in a haze of damp Dublin grey and stifling bureaucratic minutiae. Matthew moved through his days like a ghost, signing off on trade reports, attending meetings where the words washed over him without meaning. The memory of the alley was a brand on his psyche. He could still feel the grit of the brick against his forehead, the shocking cold on his thighs, the brutal, claiming force of Dmitri’s body. The shame was a constant companion, but it was tangled with a thrilling, dark thread of arousal that he could not excise.
Lucas was mercifully absent. Rumor had it he’d been placed on a discreet administrative leave for the pub incident. The thought of his face—raw and pleading—made Matthew’s stomach clench. He’d sent one text: I am so sorry, Lucas. It was unfair and entirely my fault. No reply came, and Matthew knew none was deserved.
He saw Patrick once in the embassy atrium. They exchanged a tight, professional nod from thirty feet apart, a canyon of ruined history between them. Mike was not with him. Matthew wondered if Patrick had told him about their fight, and if so, how he’d framed it.
By Friday, the pressure in his skull had built to a steady thrum. The idea of another night alone in his flat, listening for the click of a phantom door, was untenable.
“You look like you’ve been wrestling with the ghost of de Valera,” Sean declared, leaning in the doorway of Matthew’s office at five o’clock sharp. He was already wearing his coat, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. “Pub. Now. Mandatory cultural immersion. Laura’s already securing a table.”
Matthew didn’t have the energy to refuse. “Will there be whiskey?”
“There’ll be a river of it, my friend. A healing amber river.”
The pub was the one they frequented, all dark wood, mirrored glass, and the low, warm hum of conversation under a ceiling stained caramel by a century of smoke. Laura had commandeered a corner booth, a pint of Guinness and a notebook already before her. She gave Matthew a sharp, assessing look as he slid in beside her.
“The walking wounded arrives,” she said, not unkindly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Matt. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” She nudged his shoulder. “Drink up. Sean’s buying the first round.”
Sean returned from the bar with a tray holding three whiskeys and a pint for himself. “To forgetting the week that was,” he announced, clinking glasses with them.
The first whiskey went down like liquid fire, smoothing the rough edges inside Matthew’s chest. The second one began to blur the sharpest memories. Sean, as always, was a masterful distraction. He regaled them with stories of a particularly absurd meeting with the Department of Agriculture, doing spot-on impressions of a flustered civil servant.
“And he says, ‘But if the sheep are electronically tagged, can the hackers not give them false identities?’ I’m not joking. The man was genuinely concerned about cyber-sheep.”
Matthew laughed, a real one that felt strange on his face. He watched Sean’s animated hands, the way his freckles seemed to dance under the pub lights when he smiled. There was an ease to him, a lack of complication that felt like a life raft.
“You’re in rare form tonight, O’Connell,” Matthew said, sipping his third whiskey.
“Ah, it’s the company. Improves my wit considerably.” Sean held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, his smile softening at the edges.
Laura cleared her throat. “Right, I see my cue. I’ve a date with a hot shower and a Nordic noir box set.” She stood, gathering her coat. She leaned close to Matthew as she passed. “He’s a good one,” she whispered, barely audible. “And he’s been making cow eyes at you for weeks.”
Then she was gone, weaving through the crowd.
Sean shifted around the curved booth to take her seat, his knee brushing against Matthew’s under the small table. The contact was electric.
“She’s a terrible meddler,” Sean said, his voice lower.
“The worst.”
“I don’t mind it, though.” Sean sipped his pint, watching Matthew over the rim. “She’s not entirely wrong.”
The noise of the pub seemed to recede, narrowing to this dim corner, the heat of Sean’s leg against his. Matthew’s usual defenses were waterlogged by whiskey and exhaustion. He felt the attraction, simple and unadorned, without the dark hooks of history or the chilling intensity of a warzone escape.
“About which part?” Matthew asked.
“The part where I find you endlessly interesting, Matthew Wright.” Sean said his name with a gentle lilt. “And the part where you look like you could use someone to be uncomplicatedly, straightforwardly into you.”
It was disarming. After Dmitri’s layered codes and Patrick’s loaded history, Sean’s directness was a shock of clean, cold air.
“That sounds…” Matthew trailed off, searching for the word.
“Normal?” Sean supplied. “A bit boring, maybe?”
“No. Not boring. Real.”
Sean’s smile returned, warmer now. “I can do real. It’s a specialty of mine.” He finished his pint. “This place is getting loud. Fancy a walk? Clear the head before the proper brain-freeze sets in?”
They left the warmth of the pub, spilling out onto the cobbled street. The night was cool and misty, the city lights smearing into halos on the damp pavement. They walked without a clear direction, eventually finding their way onto the pedestrian path that ran along the River Liffey. The water was a dark, sliding ribbon, reflecting the occasional office light from the opposite quay.
They talked about nothing consequential—films, the worst embassy food they’d ever eaten, Sean’s sprawling family in Galway. The conversation was effortless, a gentle volley. Matthew felt his shoulders begin to drop for the first time in days.
They paused on a quieter stretch of the wall, away from the bridges, looking out at the inky water. The city sounds were a distant murmur.
“It’s a good city for secrets, Dublin,” Sean said softly, leaning his forearms on the cold stone. “They all get washed into the Liffey eventually.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Washing secrets?” Matthew asked, turning to face him.
Sean turned as well. The playful glint was still there, but underneath it was something steadier, more patient. “I don’t know about secrets. I think we’re just taking a walk. But if you had any you wanted to toss in… I’m a brilliant listener.”
Matthew looked at him—the dark hair ruffled by the river breeze, the sincere curiosity in his eyes. He thought of the alley, the pub scene, the wreckage he’d left in his wake. The words bubbled up, a confession poised on his lips.
But Sean, perceptive, shook his head slightly. “Or, we could not. For tonight. Tonight could just be this.”
He leaned in slowly, giving Matthew every chance to pull away. The kiss, when it came, was a shock of warmth in the cool air. It wasn’t desperate or conquering. It was explorative, gentle. Sean’s lips were soft, and he tasted of hops and the faint, sweet hint of whiskey. One of his hands came up to cradle Matthew’s jaw, his thumb stroking lightly along the cheekbone.
It felt profoundly, devastatingly good. It was affection without possession, desire without a price tag. Matthew sighed into it, his own hands coming up to grip Sean’s coat, pulling him closer. The world narrowed to the press of Sean’s body against his, the solid reality of him, the uncomplicated yes of the moment.
They broke apart, breathing uneven puffs of mist into the space between them. Sean rested his forehead against Matthew’s, his eyes closed. “See?” he murmured. “Real.”
He kissed him again, deeper this time, a hand sliding to the small of Matthew’s back. The cold stone of the wall was at his back, but Sean’s body was a line of heat against his front. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the river and their quiet, mutual discovery.
It was Sean who finally pulled back, a rueful smile on his swollen lips. “As much as I’d love to continue my diplomatic outreach here, we’re about thirty seconds from being arrested for public indecency or catching our death.” He kept an arm around Matthew’s shoulders. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
They walked in comfortable silence, Sean’s arm a steady, grounding weight. Outside Matthew’s building, Sean stopped.
“I’m not coming up,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Not tonight.”
A flicker of old panic sparked in Matthew—rejection. But Sean saw it.
“Easy,” he said, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s not that. I’m very, very interested. But you’re a five-whiskey deep mess of beautiful complications tonight. And I’d like our first time to be when you’re actually here, in the room with me, not off in some headspace I haven’t earned the map to yet.”
The clarity of it, the respect in it, left Matthew speechless.
Sean leaned in and placed one last, soft kiss on his mouth. “Get some sleep, Matt. Text me tomorrow if you want to. No pressure.”
He waited until Matthew was inside the front door before turning with a small wave and disappearing into the misty night.
Matthew climbed the stairs to his flat, the taste of Sean still on his lips. His mind was a cacophony. The simple, tender warmth of the kiss by the river warred with the searing, degrading memory of the alley. One felt like a balm, the other like a drug he was already craving again.
He stood in the center of his dark living room, utterly still. For the first time, the silence didn’t feel like an accusation. It felt like a choice waiting to be made.
His phone, face-down on the coffee table, buzzed once. A cold jolt went through him. He didn’t need to look to imagine the sender. The allure of the void, of that punishing, obliterating passion, was a siren song in his blood.
He looked from the silent, judging phone to the window, where the last traces of mist from the river still clung to the glass. He didn’t move towards either. He just stood there, suspended between the pull of the dark, deep water and the faint, fading warmth of a kiss that promised something altogether different.
The knock was abrupt, a stark percussion in the quiet flat. Matthew flinched. He hadn’t heard footsteps on the stair. His mind, still half-submerged in the Liffey’s mist and the memory of Sean’s hands, scrambled. Dmitri wouldn’t knock. Sean said he wouldn’t come up. Lucas was gone.
He moved to the door, his body tensed. He peered through the peephole. The distorted fish-eye view showed a familiar shoulder in a dark wool coat, a bottle dangling from one hand.
Patrick.
Matthew’s breath hitched. He unlatched the chain and opened the door a crack. The hallway light haloed Patrick’s curly hair. He looked tired, his smile tentative, almost shy.
“Hey,” Patrick said, his voice softer than usual. He lifted the bottle—a nice red—and two glasses pinched in his other fingers. “I come in peace. And with Cabernet.”
“It’s after ten,” Matthew said, not moving.
“I know. I was watching your window. Saw your light come on. I’ve been… working up to this.” Patrick shifted his weight. “Can I come in? Just to talk. I owe you an apology. A real one.”
Matthew studied his face, searching for the anger from the other night. It was gone, replaced by an open vulnerability that was somehow more disarming. He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Sure.”
Patrick walked in, his presence immediately filling the sterile space. He placed the bottle and glasses on the coffee table with a soft clink. He shrugged off his coat, draped it over a chair, and stood there looking oddly formal in a crisp blue shirt. “How are you?” he asked, which was such a normal, stupid question that Matthew almost laughed.
“Peachy.” Matthew remained standing, arms crossed. “You said something about an apology?”
“Right.” Patrick ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture Matthew remembered. He uncorked the wine with a practiced twist, poured two generous glasses, and handed one to Matthew. “For the other night. I was way out of line. Mike gave me hell for it, which I deserved.”
Matthew took the glass but didn’t drink. “Which part are you sorry for? The yelling, or the bit where you implied I was a destructive ghost?”
“All of it.” Patrick took a large sip of his wine. “Especially that last part. It was cruel. I was scared, and I lashed out. Seeing you… it’s been a lot.” He looked directly at Matthew, his brown eyes earnest. “I’m sorry for how I ended things five years ago. The calls that got shorter. The slow fade. It was a coward’s way out. I was on the other side of the world and falling for someone else, and I didn’t know how to hold both of those truths.”
The words, direct and unvarnished, landed like a physical blow. Matthew finally drank, the wine blooming rich and dark on his tongue. He’d waited years for this accounting. Now that it was here, it just felt sad.
“You could have just said that,” Matthew said quietly, sinking into the armchair. “A quick, clean break. Not that six-month torture of polite disinterest.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Truly.” Patrick sat on the sofa opposite, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I handled it terribly. You didn’t deserve that.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the old grief settling between them. Then Patrick gestured with his glass. “Remember that guy in orientation? The one from the Commerce Department who kept trying to lead role-playing exercises?”
A surprised snort escaped Matthew. “Harrison. God. He had a flip chart for interpersonal conflict resolution.”
“He tried to mediate that fight between the woman from USAID and the guy who snored during the security briefing.” Patrick’s smile was genuine now, reaching his eyes. “He made them do ‘I feel’ statements.”
“I feel… like you are a human foghorn,” Matthew said, falling into the old rhythm effortlessly. “And I need earplugs to preserve my will to live.”
Patrick laughed, a warm, rich sound that filled the room. “He looked so proud of himself! Like he’d brokered Camp David.”
They traded stories for a while, the wine loosening the knots of years. They resurrected forgotten characters from their shared past: the liaison who always smelled of tuna, the frantic search for a presentation clicker that was in someone’s hand the whole time. The laughter was easy, cathartic. It reminded Matthew of hotel bars in Virginia, of the giddy, secret bubble of their beginning when the world was just a series of challenges they would face together.
It felt shockingly normal. It felt like coming home.
The bottle was half empty. Matthew, feeling the warm glow, asked, “Where’s Mike tonight?”
“He’s in London for a collab shoot. Two nights.” Patrick swirled his wine, watching the legs slide down the glass. “He left this morning.”
“Ah.” The air in the room changed, grew denser. Matthew recognized the shift. This wasn’t just a casual, married-neighbor apology anymore. Patrick’s easy posture had tightened.
“So he’s gone,” Matthew said, his voice lower. “And you’re here. With wine. Why tonight, Patrick?”
Patrick put his glass down slowly. He stared at his own hands for a long moment. When he looked up, his expression was stripped bare. “Because having you next door, in my city, is driving me quietly out of my mind.” The words rushed out. “It’s opened up a whole… cargo hold of old feelings I thought was permanently sealed. And I can’t figure out how to fit them next to the life I’ve built, the man I love. I’m tangled up.”
Matthew’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. The careful walls he’d spent the week repairing crumbled to dust. He saw his own confusion mirrored in Patrick’s face.
“I know the feeling,” Matthew admitted, the confession pulled from him. “The untangling part. I don’t know how to do it either.”
That was all it took.
Patrick stood. He crossed the two steps between sofa and armchair. He didn’t hesitate. He simply closed the distance, one hand coming to rest on the side of Matthew’s neck, his thumb stroking the jawline just as he used to. His gaze dipped to Matthew’s lips.
Matthew didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
Then Patrick kissed him.
It wasn’t like Sean’s exploratory gentleness or Dmitri’s punishing hunger. This was a deep, knowing reclamation. It was the taste of seven years ago, of shared history and specific loss. Patrick’s lips were familiar, the slight scratch of his stubble, the way he sighed into the contact. Matthew’s body responded before his mind could form a protest, a lifetime of muscle memory overriding every sane thought. His hand came up to clutch Patrick’s shirt, the fine cotton soft under his fingers. He didn’t resist. He opened his mouth to the kiss, and the past five years dissolved into a single, shimmering point of now.
He opened his mouth to the kiss, and the past five years dissolved into a single, shimmering point of now. The logic, the consequences, the entire city outside the window—it all vaporized under the sheer tactile memory of Patrick’s mouth, his scent of clean cotton and familiar cologne. A sound escaped Matthew’s throat, half protest, half surrender, as he wound his fingers into the dark curls at the nape of Patrick’s neck, holding him there, terrified he’d pull away.
Every nerve was live wire. The gentle apology was gone, incinerated by this raw convergence. Matthew knew this was a terrible idea, a cataclysm waiting to happen, but the knowing was a faint echo in a roaring wind of need. He decided, with a final, reckless fracture, to seize the moment.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. Without a word, his hands went to the hem of Patrick’s crisp blue shirt. Patrick didn’t stop him, just watched with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as Matthew pulled the fabric up, over his stomach, his chest, his head. He tossed it aside. His breath hitched at the sight he had replayed in his head over the last five years. The same athletic build, the familiar scatter of dark hair across his pectorals, trailing down his abdomen. Time had added a faint line or two, but it was him. It was Patrick.
“Jesus,” Matthew breathed, his voice wrecked.
He placed his palms flat on that warm skin, mapping the territory. He brushed his thumbs over Patrick’s nipples, felt them harden instantly. He slid his hands down the slope of his ribs, over the firm plane of his stomach, relearning the landscape he’d once known by heart. Patrick moaned, a deep, resonant sound that went straight to Matthew’s core, and leaned into the touch.
“Your turn,” Patrick whispered, his voice thick.
His fingers made quick work of Matthew’s buttons, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The cool air hit Matthew’s skin, followed immediately by the heat of Patrick’s hands. There was no hesitation, no exploration needed. Patrick’s touch was a claim, remembering, reasserting. He pinched Matthew’s nipple, rolled it between his fingers, and the sharp bolt of pleasure-pain made Matthew gasp.
They collapsed onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, skin sliding against skin. The leather was cool against Matthew’s back, then hot where their bodies met. They kissed again, deeper, messier, all tongue and teeth and five years of stifled hunger. Matthew could feel Patrick’s erection, hard and insistent against his thigh, and he ground his own down against Patrick’s hip, seeking friction, seeking ruin.
Hands were everywhere. Patrick’s palms swept down Matthew’s spine, cupped his ass, pulled him closer. Matthew scraped his nails lightly down Patrick’s back, earning another low groan. He buried his face in the junction of Patrick’s neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, licking the salt from his skin. It was a frantic, wordless conversation conducted in gasps and grips.
Matthew wrenched his mouth away, panting. He braced his forehead against Patrick’s, their breath mingling. “Wait. Patrick.” The words felt stupid, inadequate. “Are you sure? I mean… fuck. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Patrick answered by hooking his fingers into the waistband of Matthew’s trousers and underwear. He pushed them down in one rough, urgent motion. “Yes,” he said, the word a blunt exhale against Matthew’s lips. “I’m sure. I need to. Don’t you?”
The question was irrelevant. Matthew kicked the fabric from his ankles and immediately reciprocated, fumbling with Patrick’s belt, his button, his zipper. He shoved the pants down over Patrick’s hips, freeing his cock. It was exactly as he remembered, thick and curved, already leaking. The sight of it, now, in this context, was almost surreal.
There was no discussion, no fumbling for supplies. The thought of a condom flashed and died, extinguished by a need that felt ancestral, a claiming that demanded total skin. Patrick spat into his own palm, slicked himself roughly, and nudged Matthew’s thighs apart with his knee.
“Look at me,” Patrick said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Matthew held his gaze. Patrick positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against Matthew’s entrance. There was a moment of suspended tension, a silent acknowledgment of the line they were vaulting over. Then Patrick pushed inside.
It burned. A sharp, stretching, glorious burn. Matthew cried out, arching off the couch, his fingers digging into Patrick’s biceps. Patrick didn’t stop. He kept pushing, inch by relentless inch, until he was fully sheathed, hips flush against Matthew’s ass. They stayed like that, locked together, breathing like runners.
“Fuck,” Patrick gritted out, shuddering. “God, Matthew.”
Then he moved. It wasn’t gentle. It was a furious, driving rhythm born of pent-up years and confused, roaring feelings. Each thrust was a punctuation mark on a sentence they’d left unfinished. Patrick fucked him with a desperate, possessive intensity, his hips slapping against Matthew’s skin. The couch springs groaned in protest.
Matthew threw his legs over Patrick’s shoulders, opening himself wider, taking him deeper. Every snap of Patrick’s hips jolted through him, blurring pain and pleasure into a single, white-hot circuit. He reached between them, fisting his own cock, stroking in time with Patrick’s punishing pace.
“Yeah, just like that,” Matthew panted, his head thrashing side to side. “Fucking… fuck, right there, Patrick. Don’t stop.”
Patrick’s rhythm fractured. He was grunting with each drive, sweat dripping from his forehead onto Matthew’s chest. His control was shredding. “You feel… Jesus Christ… you feel unbelievable.”
The coil in Matthew’s gut tightened beyond bearing. The sensory overload—the smell of sex and leather, the obscene, wet sound of their joining, the overwhelming sight of Patrick above him, face strained with pleasure—it all converged. His orgasm ripped through him without warning, violent and silent for a second before a broken shout was torn from his throat. He came in hot stripes across his own stomach and chest, his body clamping down hard around Patrick.
The brutal clenching pushed Patrick over the edge. He drove in one last, deep time, burying himself to the hilt, and stilled. A raw, guttural cry tore from him as he emptied himself inside Matthew, his body trembling with the force of it.
Collapse. A slow, boneless sink into the damp leather. Patrick slipped out, and they lay there tangled, a mess of limbs and come and sweat. The only sounds were their ragged, slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city. The air was thick, spent.
After a long while, Patrick shifted, reaching for his discarded shirt. He used it to clumsily wipe Matthew’s stomach, then his own. He tossed the soiled fabric to the floor and collapsed back, pulling Matthew against him. Matthew went, his ear pressed to Patrick’s chest, listening to the frantic hammer of his heart gradually slow.
“Remember,” Patrick said, his voice hoarse, “that hotel in Arlington with the broken AC? We sweated through the sheets.”
Matthew managed a weak laugh. “And you insisted on ordering that insanely spicy Thai food. I thought I was going to die.”
“You looked so fucking cute, all red and teary-eyed.” Patrick’s fingers traced idle patterns on Matthew’s shoulder. “I knew I was in trouble then.”
They lapsed into quiet, sharing half-remembered fragments, the easy jokes resurfacing now that the physical urgency had been spent. The shared history was a comfort, a soft place to land in the wreckage.
Eventually, Patrick stirred. “I should go.”
The words were a cold splash. Matthew tightened his arm around Patrick’s waist. “Don’t,” he said, the plea stark and naked. “Stay. Just… stay tonight.”
Patrick was silent. Matthew could feel the conflict in the stiffening of his muscles. He sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to come from his bones. “Matt… we’re already in too deep. You know that, right? This was already the point of no return.”
“I know.” Matthew nuzzled into the familiar hairy chest, closing his eyes. “Stay anyway.”
Another pause, heavier than the first. “Okay,” Patrick whispered, defeated. “Okay.”
Matthew disentangled himself just long enough to reach for the wool blanket draped over the back of the armchair. He pulled it over them, the scratchy fabric a poor substitute for sheets. They rearranged themselves on the narrow couch, Patrick on his back, Matthew slotting against his side, head on his chest, leg thrown over his. He nuzzled into Patrick’s bare chest like old times, inhaling the now-mingled scent of sex, sweat, and him.
Outside, a light rain began to tap against the window. Patrick’s breathing evened out into sleep. Matthew lay awake in the dark, listening to the rhythm of the heart under his ear. The ghost of Sean’s goodnight kiss was a faint, fading imprint. The memory of Dmitri’s hands was a dormant bruise. This, here, was a warmth he had ached for for half a decade.
He had no idea what he was doing. He was unraveling a carefully married man, betraying the tentative trust of a kind colleague, and diving headlong back into a phantom version of his own past. The fallout would be catastrophic. He knew it with a crystalline, certain dread.
But he couldn’t stop. The pull was gravitational, and he had simply ceased to fight it. He fell asleep clinging to the source of his coming ruin, his last conscious thought a silent acknowledgment that he would set everything on fire for this one, stolen night.