Chapter 8: The Morning After
The first thing Matthew became aware of was warmth. A solid, breathing warmth along his spine, an arm draped heavily over his ribs, and the soft press of lips against the back of his neck. Dawn had bleached the black sky to a dull charcoal, filtering weak light through the rain-streaked window. He didn’t move. He focused on the rhythm of Patrick’s breathing, deep and even, the faint tickle of his chest hair against Matthew’s skin. For a suspended moment, it was seven years ago. It was Arlington. It was before the distance and the silence and the Instagram posts of a grinning Patrick with a handsome stranger who became a fiancé, then a husband.
He felt the exact second Patrick woke. The arm tightened momentarily, a reflexive pull closer. Then a stillness, a held breath. The reality of the cramped couch, the stiff leather, the blanket smelling of sex and wool, came crashing back in.
Patrick’s voice was a sleep-ravaged scrape against his ear. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
A long pause. The rain tapped a gentle, inconsistent rhythm on the glass.
“I have to go,” Patrick murmured, but he didn’t move. His hand slid from Matthew’s ribs to his stomach, splaying possessively over the smooth skin. “Mike’s train gets in at nine. I need to be home, making coffee, being… normal.”
The word hung in the air, absurd and fragile.
“Right,” Matthew said. His throat was tight.
Slowly, Patrick withdrew his arm and sat up. The blanket fell away, releasing a puff of their mingled scent into the cool room. Matthew rolled onto his back, watching him. Patrick looked rumpled and beautifully ruined, his curls mashed on one side, a faint red mark on his shoulder from Matthew’s mouth. He rubbed his face with both hands, a gesture of such familiar weariness it made Matthew’s chest ache.
Patrick stood, naked and unselfconscious, and found his clothes scattered on the floor. He dressed in silence, each article of clothing feeling like a layer of armor sliding back into place. The crisp blue shirt was wrinkled, stained. He looked at it, sighed, and pulled it on anyway.
Matthew sat up, pulling the blanket around his waist. “Patrick.”
Patrick, buttoning his trousers, glanced over.
“Do you regret it?” Matthew asked. The question was a bare wire in the quiet room.
Patrick stopped. He finished the button, his eyes locked on Matthew’s. He didn’t look away. “No,” he said, the word clear and definitive. “I don’t regret a second of it. But it probably shouldn’t happen again.”
It was the answer Matthew both craved and feared. A validation and a death sentence in one breath. He just nodded, unable to speak.
Patrick finished dressing, scooped up his coat. He stood by the door, a man divided. “This… complicates a lot of things.”
“Understatement,” Matthew managed.
A ghost of the old, warm smile touched Patrick’s lips. “Take care of yourself, Matt.”
Then he was gone. The latch clicked with a finality that echoed in the hollow flat.
Matthew sat in the grey silence for a long time. The ghost of Patrick’s weight was still indented into the couch cushions. His scent was on the blanket, on Matthew’s skin. Probably shouldn’t happen again. The phrase looped, a torturous mantra. It was the right, the moral, the married thing to say. But the night itself had screamed the opposite.
His phone, charging on the floor, buzzed against the wood.
He reached for it, a ridiculous hope flaring—Patrick texting already, recanting. But the screen showed a different name.
Sean: Morning. If you’re not dead or deeply hungover, I’m stealing you. The Wicklow Mountains are calling. I know a place near Glendalough where the silence is so loud it’ll reboot your brain. Say yes.
Guilt, sharp and acidic, flooded Matthew’s mouth. He saw Sean’s patient, understanding face from last night, the respectful kiss, the “text me tomorrow.” And here he was, less than twelve hours later, soaked in the physical evidence of his ex-lover. He felt like a counterfeit.
But Sean’s offer was a rope thrown into the quicksand of his own making. A chance at the “real” Sean had promised. A reset. A way to be someone other than the man who fucked his married ex on a couch and then took calls from a Ukrainian attache in alleyways.
His thumbs moved over the screen.
Matthew: Not dead. Brain requires full factory reset. Yes. Please.
Sean: I’ll drive. Be there in 30. Wear boots.
The simple logistics were a relief. Matthew showered, scrubbing at his skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the night. He pulled on jeans, a thick sweater, his worn hiking boots. He avoided looking at the couch.
Sean’s car, a mud-splattered Nissan, pulled up right on time. He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open, a grin on his face. “You look marginally more alive than last night.”
“You’re a flatterer,” Matthew said, sliding in. The car smelled of coffee, pine air freshener, and Sean’s clean, soapy scent.
“I brought you a life-saving elixir.” Sean handed him a travel mug. “Strong, with two sugars. Just like you used to take it at the office canteen.”
The mundane observation, the remembered detail, was a small, precise kindness that nearly undid Matthew. “Thanks,” he said, his voice rough.
They drove south, leaving the city’s tentacles for rolling green hills scarred by stone walls. Sean chattered easily about nothing—a documentary he’d seen, his nephew’s football match. He asked no probing questions. He gave Matthew the gift of quiet companionship within noise.
They parked near Glendalough but bypassed the tourist-thronged monastic site, taking a narrower path that wound up into the oak and pine woods. The air was cold and damp, rich with the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves. Their breath clouded in front of them. The silence was, as Sean promised, profound—broken only by the crunch of their boots, the distant rush of water, and the call of a lone raven.
They walked for an hour, the exertion burning the lingering fog from Matthew’s mind. They reached a rocky outcrop overlooking one of the twin lakes. The water was a sheet of hammered lead under the cloudy sky, the surrounding mountains shrouded in mist.
“Christ, it’s magnificent,” Sean said, stopping to lean against a gnarled tree. He was flushed from the climb, his freckles stark against his skin.
“It is.” Matthew stood beside him, the vast, ancient landscape making his own turmoil feel both insignificant and strangely magnified.
Sean took a sip from his water bottle. “So. You wanna talk about it?”
“About the view?”
“About whatever’s got you looking like you’re carrying the weight of every stone in this valley.” Sean’s tone was gentle, not pushing. “The other night… you seemed like a man trying to outrun his own shadow. And last night, by the river, you were here, but you weren’t. I’m a good listener, Matt. And I’m not easily shocked.”
Matthew stared at the grey water. The confession pressed against his teeth. I slept with my married ex last night. I let another man fuck me in an alley to feel something besides pain. I am a vortex of poor decisions. But saying it would make it real in this clean, cold air. It would poison this too.
“It’s… a mess,” he finally said, the words inadequate. “Old history. New complications. I’m not handling any of it well.”
Sean nodded, as if this confirmed something. “Is one of those complications a broody Ukrainian with sharp cheekbones?”
Matthew flinched. “How did you—”
“I saw you talking to him at the National Gallery reception a few weeks back. You looked like you’d been struck by lightning. And he looked at you like he was mapping your escape routes.” Sean shrugged. “I’m observant. It’s a professional hazard.”
“It’s not… it’s over,” Matthew said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
“And the old history?”
Matthew closed his eyes. “That’s Patrick.”
Sean was quiet for a long minute. “Ah.” The single syllable held a universe of understanding. “Right. That makes a dark kind of sense. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching.”
“He’s married, Sean.”
“I know he is. To a lovely guy who, for the record, doesn’t deserve this.” Sean’s voice was firm but not unkind. “And neither do you, if it’s tearing you up like this.”
The simple, direct empathy was a lance to a festering wound. Matthew’s composure cracked. A hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the chill on his cheek. He wiped it away angrily.
“Hey,” Sean said softly. He stepped closer, turning Matthew away from the view to face him. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Matthew’s voice broke. “I’m not.”
Sean didn’t offer empty platitudes. He just pulled Matthew into a firm, solid embrace. He was all wiry strength and steady warmth. Matthew buried his face in Sean’s shoulder, in the rough wool of his coat, and shook silently. He cried for the lost years, for the hurt on Lucas’s face, for the terrifying blankness in Dmitri’s eyes, for the impossible, beautiful wreckage of Patrick in his arms, for his own spectacular talent for chaos.
Sean held him until the storm passed, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles on his back.
When Matthew finally pulled back, embarrassed, Sean cupped his face, his thumbs wiping the dampness from under his eyes. “You’re a fierce complicated man, Matthew Wright. It’s one of the things I like about you.”
Then Sean kissed him. It was nothing like the kiss by the river. This one was deep, consuming, a conscious erasure. It was all heat and purpose and a focused, desperate hunger that Matthew mirrored instantly. He grabbed handfuls of Sean’s coat, pulling him closer, opening his mouth to the slick, demanding slide of his tongue. The cold, the guilt, the confusion—they were burned away in the furnace of this single, pointed act.
They stumbled back from the ledge, into a denser copse of pine trees where the ground was soft with needles. Sean backed Matthew against the broad, rough trunk of an ancient tree, his body pinning him there.
The bark scraped through Matthew’s coat, a grounding, rough pressure against his shoulder blades. Sean’s mouth was relentless, hot and searching, and Matthew surrendered to it completely. He let his hands push under Sean’s layers, fingers seeking the feverish skin at the small of his back, gripping the firm muscle he found there. They kissed until their lungs burned, a frantic, wet communion that tasted of salt and coffee and pine, breaking only to gasp air before diving back in.
“Christ, you feel good,” Sean rasped against his jaw, his teeth grazing the stubbled skin. His hips pressed forward, the hard line of his erection a blunt, undeniable demand against Matthew’s thigh.
Matthew could only groan, arching into it, his own cock throbbing in the tight confines of his jeans. He fumbled with the button of Sean’s fly, his fingers clumsy with cold and need. The wind sighed through the high branches, but down here in their green, shadowed hollow, the air was thick and still, charged with the sound of their breathing and the rustle of fabric.
Sean caught his wrist, stilling him. His eyes were dark, the green almost swallowed by black. “Not here. Not like this.” He rested his forehead against Matthew’s, their breath mingling in white plumes. “You deserve a proper bed, Matthew. Not a frozen forest floor.”
The care in the statement, the refusal to treat this as a frantic, hidden thing, unspooled another knot of tension inside Matthew. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
They walked back to the car hand-in-hand, a simple, wordless tether. The return path felt different, the same grey vistas now painted with a vibrant, internal light. They didn’t speak much. The silence between them was no longer empty, but full and humming.
Inside the car, with the heater blasting, the world shrank to the scent of wet wool and their shared warmth. Sean glanced over as he started the engine. “Where to? Yours?”
The image of his own flat flashed in Matthew’s mind—the ghost-laden couch, the empty silence, the entire space feeling like a museum of his own poor choices. He couldn’t. Not today.
“No,” he said, the word decisive. “I’m tired of the ghosts in my rooms. Can we go to yours?”
A slow, understanding smile spread across Sean’s face. “Yeah. We can do that.”
The drive back to Dublin was charged with a different energy than the morning’s escape. The anticipation now was a clean, bright wire thrumming between them, underscored by the gentle brush of Sean’s knuckles over Matthew’s knee as he shifted gears. They talked about nothing of consequence—the terrible radio music, a funny-shaped cloud—their dialogue a light, casual veil over the profound understanding building beneath.
Sean’s apartment was in a modest red-brick building in Rathmines. It was compact, lived-in, and wonderfully anonymous to Matthew. Books were stacked on shelves and floor alike, a guitar leaned in a corner, and a large map of Dublin was pinned to one wall, covered in handwritten notes.
The door had barely clicked shut behind them before Sean had him pinned against it. “No ghosts here,” Sean murmured, and then his mouth was on Matthew’s again, hungry and sure.
This kiss was a conflagration. All the simmering tension of the day, the week, the months of lonely longing, exploded into motion. Matthew’s fingers flew to the buttons of Sean’s flannel shirt, popping them open with frantic urgency. He shoved the fabric back over Sean’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
He breathed out, “Fuck.”
Sean’s torso was a landscape of lean, defined muscle dusted with a glorious, dark pelt of hair. It spread across his pectorals, trailed down his flat stomach, and thickened into a dark thatch below his navel where it disappeared into his open trousers. It was utterly, overwhelmingly masculine. Matthew had never had a particular fixation, but now, faced with this visceral reality, he understood a primal hunger he’d never named.
“You like that?” Sean’s voice was a low, pleased rumble.
“Yeah.” Matthew’s reply was barely a sound. He placed his palms flat on Sean’s chest, feeling the springy texture, the heat, the solid drumbeat of his heart. He leaned in and pressed his open mouth to the center, tasting salt and skin, before dragging his tongue through the dark hair. He took his time, exploring the contours of Sean’s ribs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, mapping this new territory with lips and teeth and hands.
“My turn,” Sean breathed, and his efficient hands made quick work of Matthew’s sweater and t-shirt. He paused, his gaze traveling over Matthew’s smoother, leaner frame. “Beautiful.” He said it like a fact, undoing Matthew’s jeans and pushing them, along with his boxer briefs, down his thighs in one fluid motion.
Cool air hit Matthew’s exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Sean’s full, naked body pressing against him. The feeling of all that body hair against his own stomach, his thighs, was intensely erotic. Sean’s cock, thick and flushed, slid against his, a searing point of contact.
They stumbled through the short hallway, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses, and fell onto Sean’s unmade bed. The duvet smelled faintly of fabric softener and Sean—a clean, cedary scent. Sunlight, weak and pale, filtered through the window and painted slow-moving rectangles across their moving bodies.
Sean covered him, his weight a perfect, anchoring pressure. He kissed Matthew deeply, languidly now, as his hand slid down between them. His fingers wrapped around both of their cocks, squeezing them together. The friction was delicious, maddening.
“Is this alright?” Sean whispered, his breath hot in Matthew’s ear.
“It’s more than alright.” Matthew thrust upward into that tight, thrilling grip. “God, Sean.”
But a deeper, more visceral need was coiling in his gut. He remembered the impersonal force of Dmitri taking him in the alley, a transaction of pure sensation. He remembered the heartbreaking tenderness of Lucas. This was neither. This was a precipice of his own choosing. He framed Sean’s face with his hands, making him look down. “I want you to fuck me.”
Sean’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, a muscle jumping in his jaw. When he opened them, the desire there was banked with a tender, almost painful restraint. “I want that. Christ, you have no idea how much I want that.” He brushed a sweat-damp lock of hair from Matthew’s forehead. “But not today. Let’s save that for later, yeah? A promise.”
The words a promise landed in Matthew’s chest and bloomed, warm and terrifying. It wasn’t a rejection. It was a claiming of future chapters.
Sean reached over to the bedside drawer, pulled out a small bottle of lube. He slicked his palm, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Then his hand was back, gliding over their cocks, mingling the precome and the cool gel into a seamless, slick heat.
“Just this now,” Sean murmured, his mouth finding Matthew’s again. “Just us, like this.”
His grip was perfect, his rhythm relentless. He worked their cocks together, his thumb swiping over both leaking heads with every upward stroke. The sensation was overwhelming—the silken slide, the rough scrape of Sean’s body hair against his sensitive skin, the hungry press of Sean’s mouth. Matthew’s hips pistoned off the bed, meeting every stroke, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
“That’s it,” Sean growled, his own rhythm faltering. “Look at you. You gorgeous fucking man. Come on. Come with me.”
The command, filthy and tender, shattered Matthew’s last thread of control. A wave of pure, white-hot pleasure ripped through him, wrenching a raw, broken shout from his throat. His cock jerked, spilling hot stripes across his stomach and Sean’s moving hand. The pulses seemed to go on forever, wracking his entire body.
He felt Sean stiffen above him, a guttural “Fuck!” hot against his neck, and then the added warmth of Sean’s release mingling with his own.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths. Sean collapsed beside him, one arm flung across Matthew’s chest, their sides stuck together with cooling come. The usual post-coital static in Matthew’s mind was absent. In its place was a profound, weary quiet.
He turned his head. Sean was watching him, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. Matthew didn’t feel the clawing guilt that had followed him from his couch with Patrick. He didn’t feel the hollow, used emptiness that Dmitri had left behind. This felt simple. Earned. The sweat drying on his skin, the pleasant ache in his muscles, the weight of Sean’s arm—it all felt like the foundation of something real, built deliberately on solid ground, not stolen in shadows.
The sweat drying on his skin, the pleasant ache in his muscles, the weight of Sean’s arm—it all felt like the foundation of something real, built deliberately on solid ground, not stolen in shadows. The afternoon light had faded to a deep, dusky blue, painting the room in long shadows. Matthew knew he should move, should gather his clothes and face the chilly walk home to his own haunted flat.
He shifted, intending to sit up.
A strong hand clamped onto his bicep. “Where do you think you’re going?” Sean’s voice was sleep-roughened, his grip firm.
“I should… I should probably…”
“You should probably stay right here.” Sean pulled, and Matthew yielded, tumbling back into the warmth of the bed and the solid curve of Sean’s body. “The world outside that door can wait a few more hours.”
Matthew let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He turned onto his side, facing Sean. In the half-light, Sean’s features were soft, his eyelashes dark fans against his cheeks. Matthew reached out, tracing a finger through the dense, springy hair on Sean’s chest. It was a texture he could become addicted to—wild, tangible, utterly present.
“It’s like a fucking pelt,” Matthew murmured, a half-smile touching his lips.
“All the better to keep you warm,” Sean said, catching his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. His lips were dry, warm. “So talk to me. Not about the messy shite. Just talk.”
And they did. They talked about stupid things, profound things. Sean told him about growing up in Dun Laoghaire, about his mother’s fierce pride and his father’s quiet disappointment when he’d taken the embassy job instead of going into the family plumbing business. Matthew found himself speaking about his own father’s relentless, brittle ambition, a pressure he’d spent his life either embracing or fleeing.
Their conversation meandered, punctuated by long, exploring kisses that tasted of shared breath and deepening night. Matthew would speak a sentence, then lean in to lick into Sean’s mouth, reveling in the way Sean’s hands would rise to cradle his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Time lost its sharp edges, melting into a fluid, golden haze measured only by the deepening dark outside the window and the slowing rhythm of their hearts.
“I’m starting to feel distinctly sticky,” Matthew said eventually, his nose buried in the junction of Sean’s neck and shoulder.
Sean chuckled, the sound vibrating through Matthew’s body. “A shared condition. Come on.”
He slid out of bed, a pale, lean silhouette in the gloom, and offered his hand. Matthew took it. Sean led him, naked, across the cool wooden floor to a small, clean bathroom. He turned on the shower, and steam began to billow, clouding the mirror.
The water was scorching, a needle spray that turned their skin pink. They stood under the stream, foreheads touching, letting the heat sink into their bones. Then Sean reached for a bar of plain soap. He worked it between his hands until a rich lather formed, and then he began to wash Matthew.
His hands were methodical, thorough. He soaped Matthew’s shoulders, his arms, his chest, his back, moving in slow, firm circles. It was not overtly sexual, but it was intensely intimate. Matthew watched the white suds slide through the dark hair on Sean’s forearms, over his own smoother skin, down the drain. Sean knelt on the wet tiles, his hands sliding down Matthew’s thighs, his calves, washing each foot with a care that felt almost devotional.
Matthew’s cock, which had softened, began to thicken again, swaying heavily between his legs. Sean looked up, water droplets caught in his lashes. He didn’t smile. His expression was one of focused hunger.
“My turn,” Matthew whispered, his voice rough from the steam.
He took the soap, copying Sean’s motions. He lavished attention on the broad plane of Sean’s back, working the muscles under his fingertips. He soaped the incredible terrain of Sean’s chest, pushing his hands through the dense, wet hair, rubbing the tight nipples buried within it until Sean hissed. He knelt, washing Sean’s legs, the coarse hair there dark and slick against his palms.
When he rose, Sean was fully, magnificently erect. The water sluiced over the flushed, thick length of him. Matthew didn’t hesitate. He wrapped a hand around the base, leaned in, and took the head into his mouth.
Sean gasped, a sharp intake of steam-filled air. His hands found Matthew’s wet hair, not pushing, just holding. Matthew swirled his tongue around the broad corona, tasting clean skin and the faint, musky precome that beaded at the slit. He sank down, relaxing his throat, taking Sean deeper. The feel of him, solid and pulsing on his tongue, was a claim. It was nothing like the performative act with Dmitri or the nervous inexperience with Lucas. This was a gift, given and received with equal hunger.
“Fuck, Matt… your mouth is heaven,” Sean groaned, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust.
Matthew moved with a slow, determined rhythm, one hand working the base in tandem with his mouth. He used his other hand to cup Sean’s balls, heavy and tight, rolling them gently. The sounds were obscene—wet sucks, Sean’s ragged breathing, the constant patter of water on tile.
Sean’s fingers tightened in his hair. “I’m not going to last. Not with you looking up at me like that.”
Matthew released him with a soft pop, his own cock aching. “Then don’t.” He turned around, bracing his hands against the wet tiles, the hot water beating on his back. “But I want you in my mouth when you come.”
Sean understood. He stepped close, the hard line of his body aligning with Matthew’s back. One hand snaked around Matthew’s hip, taking hold of his cock, stroking him in time with his own shallow thrusts against Matthew’s cleft. The other hand guided himself back to Matthew’s waiting lips.
Matthew took him deep again, hollowing his cheeks. Sean’s hand on his own cock was a perfect, maddening counterpoint. The dual sensations—the fullness in his mouth, the tight friction on his own erection—coiled the tension in his gut to a screaming point. Sean’s thrusts into his mouth grew erratic, his breath coming in sharp grunts.
“Gonna come… gonna fucking fill your throat,” Sean warned, his voice strained and raw.
Matthew relaxed his jaw, urging him on with a hum. The first violent pulse hit the back of his tongue, salty and warm. Sean cried out, his body bowing as he emptied himself in jerking spurts, his hand tightening convulsively on Matthew’s cock. The sting of that grip, the taste of Sean’s release, the overwhelming animal reality of it, tipped Matthew over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, silent but violent, his come striping the shower wall in front of him as he swallowed around Sean’s softening length.
They slumped together under the spray, spent and breathless, holding each other up.
Later, damp-haired and wearing only soft cotton underwear, they lounged on Sean’s couch. The takeout containers of sweet and sour chicken and egg fried rice lay open on the coffee table, the greasy, familiar comfort a world away from embassy receptions. Some ridiculous American reality show played silently on the television, its frantic editing a blur of color in the dark room.
Sean had an arm around Matthew, his fingers absently tracing patterns on Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew’s head rested against Sean’s chest, rising and falling with his breath. He could feel the steady thump of Sean’s heart through his ribs.
“Stay,” Sean said quietly, his chin resting on top of Matthew’s head. The word wasn’t a question. It was a soft, firm invitation.
Matthew didn’t even pause. “Okay.”
The simplicity of it was a shock to his system. He thought of Patrick, of the complicated, guilty architecture of their morning, of Mike’s inevitable, kind face. He thought of Dmitri’s cold, brilliant eyes and the transactional harshness of their encounters. He thought of Lucas’s wounded, youthful hope. All of it felt like fragments of a fever dream, blurred and toxic. Here, in this untidy room smelling of soy sauce and Sean’s soap, there was only this clear, warm weight. No ghosts. No geopolitical subtext. No tragic, impossible longing.
He felt, for the first time in years, that he might be capable of something simple and good. He was turning over a new leaf, its surface tender and green.
But underneath the contentment, a familiar, icy filament of fear threaded through his veins. He knew himself. He knew his talent for finding the cracks in good things and wedging them open until they split. This peace, this uncomplicated belonging, felt more fragile than any embassy negotiation. He was terrified, bone-deep, that he would find a way to blow it.