Chapter 1: Empty Glass, Empty Arms
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The weight of the crystal award felt alien in his hand, a cold and polished thing. Around him, the private room at the club shimmered with a different kind of heat–the glare of camera flashes, the clink of champagne flutes, the low hum of a hundred congratulatory murmurs. Someone from GLAAD had called him a “quiet architect of the modern queer anthem.” Another person, a journalist, mentioned his work with Robyn on Honey in the same breath as his latest chart-topper with Olivia Rodrigo. The names swirled around him like confetti. Meaningless confetti.
He smiled until his cheeks ached. He accepted hugs from people whose names escaped him the moment they turned away.
“You look miserable,” Evan said, materializing at his elbow with two fresh glasses of whiskey. He handed one over. His green eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
“I’m not miserable. I’m grateful.” Matthew took a long sip, the burn a welcome anchor.
“Bullshit. You’re doing that thing where you mentally compose a text to Robert instead of listening to the human being in front of you.” Evan nodded toward a streaming executive who was drifting away, looking slightly rebuffed. “You just thanked Scott Rudin for coming.”
“Fuck. Did I?” Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose. “See? This is why he should be here. He’d never let me do that.”
“Robert would have gotten into a political argument with the mayor by now and you’d be managing that scandal instead.” Evan’s tone was light, but it held an edge. A familiar, protective skepticism. “The weather isn’t his fault, Matt.”
“I know.” But the knowledge was intellectuaMl, a fact that didn’t reach the hollowed-out place in his chest. This moment, this specific recognition for a lifetime of trying to translate feeling into sound… Robert was the only person who truly understood the cost of it. The isolation of the studio, the battles with labels, the quiet triumph of a perfect melody line. Celebrating without him felt like performing a duet alone.
The crowd parted momentarily, and he saw him. Colton. Sandy hair swept into perfect casual disarray, his soap-opera physique showcased in a tailored navy shirt that was probably two sizes too small. He was laughing at something a producer said, his head thrown back, a picture of effortless, empty beauty. Their eyes met across the room. Colton’s smile shifted, becoming more intimate, a secret passed through the noise.
Matthew looked away first.
Five minutes later, a hand settled on the small of his back. A different heat. “There’s the man of the hour,” Colton’s voice purred in his ear. It was a nice voice, if you liked your depth in the shallow end. “Saw your speech. Very moving.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said, forcing himself to turn and offer a social smile. Colton smelled like expensive citrus and cheap decisions.
“Big night. Shouldn’t be spent shaking hands with a bunch of suits.” Colton’s blue eyes glinted. He leaned closer, his words a warm tickle against Matthew’s jaw. “You should be properly… celebrated. I’m just down the street. Or we could go to your place. Quieter.”
The offer hung in the air, simple and physical. A solution to the ache of Robert’s absence. This was the agreement, after all. The “open” part of the relationship Robert had requested six months ago, citing a fear of rust, of stagnation, of becoming a boring old married couple before they’d even moved in together. It doesn’t mean anything, Matty. It’s just adrenaline. You’re my home. Matthew had agreed, heart seizing, because saying no felt like withholding oxygen from a man who lived to breathe fire.
He rarely used the privilege. Robert, he suspected, did.
Colton was watching him, a confident smirk playing on his lips. He knew his role. A distraction. A conduit for frustration.
From across the room, Evan caught his eye. His blond brows were raised, his mouth a flat, disapproving line. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don’t.
Matthew felt a surge of defiance. Who was Evan to judge? Evan who had his own complicated history in Matthew’s bed, who had never understood the gravitational pull Robert had on him.
The hollow feeling expanded, threatening to swallow the applause, the award, the well-meaning smiles. He wanted to feel something that wasn’t this gaping absence. Something straightforward. Something that required no translation.
He finished his whiskey in one smooth gulp, the decision crystallizing in the aftermath of the burn.
“Yeah,” Matthew said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. Detached. “My place is closer. Let’s get out of here.”
He placed the heavy award into Evan’s startled hands. “Hold this for me?”
“Matt—” Evan started, his voice tight.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Matthew said, cutting him off. He didn’t look back as he followed Colton’s broad shoulders through the glittering crowd, the cheers for his achievement fading into a dull roar behind them, replaced by the louder, more insistent silence of his own compounding mistakes.
He didn’t look back as he followed Colton’s broad shoulders through the glittering crowd, the cheers for his achievement fading into a dull roar behind them, replaced by the louder, more insistent silence of his own compounding mistakes.
The Uber ride was quiet, just the hum of the engine and Colton’s hand high on his thigh. Matthew stared out at the blur of Sunset Boulevard, the neon signs bleeding into streaks of color. His house, when they arrived, was a dark silhouette against the hillside. A glass and concrete monument. He’d bought it after the last Lorde record went triple platinum. It was too big for one person, echoing, but it screamed success in a language this town understood perfectly. He never felt at home in it.
The click of the door closing behind them echoed in the vast foyer. Before the silence could solidify, Colton pushed him back against the cold wall, his mouth finding Matthew’s with a practiced hunger. It was all tongue and teeth and the faint, sweet sting of whatever cocktail he’d been drinking. Matthew let himself be kissed, his hands coming up to grip Colton’s waist. He tried to lose himself in the sheer physicality of it, the weight of another body after a night of ghostly congratulations.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Wait.”
Colton pulled back, a smirk playing on his swollen lips. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… slow down for a second.” Matthew’s fingers went to the buttons of Colton’s shirt. He popped them one by one, pushing the fabric apart. Then he just looked. And then he touched.
He’d rarely been with a man sculpted like this. It was a different kind of beauty than Robert’s lean, musician’s frame. This was engineered, maintained. Matthew ran his palms over the hard planes of Colton’s chest, feeling the perfect swell of pectorals, the defined grooves of his abs. His thumbs traced the dense curves of Colton’s biceps, the skin smooth and warm over unyielding muscle. It was impressive. It was empty. A beautiful shell. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Colton’s sternum, tasting salt and cologne.
“Fuck, you’re staring at me like I’m a museum piece,” Colton chuckled, but he arched into the touch.
“Just appreciating the architecture,” Matthew murmured, the joke falling flat in the quiet space.
Colton’s hands were on him then, efficient and eager. He peeled Matthew’s jacket off, shoved his shirt up, mouth traveling down his neck as he worked Matthew’s belt open. The cool air hit Matthew’s skin, followed by the heat of Colton’s hands. There was a frantic energy to it, a race to get somewhere. Matthew let himself be steered, guided down the long hallway towards the primary bedroom.
They finished undressing beside the bed, a clumsy pile of expensive fabric on the floor. Colton was magnificent, all golden skin and dramatic shadows in the low light from the city below. He pushed Matthew down onto the mattress, following him, his body a heavy, welcome pressure.
“You want this?” Colton breathed against his ear, one hand already between them, gripping, stroking.
“Yeah,” Matthew lied, closing his eyes. “Just fuck me. Don’t be gentle.”
It was what he needed. Oblivion through friction.
Colton was prepared, a small bottle from his own pocket. The cold slick was a shock, then a burn, then a relentless, filling pressure. Matthew turned his face into the pillow, his hands fisting the sheets. Colton fucked with the steady, driven rhythm of a man used to performing. Each thrust was deep, punctuated by a low grunt, a slap of skin. It was steamy, it was passionate in a purely animal way. The bed rocked against the wall. Matthew’s body responded, heat coiling tight in his gut, a purely mechanical reaction to skilled stimulation.
He thought of Robert. Not the Robert who’d asked for this, but the Robert who’d kiss the back of his neck in a silent studio, who’d whisper a melody idea against his skin. The dissonance made his throat tight. He shoved the thought down, deeper, and met Colton’s thrusts with a ragged gasp, chasing the physical sensation to drown out the mental noise.
“That’s it, fuck, take it,” Colton snarled, his voice strained. His pace became erratic, pounding. Matthew felt the exact moment Colton’s control snapped, the flood of heat inside him triggering his own climax. It ripped through him, a sharp, searing release that left him breathless and hollow. A biological sigh.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Colton collapsed beside him, a sheen of sweat on his perfect chest.
They cleaned up in silence, a clinical process in the sprawling bathroom. Back in the bed, the space between them felt vast. The post-coital chill set in.
Colton propped himself up on an elbow, tracing a finger over Matthew’s shoulder. “So my agent sent me these scripts last week,” he began, his voice casual, too casual. “One’s a Netflix limited series, political thriller. The other’s an indie, gay romance, but like, a prestige thing, you know? Shooting in Italy.”
Matthew stared at the ceiling. Here it was.
“My agent says the director’s a fan of Invisible Strings,” Colton continued, referencing the album Matthew had done with Kacey Musgraves. “He thinks having someone with… a certain profile attached could help get it greenlit. You ever hear anything about that project? The Italian one?”
The hollowness in Matthew’s chest curdled into a slick, cold irritation. He’d just had this man inside of him. And this man was now doing a fucking market research probe.
“No,” Matthew said, his voice flat. “I don’t.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, if you do, maybe you could put in a word? I’d be so grateful.” Colton’s hand slid down to Matthew’s hip, a presumptuous claim.
That was it. The patience he’d been clinging to all night—for the award, for Robert’s absence, for this transaction masquerading as connection—snapped.
“You should go,” Matthew said, sitting up. The sheets pooled around his waist.
Colton blinked. “What? Now?”
“Robert’s flight gets in at nine. He’ll be here in the morning.” Matthew swung his legs out of bed, not looking at him. “We can’t have a sleepover.”
The silence was heavy, charged with a different kind of heat now. Colton recovered quickly, the actor in him smoothing over the rejection with a shrug. “Sure. Yeah, of course.”
He got up, gathering his clothes from the floor. He dressed with the same efficient grace he’d undressed with. He came back to the side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed Matthew. It was soft, surprisingly tender. A goodbye kiss. It felt like the biggest lie of the night.
“Congratulations again on the award, Matt,” Colton said, his smile benign, meaningless.
Then he was gone. The soft click of the front door echoed through the cavernous house.
Matthew sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. The silence rushed back in, louder than before, filled now with the ghost of thrusts, the echo of a pitch, and the crushing, immutable weight of a crystal award on a shelf downstairs that meant absolutely nothing. He reached for his phone on the nightstand. No new messages. He checked the flight status. Robert’s plane was still listed as on time.
He lay back down on sheets that smelled of sex and regret, and waited for the morning, for the man who was his home, to arrive at a house that had never felt less like one.
He lay back down on sheets that smelled of sex and regret, and waited for the morning, for the man who was his home, to arrive at a house that had never felt less like one.
He couldn’t stand it. The smell of Colton’s cologne was on his skin, in his hair. A clinging, oily residue. He got up, the floor cool under his feet, and walked to the bathroom. He turned the shower on full, the water roaring in the tiled enclosure until steam fogged the glass. He stepped in, flinching at the initial scalding blast, then letting it beat against his neck and shoulders. He scrubbed. Bar soap over his chest, his stomach, between his legs. He washed his hair twice, wanting to strip away the memory of the sweat, the contact, the transactional grunting. The water ran clear but he still felt dirty. A different kind of dirty. The kind that seeped into your bones because you’d let yourself become a convenience.
He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, the water pounding his back. His mind, unmoored, drifted backwards through the steam.
Five years. Heathrow, Terminal 5. A studio in north London, rainy afternoons bleeding into orange-hued nights.
He remembered the first day meeting Robert. Indigo Twilight’s label had begged him to produce their third album, a “make or break” moment. Robert had been all edge, clad in ripped jeans and a worn leather jacket, his sandy hair messy, a cigarette tucked behind his ear despite the studio’s strict rules. He had a raspy laugh that cracked through Matthew’s professional calm. They’d argued about a drum sound for forty minutes before Robert suddenly grinned, that blinding, disarming grin. “You’re a stubborn bastard. I like it.” The butterflies that day weren’t professional anxiety. They were a low, thrilling hum in his stomach. He’d heard whispers—Robert dated women, was seen with men in Berlin, was “fluid.” Matthew had tucked the information away, a secret, painful hope. He’d admired the raw, ragged emotion in Robert’s voice, the way his hands moved over a guitar. He’d crushed, hard and hopeless, thinking it was just another one-sided studio infatuation.
The memory shifted, sharpened. A week before the album wrapped. Three in the morning. Just the two of them, listening to a final mix of a ballad called “Anchorless.” The room was dark, just the glow of the console. The song ended, leaving a ringing silence. Robert had been sitting on the couch, head back. He sat forward, looked at Matthew with an intensity that pinned him to his chair.
“This song,” Robert said, his voice rough from singing all night. “It’s about you.”
Matthew’s breath caught. “What?”
“The feeling of it. The quiet. The finding-solid-ground bit.” Robert stood up, crossed the small room. He stopped in front of Matthew’s swivel chair. He smelled of tobacco and cheap coffee. He placed a hand on the armrest, leaning down. “You feel that, too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Then he kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was all confidence and demand, a slight scrape of stubble, the shock of warmth. Matthew froze for one endless second—the producer, the client, the rules shattering—before a dam broke inside him. He kissed back, a hand coming up to grip Robert’s jacket, pulling him closer. It was eager, messy, a relief so profound it felt like coming up for air.
That night. Robert’s flat in Camden. A messy space smelling of incense and old vinyl. They’d stumbled through the door, already pulling at each other’s clothes. The nerves hit them then, in the dim light of the bedroom. The giggling. Robert fumbling with the button on Matthew’s jeans. Matthew knocking over a glass of water on the nightstand. “Christ, you’re a klutz,” Robert had laughed, kissing his shoulder.
It wasn’t like with Colton. It wasn’t a performance. It was hesitant. Exploring. Robert’s mouth was hot on his neck, his chest, his stomach, moving lower until Matthew was gasping, his fingers tangled in that sandy hair. They took turns. Matthew learned the shape of him, the sound he made when he was close, a broken sigh against Matthew’s collarbone. It was fumbling, imperfect, their limbs tangling, finding a rhythm that was clumsy at first then perfectly, deeply right. When Robert finally slid into him, it was with a slow, trembling carefulness that melted into a rolling, building wave of pure feeling. They came within moments of each other, a shared, shuddering release that left them sweaty and breathless and laughing softly into the crook of each other’s necks.
After, they didn’t sleep. Robert pulled a quilt over them. Matthew lay with his head on Robert’s bare chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, tracing idle circles on his skin. They talked about everything. Robert’s fucked-up childhood in Glasgow. Matthew’s parents and the money they’d stolen. The bands they loved, the ones they hated. The dream of a house by the sea. They talked about nothing. The peculiar pattern of the water stain on the ceiling. The merits of different brands of whiskey. The sound of the rain starting up again outside.
That whole summer was like that. A perfect, stolen season. Mornings writing songs in sun-drenched studios, afternoons tangled in Robert’s sheets, nights in grimy pubs where Robert would play new riffs on a borrowed guitar, his eyes finding Matthew’s across the smoky room. It was equal parts steamy—quick, desperate sex against a alley wall after a show, Robert’s tongue in his mouth tasting of beer—and innocent—feeding each other chips on the South Bank, Robert’s cold hand tucked into Matthew’s jacket pocket.
Heathrow. The memory was a physical ache. Robert had been flying to Tokyo for a promo tour. Matthew was needed back in LA. They stood at the security line, a buffer of frantic travelers between them and the gate. Robert’s eyes were bright, liquid. He grabbed Matthew’s face in both hands, his thumbs brushing his cheeks. “I love you,” he said, the words raw, stripped of all rock-star bravado. “You’re my person. We’ll make this work. I promise.”
Matthew had kissed him, tasting salt—his own tears or Robert’s, he never knew. “I love you more than anything. Call me the second you land.”
The five years since were a rollercoaster of time zones and missed calls. Beautiful stretches: Robert renting a cottage in Big Sur for two months, writing an entire album together, waking up to fog over the ocean every morning. Frustrating silences: Robert disappearing for a week into the Berlin club scene, his phone off, only to resurface with a casual “Sorry, lost track of time, love you.”
Matthew had gradually understood. You couldn’t tame a storm. You could only love it and hope it wouldn’t blow your house down. The request to open the relationship hadn’t been a surprise. It had been a confirmation. I love you, but your love feels like a cage sometimes. Let me out to play, and I’ll always come back to you.
The shower water began to run cold. Matthew turned it off, the sudden silence deafening. He wrapped himself in a thick towel, wiping the condensation from the mirror. His own tired eyes stared back. He wanted none of the complicated, open arrangements. He didn’t want Colton’s hollow transactions. He wanted the simple, monumental thing: Robert here. In this too-big house. Groceries in the fridge. Arguments about whose turn it was to take out the trash. The quiet companionship of reading on opposite ends of the same couch. A real life. A shared one.
He wondered, with a sinking certainty, if he was ever going to have it.
But he also knew, as he walked back into the silent bedroom, the first grey light of dawn bleeding through the windows, that he had never loved someone more. And that was the trap, and the truth, and the whole fucking problem.