Chapter 5: Butterflies and Ghosts
The hotel bar was all chrome and low-slung leather, a sterile contrast to the velvet den where Matthew’s weekend had detoured. Evan was already there, swirling an old-fashioned, the ice cubes clinking like a warning. Matthew slid into the booth, the ghost of Jack’s touch still humming on his skin.
“You look,” Evan said, not smiling, “like you just got away with something.”
“I had a picnic,” Matthew started, the words feeling absurdly innocent. He ordered a whiskey, neat. “In Grant Park. With that PhD student, Jack.”
Evan just watched him, those familiar green eyes sharp. Matthew found himself talking, the story spilling out in a rush—the blanket on the grass, the stupidly good cheese, the way Jack talked about Appalachian folk music with such reverence it made Matthew’s chest ache. And then the quiet walk back to Jack’s apartment in Hyde Park, the sun-drenched bookshelves, the way Jack had simply taken his hand and led him to the bedroom without a word of pretense.
“It wasn’t transactional,” Matthew finished, defensiveness creeping in. “It wasn’t LA. It was… easy. He made tea afterwards. We listened to a Basinski tape.”
Evan set his glass down with a deliberate tap. “Let me get this straight. Robert asks for an open relationship, and now you’re not just having a drink with a fan, you’re having pastoral sex and audiophile cuddle sessions with him? And you’re going back tonight?”
“It’s just for the weekend, Ev. It’s a disconnect. Robert’s in London doing god-knows-what. This is just… a thing. A pleasant, contained thing.”
“You’ve lost your mind.” Evan’s laugh was short, hollow. “A ‘thing’? Matthew, you don’t do ‘things.’ You build empires. You commit. That’s your whole deal. This?” He gestured at Matthew as if he were a puzzling artifact. “This is you trying to fill a Robert-shaped hole with a Jack-shaped plug. It’s geometrically unsound.”
Matthew stared into his whiskey. The truth of it, boxy and uncomfortable, settled in the booth between them. “Maybe Robert and I need… I don’t know, counseling. Instead of this.”
“Now there’s a novel idea,” Evan said, his voice softening a fraction. “You two talk more through song lyrics than actual words. A mediator might help.”
“He’d never go. He’d call it bourgeois psychotherapy.” Matthew drained his glass, the burn a welcome distraction. “Forget it. We have a show to see.”
The shift from the hotel’s hushed climate to the festival’s visceral swell was jarring. The air thickened with the smell of trampled grass, spilled beer, and sunscreen. The bass from a distant stage vibrated up through the soles of their shoes. They pushed through the pulsing crowd towards the VIP platform, a privileged island overlooking a sea of swaying humanity.
The VIP section was a bubble of comparative calm, velvet ropes holding back the chaos. Robert’s usual leather jacket was absent, a tangible reminder. They claimed a small table just as the first chords from the main stage signaled the beginning of Kacey’s set. Her voice, clear as a Texas sky, floated over them, wrapping around the dusk.
Matthew tried to lose himself in the performance, in the craft of it—the pristine mix, the pedal steel’s melancholy cry. He’d helped shape some of these sounds; his fingerprints were on the rhythm track for “Slow Burn.” But his focus was porous.
Then the opening notes of “Butterflies” began, that fluttering, golden riff he’d built with Kacey in his Malibu studio five years ago. The memory crashed over him with the force of a wave: Robert, fresh off a tour, stumbling into the control room, sun-bleached and smelling of jet fuel. Matthew had played him the nascent track. Robert had listened, silent, then pulled Matthew into a kiss that tasted of coffee and promise. “That’s the one,” Robert had rasped against his lips. “That’s the feeling.” The song had been about the terrifying, beautiful freefall of new love. Their love.
Now, standing under the Chicago sky, the song meant for Robert transformed. The butterflies in his stomach weren’t memories of sandy hair and a reckless smile. They were the phantom press of Jack’s glasses against his cheekbone in the dim bar. They were the quiet certainty in Jack’s voice as he explained the pentatonic scale. They were the image of a simple afternoon on a blanket, a future that looked like peace, not perpetual motion.
The perfect, sentimental ache of the song swelled, and Matthew closed his eyes. He was chasing the ghost of a feeling with Robert, while the real, solid, terrifying possibility of it stood in a studio apartment a few miles away, waiting for him to return.
The final chord of the set hung in the humid air, swallowed by a roar of applause that felt miles away. Matthew turned from the railing, the poignant ache solidifying into a single, clear impulse. He met Evan’s eyes across the table.
“I’m going,” Matthew said, his voice barely audible over the cheering crowd.
Evan didn’t speak. He simply took a long sip of his drink, his gaze a perfect mix of understanding and profound disapproval. That look, more than any argument, coiled in Matthew’s gut as he shouldered his way through the departing crowd, the festival’s energy now just a grating noise against his nerves.
The cab ride to Hyde Park was a blur of streetlights and silent recrimination. He paid the driver and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, looking up at the lit window of Jack’s third-floor walk-up. The commitment of walking inside felt immense. He climbed the stairs, each step a decision.
Jack opened the door before Matthew could knock. He’d changed into a soft, worn henley and sweatpants, his hair slightly damp. He didn’t smile, just reached out, fisted a hand in Matthew’s shirt, and pulled him inside, shutting the door with a soft click. His mouth found Matthew’s in a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of mint and anticipation.
“Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all evening,” Jack muttered against his lips, his hands already pushing Matthew’s jacket off his shoulders.
Matthew answered by grabbing the hem of Jack’s henley and pulling it up in one rough motion. The fabric caught briefly on Jack’s chin before he helped tear it over his head and tossed it aside. Matthew’s palms slid over the warm, dense fur of Jack’s chest, that thrillingly masculine texture he’d discovered that afternoon.
“Guess I’m not allowed to shave my chest anymore, huh?” Jack breathed, a low chuckle rumbling under Matthew’s touch.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Matthew growled, leaning in to bite gently at a nipple through the hair, making Jack gasp. Their hands were everywhere then, a frantic dance of buckles and buttons. Jeans and briefs were shoved down over hips, kicked into a pile on the hardwood floor.
They stumbled toward the bed, a tangle of hungry limbs and heated skin, falling onto the rumpled sheets. Matthew rolled on top, grinding their cocks together, the friction electric. Jack’s head fell back, a sharp “shit” escaping his lips as his hands gripped Matthew’s ass, pulling him down harder.
But then Jack shifted, reversing their positions with surprising strength, pinning Matthew beneath him. He kissed a trail down Matthew’s sternum, his stomach, his tongue dipping into the hollow of a hipbone. He took Matthew’s cock into his mouth without ceremony, deep and wet, his cheeks hollowing.
“Jesus, Jack,” Matthew hissed, his hands fisting in the sheets. The sight of Jack’s glasses, slightly askew, his focus absolute, was obscenely hot. Jack worked him with a slick, practiced rhythm, one hand cupping and rolling his balls, the other reaching for the nightstand drawer.
He pulled back with a soft pop, sitting up. He held a condom packet and a small bottle of lube. “To answer your question from earlier,” Jack said, his voice rough. “I usually top.”
Matthew looked up at him, at the earnest intensity in his eyes, the hard line of his erection. The ghost of Robert, who loved to take Matthew, flickered and vanished. Here was something different. A gift of control, offered quietly.
“Then top me,” Matthew said, the words leaving him like a surrender he hadn’t known he needed. “I want to feel you.”
Jack nodded, tearing the packet open with his teeth. He sheathed himself, then slicked his fingers, watching Matthew’s face. He pressed one finger inside, careful, then two, scissoring them gently. Matthew arched into the stretch, the burn a bright, cleansing fire.
“More,” Matthew breathed. “Now.”
Jack positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Matthew’s entrance. He pushed in with a slow, inexorable pressure that stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. He was thicker than Matthew had anticipated, a full, devastating stretch that bordered on pain before melting into a deep, penetrating ache.
“God, you’re so tight,” Jack groaned, sinking all the way in until their hips met. He held still, letting Matthew adjust, his forehead damp against Matthew’s shoulder.
“Move,” Matthew pleaded. “Just fucking move.”
Jack obeyed, drawing back and plunging in again, setting a deep, rhythmic pace. Each thrust was a jolt of pure sensation, driving the world down to this bed, this body, this connection. Matthew wrapped his legs around Jack’s waist, pulling him deeper, meeting every drive.
“Touch yourself,” Jack commanded, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled. “I want to watch you come.”
Matthew’s hand flew to his own cock, stroking in time with Jack’s pounding rhythm. The dual sensations coiled a tight spring in his gut. Jack’s pace turned frantic, his breaths ragged grunts in Matthew’s ear.
“I’m gonna come,” Jack warned, his voice cracking.
“Inside me,” Matthew gasped. “Do it.”
That permission shattered Jack’s control. He drove in once, twice more, his body locking as a raw, guttural cry was torn from his throat. Matthew felt the pulsing heat through the latex, and it tipped him over the edge. His own release shot over his fist and stomach in thick, white stripes, a blinding white noise of pleasure erasing every thought.
They collapsed together, slick and panting. Jack carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom, then returned with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned Matthew with a tenderness that contrasted violently with their raw coupling, then cleaned himself.
He put on a record—the soft, spiraling decay of a guitar loop Matthew didn’t recognize—and slid back into bed, pulling Matthew against him. Matthew’s head found its place on Jack’s hairy chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart slowing.
“So,” Jack said after a long silence, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Matthew’s shoulder. “This is probably a good time to say I know.”
Matthew went very still. “Know what?”
“About Robert Healy. Your… situation. It’s not exactly a secret if you read any music blog past 2018.” Jack’s voice was calm, factual. “I knew who you were in the record shop. I was a fan. Then I met you, and you were just… a guy. A really fucking compelling guy.”
The confession should have felt like a violation, a repeat of the transactional LA dynamic he despised. But Jack’s tone held no agenda, no hidden negotiation. “I should have said something,” Matthew murmured. “I have a boyfriend. It’s… open. He wanted it open.”
Jack shifted to look down at him. “I don’t care. He’s not here.” He brushed a thumb over Matthew’s lower lip. “You’re here. You’re mine right now.”
He kissed Matthew then, a deep, languid kiss that tasted of shared sweat and something perilously close to affection. As it broke, Matthew made an automatic motion to sit up, to gather his clothes, to re-enter the world where he was Robert’s partner.
Jack’s arm tightened around him. “Stay.”
“I should go back to my hotel,” Matthew said, the protest weak.
“Why?” Jack asked, simple and direct. “Stay the night. Please.”
Matthew hesitated, Evan’s disapproving look flashing behind his eyes. He looked at Jack’s face, open and wanting, and felt the terrifying pull of the simple, solid thing being offered. “Okay,” he whispered.
The moment he agreed, a cold clarity washed over him. He had crossed a line far beyond a physical act. This was emotional territory, a shared bed and morning light, and he had no exit plan. His phone, discarded on the floor, buzzed once.
He knew without looking it was Robert. A goodnight text, probably. A heart emoji. A photo from some London bar. The vibration felt like a tremor from another life.
Matthew silenced it. He pressed his face deeper into Jack’s chest, breathing in his scent—soap, clean sweat, him. He quieted his racing mind by focusing on the sound of Jack’s heart, the slow guitar loops on the record player.
They talked. They talked about everything and nothing. Jack told him about his dissertation research on Delta Blues field recordings, his voice growing animated in the dark. Matthew confessed his fear of becoming irrelevant by forty, a producer chasing trends. The night stretched on, a fragile, intimate capsule.
Lying there, Jack’s fingers carding softly through his hair, Matthew was violently reminded of his first night with Robert five years ago. That had been a similar marathon of talk and touch in Robert's bed, a feeling of the world narrowing to a single point of exhilarating connection.
He had that feeling again now. But this was different. With Robert, it had felt like catching a comet. With Jack, it felt like laying a cornerstone. The terror wasn’t in the potential of loss, but in the weight of what was being built.
He didn’t want this moment to end. The realization was a quiet, devastating fact in the dark. Outside the window, the Chicago night began to pale towards a dawn he wasn’t ready to meet.
He must have slept, because the next thing he knew was the sound of the shower running and a faint, steamy light bleeding from the bathroom door. The space beside him was empty, the sheets cool. Matthew lay there, cataloging the ache in his muscles, the unfamiliar smell of Jack’s detergent on the pillowcase.
The bathroom door opened a crack. “Water’s hot,” Jack called out, his voice softened by the tile. “Join me if you want.” It wasn’t a demand, just an open door. Matthew pushed back the covers and walked into the steam.
Jack was a silhouette behind the fogged glass, his head tipped back under the spray. Matthew slid the door open and stepped in. The hot water hit his skin like a shock. Jack turned, water beading on his glasses, and smiled. He took the glasses off, set them carefully on the ledge, and reached for Matthew.
They kissed under the stream, slow and lazy, their hands sliding over wet skin. Jack’s palm found the small of Matthew’s back, pulling their bodies together. The hair on Jack’s chest was plastered dark against his skin. Matthew explored the slope of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his back, the swell of his ass. He dropped to his knees on the textured tub floor, the water cascading over his head and shoulders.
He didn’t hesitate. He took Jack’s soft cock into his mouth, tasting clean skin and water. He worked him slowly, with his tongue and lips, feeling him swell and harden against his palate. Jack’s fingers threaded through his hair, not pushing, just holding.
“Christ, Matthew,” Jack breathed, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust.
Matthew sucked him deeper, using his hand to stroke the base, his other hand gripping Jack’s hip. The rhythm was merciless, all wet heat and pressure. Jack’s thighs tightened. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps that echoed off the tiles.
“I’m gonna come,” Jack warned, his voice tight.
Matthew just hummed in response, taking him all the way. Jack’s orgasm hit him; Matthew felt the pulsing throb against his tongue, the salty, bitter release flooding his mouth. He swallowed, keeping his mouth on Jack until he softened, until Jack’s grip in his hair loosened into a gentle caress.
Matthew stood up, water in his eyes. Jack kissed him, deep and tasting of himself, then sank to his own knees. He took Matthew’s cock in his hand, slick with soap, and stroked him with a firm, knowing twist. His thumb pressed insistently against the slit.
“Come for me,” Jack said, looking up, his face open and wanting.
It was the look, more than the touch, that undid him. Matthew’s release was a violent, shuddering wave, his come striping Jack’s chest and stomach, immediately washed away by the relentless spray. He braced a hand against the tile, breathing hard. Jack rose, kissed his shoulder, and turned off the water.
They dressed in a comfortable quiet, Jack loaning him a soft, faded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that hung loose on his hips. “I know a place,” Jack said, grabbing a worn corduroy jacket.
The coffee shop was all warm wood and the rich, bitter scent of roasted beans. They took a small table by the window, sunlight cutting through the steam rising from their mugs. Jack’s hand settled on Matthew’s thigh, a warm, casual weight as he talked about his neighbor’s chaotic dog.
“It’s just wild, you know?” Jack said, his thumb rubbing small circles through the corduroy of Matthew’s borrowed pants. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Two days ago you were a name on a liner note. A genius I admired from a fucking distance. I almost didn’t give you my number at the shop. My hands were shaking. And now…” He gestured between them, his smile soft, incredulous. “I feel stupidly lucky.”
Matthew’s coffee turned to acid in his stomach. The words ‘open relationship’ felt like a corporate term, sterile and insufficient to describe the cavern that had opened inside him last night. This wasn’t a transaction. It was a connection, and it felt like a betrayal.
“Jack.” Matthew’s voice was low. He waited until Jack’s eyes, bright and attentive, met his. “This has been… incredible. More than. But I need you to understand. It can’t go any further after this.”
The light in Jack’s face didn’t extinguish, but it dimmed, like a dial had been turned. He nodded slowly, his hand still on Matthew’s leg. “Okay. I understand.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I figured it was something like that.”
The disappointment was there, a subtle tension in his jaw. Matthew felt a pang of guilt, sharp and proprietary. He heard himself speak, the impulse leaping ahead of his reason. “Come to the show tonight. Billie Eilish. I can get you in. Backstage, VIP, the whole thing.”
Jack’s face transformed, lit from within by pure, unguarded joy. “Are you serious? That’s… fuck, yes. Absolutely, yes.”
Matthew’s phone buzzed on the table. A text from Evan lit up the screen: Where on earth are you? You have a 3 pm call with the label. Or did you get a PhD in ethnomusicology overnight?
“I should go,” Matthew said, standing. He leaned down and kissed Jack, a soft press of lips that tasted of regret and coffee. “I’ll text you the details.”
The hotel room door felt heavier than usual. Evan was on the sofa of his adjoining room with the door open, laptop open, a script annotated in red. He didn’t look up. “Enjoy your sleepover?”
“It was fine,” Matthew said, dropping his keys on the side table.
“Fine. You look thoroughly fined.” Evan finally glanced over, his green eyes cool. “Did you at least remember to use protection, or are you chasing a midlife crisis with a potential STI?”
“Fuck off, Evan.” Matthew went to the mini-bar, pulled out a water.
“You’re going to see him again,” Evan stated. It wasn’t a question.
“He’s coming to the Billie show tonight. As my guest.”
Evan slowly closed his laptop. He stared at Matthew as if seeing a complex puzzle he could no longer solve. “Have you actually lost your mind? What is the endgame here, Matthew? Is this a fuck-you to Robert? A test drive for a newer model? What do you want from this kid?”
“I’m doing exactly what Robert wanted us to do!” Matthew’s voice was too loud in the quiet room. “He wanted freedom. He got it. This is mine.”
“This isn’t freedom. This is you building a parallel life in a weekend because yours feels unstable. You’re not thinking with your head.” Evan stood, his voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper. “You’re thinking with your cock. And you are going to blow up everything you’ve built with Robert for a weekend of feeling twenty-nine again. Think. Just for one goddamn second.”
Matthew walked out, slamming the door to his own bedroom. He fell onto the bed, the silence pounding in his ears. He grabbed his phone. Three texts from Robert, sent hours apart.
Saw a busker doing a shit version of “Anchor” (our song) at Leicester Square. Made me miss your ears. x
Pub with the lads. Dreadfully boring. Wish you were here to make it interesting.
You alive, Matty? Chicago steal you away?
The casual affection, the assumed security of it, felt like a weight. He typed a reply, his thumbs clumsy. Alive. Chicago’s loud. Miss you too. He stared at the sent message, a bland lie by omission. None of this would be happening if Robert could just be satisfied, if he could want what Matthew wanted—a home, not just a series of departures.
He told himself this thing with Jack was a flare, bright and brief. It would be over after tomorrow’s flight. He repeated it like a mantra. But the memory of Jack’s hand on his leg, the easy conversation, the feeling of being seen not as a producer but as a man—it unspooled in him, relentless and warm. He was not in control. He was split, and both halves felt terrifyingly real.