Chapter 6: The Show Must Go On
The air outside the venue was a physical wall of sound and heat, a dense compound of bass from a distant stage, shouted conversations, and the fried, sugary smell of festival food. Jack, walking beside him, was vibrating with a contained energy that was both endearing and, to Matthew’s frayed nerves, intensely daunting. He’d dressed up a little—dark jeans, a vintage Joy Division t-shirt, the same corduroy jacket.
“You good?” Matthew asked, having to lean in close to his ear.
“I feel like I won a contest,” Jack said, his eyes wide behind his glasses, taking in the swirling chaos of the artist and crew entrance. “A really, really specific, life-altering contest.”
Matthew forced a smile, the weight of Evan’s disapproval from that morning still a cold stone in his gut. He flashed his laminate at security, nodding to a familiar road manager, and guided Jack through the labyrinth of chain-link fences and concrete corridors that led to the VIP compound.
The VIP area for the headliner was a different beast from the previous night. Larger, more industry-heavy, thrumming with a cooler, more calculated energy. It was all black curtains, low velvet lounges, and bottles of premium liquor glowing under blue LED strips. Evan was already there, leaning against a high-top table with a brunette from a streaming platform Matthew vaguely recognized. He saw them, said something to make the woman laugh, and extricated himself.
His walk over was deliberate. His eyes swept over Jack once, taking in the whole picture, before settling on Matthew with a look of profound professional amusement. “Matthew. And friend.”
“Evan, this is Jack,” Matthew said, the introduction sounding hollow even to him. “Jack, my friend Evan.”
“Hey,” Jack said, offering a hand. “Big fan of your work on The Echo. That single-shot in the third episode was stunning.”
Evan looked momentarily surprised, then shook his hand, his grip brief. “Thanks. A student of film, too?”
“A student of everything, I guess,” Jack said with a self-deprecating shrug. “It’s a condition.”
“I bet,” Evan said, his tone neutral. He turned his body a fraction, subtly excluding Jack. “Matt, a word? About the Lana sync?”
It was a transparent ploy. Matthew glanced at Jack, who gave a small, understanding nod, already turning to observe the bustling pre-show activity. Matthew followed Evan a few steps away.
“A ‘friend’?” Evan murmured, not looking at him. “He’s practically glowing. You fucked him again this morning, didn’t you? In the shower, I’m guessing, by the dewy complexion.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You made it my business when you dragged him into our professional space. This isn’t your private picnic blanket, Matthew. This is work. Half the people here will have him ID’d and linked to you on Twitter before Billie hits the chorus of ‘Bellyache.’ What’s your plan? Are you going to start producing his dissertation?”
Matthew’s jaw tightened. “He’s just seeing a show. That’s it.”
“Right,” Evan said, finally looking at him. The green eyes were hard. “And I’m just your concerned friend watching you drive your Tesla toward a cliff with a cute passenger. Enjoy the view.”
The house lights dropped then, plunging the crowd into a roar of anticipation. A seismic, synthesized pulse shook the platform floor. Matthew moved back to Jack as the first haunting notes of “bury a friend” poured from the massive speakers. Jack’s attention snapped forward, all other concerns obliterated. In the strobing, aggressive light, Matthew watched his face. He saw the analytical appreciation in the set of his mouth, the sheer fan-boy joy in the way he gripped the railing during the drop, the whispered recitation of lyrics. It was unguarded, pure. It was nothing like the cool, appreciative nods of industry veterans around them.
He found himself watching Jack more than the stage. The way his throat moved when he swallowed, the faint sheen of sweat on his temple, the relentless push of his glasses up his nose. Each detail felt like a stolen secret. The music, which he usually dissected for layer and compression, became a blurry soundtrack to this acute, hyper-focused study.
After the thunderous final encore, they were swept backstage. The energy here was electric, celebratory, a blast of cold air from an open cooler and the sharp tang of vodka sodas. Billie, dwarfed in an oversized graphic tee, was surrounded by a rotating orbit of friends and crew. She spotted Matthew, broke away, and pulled him into a quick, sweaty hug.
“Killer set,” Matthew said, meaning it.
“Your stem on ‘Happier Than Ever’ is still the backbone, don’t let anyone tell you different,” she said, her eyes flicking to Jack, who hung back politely. “Who’s this?”
“This is Jack. A friend from Chicago.”
“Hi,” Jack said, his voice steady but Matthew could see the awe in his eyes up close.
“A friend,” Billie repeated, a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face. She looked back at Matthew, her head tilted. “You look different. Lighter. Must be the Midwest air.” She nudged Matthew with her elbow. “Be careful, Matt. Muses are tricky. They start wanting writing credits.” She winked at Jack, who blushed a deep, furious red, before she was pulled away by her manager.
The word ‘muse’ hung in the air, buzzing and dangerous. Matthew’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. ROBERT. The screen glared up at him like an accusation.
“I need to take this,” he said to Jack, already moving toward a relatively quiet corner by a stacked flight case.
He hit answer. “Hey. You’re up late.”
“At this point it's just early,” Robert’s raspy voice came through, tinny with distance and what sounded like pub noise in the background. “Just leaving the Slug. Fucking dismal night. Tell me something glamorous. Tell me about the show.”
Matthew leaned against the cold metal of the case. He could see Jack across the room, accepting a water from a runner, his eyes searching for and finding Matthew. He gave a small wave.
“It was great. Billie was on fire. The new tracks live are insane.”
“And Evan? Still playing mother hen?”
“Something like that.” Matthew closed his eyes. “It’s loud here. I can barely hear you.”
A pause. When Robert spoke again, the background noise faded, as if he’d stepped outside. “I miss you, Matty. This… experiment. It feels hollow. These people. They’re just… faces.”
The confession, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, was a knife twist. Matthew saw Jack watching him, a soft, concerned crease between his brows. “I miss you too,” Matthew said, and the words were true, but they felt thin, stretched over a gaping new reality.
“Come to London after the festival. Surprise me. Fuck the schedule for a week.”
“I’ve got the mix sessions for Haim…” Matthew started, the automatic professional deflection.
“Right. Of course.” Robert’s tone shifted, the vulnerability snapping shut. “The work is king. Always is.” There was a beat of empty air. “Go on, then. Rejoin your adoring public. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The call died. Matthew stood holding the silent phone to his ear for a second too long. He had just lied through omission to the man he loved, while standing in a room with the man who was quietly unraveling him. The dichotomy was nauseating.
When he returned, Evan was there, standing too close to Jack, speaking in a low, intense voice. Jack’s posture was stiff, his smile gone.
“—just that Matthew’s been under a lot of strain,” Evan was saying. “The long-distance thing is a marathon. We all just want what’s best for him.”
“Evan,” Matthew said, his voice cutting through.
Evan turned, all innocence. “Just getting to know your friend. He was asking about Robert. I was explaining how tight you two are. Inseparable, really.”
The air between the three men crackled. Jack looked from Evan to Matthew, the excited light from earlier completely extinguished, replaced by dawning, painful understanding.
“I think I should head out,” Jack said, his voice quiet. “It’s getting late, and you’ve got your… things.”
“Jack, wait—”
“No, it’s cool. Thank you. For tonight. It was…” He seemed to search for a word that wouldn’t sound final. “Unforgettable.” He didn’t reach for a hug or a handshake. He just turned and walked, quickly, toward the corridor that led out.
Matthew made to follow, but Evan’s hand closed around his bicep, hard. “Let him go.”
Matthew shook him off. “What the fuck did you say to him?”
“The truth. That he’s a weekend diversion for a man in a committed, years-long relationship. That he’s in over his head. I did him a favor. You were going to break that kid’s heart through sheer, cowardly negligence.”
“You had no right.”
“Someone has to have a right!” Evan’s composure finally shattered, his voice a harsh whisper. “You’re my best friend, and I’m watching you sabotage your life for a bit of attention from a graduate student who looks at you like you wrote the fucking Bible. You don’t get to use people as emotional bandaids, Matthew. Not him. Not Robert. And you sure as shit don’t get to ask me to watch and applaud.”
The words landed, brutal and accurate. Matthew stared at the empty corridor where Jack had disappeared. The after-party noise swelled around him, a meaningless cacophony. The victory of the show, the thrill of backstage, the call from Robert—it all curdled into a single, leaden realization.
Evan was wrong about one thing. It was too late to let Jack go. He wasn’t a diversion. He was an anchor, and Matthew was already adrift. The terrifying part wasn’t the potential heartbreak. It was the realization that he no longer knew which direction was shore.
He left Evan standing there, the anger a silent, radiating thing. The festival’s afterglow was a smear of colored light and incoherent shouts as he pushed through the dwindling crowds, their celebrations feeling alien and distant. He walked without thinking, the humid Chicago night clinging to his skin, the path back to Hyde Park mapped in his muscle memory.
His knuckles rapped against Jack’s door, the sound too loud in the quiet hallway. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then the click of a lock, and the door opened just a crack. Jack stood there, still in the Joy Division shirt, his glasses off, his face pale and surprised in the weak light. He looked younger, his eyes red-rimmed.
“Matthew.” He said it flatly, a statement.
“Can I come in?”
Jack hesitated, then nodded, swinging the door open wider. The apartment was dark except for a single lamp by the turntable, which was silent. The air held the faint, clean scent of the soap Jack used. “I didn’t think you’d come,” Jack said, leaning against the back of his sofa.
“I’m sorry.About Evan. He’s—”
“You don’t need to apologize for him,” Jack interrupted, his voice tired but firm. He pushed a hand through his hair. “He’s protecting his friend. I get it. He just… said out loud what I’d been trying to ignore.” He met Matthew’s gaze, his expression painfully open. “I was selfishly hoping this could be something it’s not. That maybe the ‘open’ part meant there was an opening for me. It was stupid. Evan’s words were a wakeup call.”
Matthew felt each word like a physical puncture. “It wasn’t stupid.”
“It felt real. That’s the worst part.”
“Jack.” Matthew took a step closer. The space between them hummed. “Listen to me. I really like you. This weekend… these last three days have been the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Maybe years.”
A shaky breath escaped Jack. He looked down, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. “These have probably been the best three days of my life.” He looked up, his eyes glistening. “Which is so fucking pathetic, right? That my peak is someone else’s weekend.”
“It’s not pathetic. It’s true for me, too.” Matthew closed the final distance. “So let that be enough. Let’s just be happy that it happened.”
Their mouths crashed together then, a collision of salt and regret and a furious, desperate want. This kiss wasn’t like the others—not exploratory, not tender. It was a claiming and a goodbye fused into one. Jack’s hands clawed at Matthew’s shirt, yanking it untucked. Matthew fumbled with the button of Jack’s jeans, his fingers clumsy.
“Bed,” Jack growled against his mouth, breaking the kiss. He took Matthew’s hand and pulled him toward the bedroom, not bothering with lights. They undressed each other in the dark, fabric ripping slightly, a button pinging off the hardwood. There were no slow undulations, no teasing exploration. It was frantic. Matthew shoved Jack back onto the mattress and climbed over him, sucking a bruise into the hairy plane of his chest, biting at a nipple until Jack arched and hissed.
“Fuck, Matthew, just…”
Jack rolled them, his strength asserting itself. He pinned Matthew’s wrists above his head, kissing him deeply, messily. He released one hand to fumble in the nightstand, the sound of the cap snapping open loud in the dark. He slicked his fingers, his breathing ragged, and pressed one inside Matthew immediately, then a second in quick succession. The stretch burned, a bright, painful ache that Matthew pushed up into, craving the fullness.
“You ready?” Jack’s voice was rough, barely recognizable.
“Yes. Do it.”
Jack positioned himself, notching his cock at Matthew’s entrance. He pushed in with one brutal, deep thrust that punched the air from Matthew’s lungs. A ragged cry tore from Matthew’s throat. Jack didn’t pause, didn’t gentle. He set a hard, punishing rhythm, each slam driving Matthew deeper into the mattress. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a steady, desperate percussion.
“Is this what you needed?” Jack panted, his hips pistoning. “This? From him?”
“No,” Matthew gasped, his legs locked around Jack’s back. “From you. Only from you.”
Jack cursed, dropping his head to Matthew’s shoulder. His pace became erratic, wild. He reached between them, his calloused hand wrapping around Matthew’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a coil of pleasure wound impossibly tight at the base of Matthew’s spine.
“I’m gonna come,” Jack warned, his body tensing like a bowstring.
“Inside me. Come inside me, Jack.”
With a final, deep plunge, Jack obeyed. Matthew felt the hot, urgent pulses through the latex, the choked-off groan against his neck. It triggered his own climax, a violent, silent convulsion that spilled over Jack’s fist and his own stomach. They collapsed together, slick and heaving, the only sound their ragged gasps for air.
Jack carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom. He returned with the damp cloth, cleaning Matthew with a tenderness that belied their frantic coupling, then himself. He didn’t speak. He just pulled Matthew against him, fitting Matthew’s back to his chest, his arm a heavy weight across Matthew’s waist. Matthew settled into the hold, the decision to stay unspoken, absolute.
Hours later, in the deep blue silence before dawn, Jack’s voice was soft against his shoulder. “I understand this can’t continue. I’m not delusional.”
Matthew’s chest tightened. He said nothing, just listened.
“But I don’t want to go back to being strangers,” Jack continued. His fingers traced idle patterns on Matthew’s arm. “Can we try being friends? Actual friends. Texting sometimes.Talking. I don’t want to just be a story you tell.”
The request was so simple, so devastatingly sane. “Yes,” Matthew whispered. “I’d like that. I need to read your dissertation, anyway.”
Jack’s quiet laugh vibrated against his skin. “You do not. I don’t want to bore you to death from a distance. One weekend of me is plenty.”
They lay there, fighting the inevitable creep of light at the edges of the blinds. They talked in low murmurs—about a professor Jack hated, about Matthew’s fear of flying, about nothing that mattered and everything that did. They kissed, slow and deep, trying to memorize the texture and taste. They clung to the dissolving night, to the feel of skin on skin, to the fragile promise of a future that was only a muted, digital connection.
Matthew watched the room gradually define itself—the shape of the bookshelf, the spine of a Beckett collection, the rumpled corduroy jacket on the floor. Each detail cemented the reality of leaving. He held Jack tighter, as if pressure alone could halt the sunrise. Outside, a lone bird began to sing, a clear, indifferent note in the gathering light. The weekend was over. The world was waiting.
\Gray dawn light defined the edges of the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets and Jack’s sleeping form. Matthew watched the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers still loosely clutched the pillow Matthew had used. He extracted himself with a precision that felt surgical, each movement a quiet betrayal of the warmth they’d shared.
He dressed in the silent room, stepping into yesterday’s jeans, pulling on the t-shirt that smelled of sex and Jack’s cedarwood soap. He wrote his number on a scrap of paper from a notebook on the desk, adding his email below it. He left it on the pillow, a pathetic artifact. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a thumb over Jack’s stubbled cheek.
Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He didn’t startle. He just looked, the deep green of his irises clouded with sleep and immediate, understanding sadness.
“Hey,” Matthew whispered.
“Leaving now?”
“Flight’s at noon. I need to pack.”
Jack nodded, pushing himself up. The sheet pooled at his waist. He didn’t try to stop him. He just cupped the back of Matthew’s neck and pulled him in for a last, slow kiss. It was tender and thorough, a silent sealing of a promise. “Stay in touch,” Jack murmured against his lips, his voice gravelly. “For real. Not just the idea of it.”
“I will. I promise.” The words felt both utterly sincere and like the flimsiest of constructs.
Matthew stood, the floorboards cold under his socks. He shouldered his bag, gave one last look at the boy in the bed, the bookshelves, the life contained in this small, sunlit room. Then he walked out and pulled the door shut with a soft, final click.
The hotel room was a tomb of expensive quiet. He packed his suitcase with mechanical efficiency, folding the clothes that held no trace of Chicago except a few blades of dried grass in a cuff from the picnic. He showered, scrubbing away the scent, but the phantom feel of Jack’s hands seemed imprinted on his skin. By the time he wheeled his luggage into the lobby, he had constructed a convincing shell of normality.
Evan was waiting on a sleek lobby sofa, tapping aggressively on his phone. He looked up, his expression neutral in a way that conveyed profound irritation. “All set?”
“Yeah. Let’s get a cab.”
They stood outside under the hotel’s portico, the morning traffic a steady hum. Evan lit a cigarette, exhaling a sharp stream of smoke. “So. Have you finally gotten whatever that was out of your system?”
Matthew watched a bus brake at a red light. “It was a fun weekend. It’s over.”
“Fun.” Evan barked a laugh. “Right. Looked like a fucking heart surgery from where I was standing. And correct me if I’m wrong, but this was supposed to be our weekend. You and me. Friend shit. Not you playing house with a grad student.”
The hurt in Evan’s voice was unexpected, a raw note beneath the anger. Matthew turned to him. “It just happened. I didn’t plan it.”
“You never plan anything, Matt. You just let things happen to you and act surprised by the fallout. You used our trip for a seedy romantic getaway. That feels shitty.” He flicked the cigarette into the gutter. “Let’s just go.”
The cab ride to O’Hare was silent. The flight was worse. Evan put on noise-canceling headphones and closed his eyes, a clear boundary. Matthew stared out the window at the endless blanket of cloud. His mind replayed a useless, punishing highlight reel: Jack’s laugh as he explained modal interchange, the concentrated furrow of his brow behind his glasses when he listened, the shocking warmth of his mouth in the shower, the devastating simplicity of his request to just be friends.
It hadn’t felt seedy. It had felt seismic. And that was the problem. Robert’s proposal for an open relationship had been about physical variety, a safety valve for restless energy. It was never meant to include quiet mornings in Hyde Park, or conversations that lingered long after the sex was over. This was a threat Robert didn’t even know existed, growing in the quiet soil of Matthew’s own dissatisfaction.
He needed to dig it out. He needed to repair what he had with Robert, to reinvest in the familiar architecture of their five years. The turbulence over the Rockies made the plane shudder. Matthew closed his eyes and mentally drafted the script: he would be more present, he would schedule the trip to London, he would stop comparing, he would forget the feeling of peaceful certainty Jack offered because that peace was a trap, a slowing down, a death of the vibrant, chaotic energy that was Robert.
As soon as the wheels screeched onto the tarmac at LAX, the decision solidified into a compulsion. They disembarked, the humid smog of home hitting them in the jet bridge. Evan collected his carry-on from the overhead bin without a word.
“I’ll see you later,” Matthew said to his back.
Evan just waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder.
Matthew stood in the bustling terminal, the noise of reunions and rolling suitcases a dull roar. He found a slightly quieter corner near a charging station, the phone already in his hand. He pulled up Robert’s contact. His thumb hovered. Then he pressed call.
It rang four times. He pictured Robert in some dim London afternoon, phone buried in a leather jacket.
“Matty?” Robert’s voice, raspy with sleep or smoke, flooded his ear. “You land?”
“Yeah. I’m home.” Matthew took a breath. The words felt like stepping off a ledge. “Cancel whatever you’ve got next week. I’m coming to London. Surprise me back.”