Chapter 12: Preparations
The air inside Studio A at Capitol Records was chilled to a perfect sixty-eight degrees, a climate-controlled womb for creating hits. It smelled of aging leather, ozone from the vintage tube amps, and the sharp, acidic note of fresh anxiety. Matthew stood behind the giant Neve console, its sea of knobs and blinking lights a landscape he usually commanded with calm authority. Today, it felt like the control panel of a plane he wasn’t sure he was licensed to fly.
Marie was fifteen minutes late. Ryan, already in the vocal booth with Sara, was sipping water and scrolling through his phone, the blue light washing over his face. He’d offered Matthew a quick, professional nod when he arrived, nothing more. The distance felt like a physical thing, a plexiglass wall erected between yesterday’s intimacy and today’s business.
Sara buzzed around the live room like a hummingbird, adjusting her headphones, stretching her calves. “I feel like my diaphragm forgot how to do this,” she laughed, her voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged space. “It’s used to yelling at kids about homework, not hitting a C5.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” Ryan said, not looking up from his phone. “A really high-pressure, expensive bike where everyone judges you.”
The heavy soundproof door swung open. Marie entered on a wave of jasmine perfume and visible irritation, trailed by a harried-looking assistant clutching a green smoothie and a silk robe. “The traffic from Malibu was apocalyptic,” she announced, as if announcing a state emergency. “And the air conditioning in my car is too dry. It’s murder on my cords.”
“We’ve got humidifiers,” Matthew said, his producer voice sliding on seamlessly. It was a mask that fit perfectly. “We’re just doing a scratch track today, Marie. No pressure. Just getting the feel.”
Marie eyed the booth like it was a dentist’s chair. “The feel. Right. Let’s hear this opus you’ve been hiding, Matty.”
He pressed play. The opening notes of Untouchable—the heartbeat pulse, the shimmering synth—filled the control room. Through the glass, he watched them. Sara’s face broke into an immediate, delighted smile, her body starting to sway. Ryan put his phone down, listening intently, a faint, unconscious smile touching his lips as the chorus melody unfolded. He looked up, through the glass, directly at Matthew. A charged, silent second passed before Ryan quickly looked away.
Marie listened with her eyes closed, one manicured finger tapping against her thigh. When the track ended, she opened her eyes. “It’s good. Pop. Current. The bridge is a bit low for me, though. I need a bigger moment.”
“The bridge is meant to be vulnerable,” Matthew said, keeping his tone even. “It’s the emotional core before the final release.”
“I am vulnerable,” Marie said, as if explaining gravity to a child. “From a higher register.” She walked into the booth, taking the center microphone. “Let’s run it. But Matthew, darling, make a note about that bridge.”
The first hour was a study in polite disintegration. Sara was rusty but enthusiastic, her voice sweet and true. Ryan was surprisingly focused, his actor’s ear for cadence making his delivery nuanced and warm. But Marie…
“Stop,” Matthew said into the talkback mic after the third take of the first verse. “Marie, you’re coming in a fraction early. Right on ‘ghost of you.’ It’s pushing the rhythm.”
“I’m feeling the rhythm,” Marie countered, hand on her hip. “It needs forward momentum.”
“The momentum is in the synth pad. Your vocal needs to sit back in the pocket, or it feels frantic.”
“My fans don’t listen for ‘pockets,’ Matthew. They listen for me.”
Ryan pulled his headphones down around his neck. “He’s right, Marie. You’re rushing. It sounds like you’re trying to catch a bus.”
Marie’s glacial eyes swiveled to him. “Well, we can’t all be masters of somnambulant delivery, Ryan. Some of us have star power to convey.”
“Okay,” Matthew interjected, his patience thinning. “Let’s take five. Hydrate.”
He stayed at the console, fiddling with a compressor setting he didn’t need to adjust. He felt a presence beside him. Sara, holding two cups of water. She handed one to him.
“She’s nervous,” Sara said quietly, watching Marie lecture her assistant about the smoothie’s temperature. “This means everything to her. She’s just channeling it into being a nightmare.”
“I know,” Matthew sighed. “But knowing doesn’t make it less exhausting.”
Sara sipped her water. Her gaze was perceptive, missing nothing. “You and Ryan seem… locked in. In a good way. The harmonies are seamless. It’s like you never stopped.”
Matthew kept his eyes on the faders. “We’re professionals.”
“Mhm.” She was quiet for a moment. “You’re also touching the small of his back to guide him back to the mic, and you’re sharing looks that have about seven layers of subtext. Professional subtext, obviously.”
His heart stuttered. He said nothing.
“Matt,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Look at me.”
He turned. Her brown eyes were wide, not with judgment, but with dawning, gleeful understanding. “Oh my god,” she mouthed. “You’re not just professionals.”
“Sara—”
“Shut up. How long? When? Is it… are you back together?” The questions tumbled out in an excited rush.
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, glancing toward the booth. Ryan was on his phone again. Marie was applying lip gloss using her phone’s camera. “It’s not… it’s not simple. It just happened. Once. Twice. I don’t know what it is.”
Sara grabbed his forearm, her fingers tight. “I knew it. I knew it the second you walked into Marie's kitchen. The energy was all wrong. Or all right. I don’t know!” She beamed. “This is the best news. This is the story that was always meant to happen!”
“It’s not a story, Sara. It’s a mess. There’s Robert. There’s Jonathan.”
Her smile faded into something more thoughtful, more sisterly. “Okay. Okay, right. The practicalities.” She squeezed his arm. “But my God, Matt. Your eyes when you look at him. You haven’t looked like that in twenty years. Maybe ever.”
“Please,” he begged, the word stripped raw. “Not a word. To anyone. This tour, this record… it’s too fragile. And Ryan… he’s with someone.”
Sara mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. “My vault. But you have to promise me you’ll figure this out. No more running. From either of you.”
Before he could answer, Kelly strode in from the lobby, a tornado in a tailored suit. “People! The label loves the track. They’re talking summer playlist flagship. No pressure!” She zeroed in on Matthew. “My office. Now. Bring coffee.”
Kelly’s “office” was a spare production room down the hall. She closed the door, muting the faint thump of the kick drum from Studio A.
“Marie’s being a pill,” Kelly stated, sipping the espresso he’d handed her. “Fixable. Sara’s a darling. Ryan’s better than I expected.” She fixed him with a hawk-like stare. “You and Ryan are magnetic in there. The chemistry is fucking palpable. The label execs watching the feed are already writing the ‘rekindled friendship’ narrative for the press junkets.”
Matthew leaned against a rack of gear. “Good. That’s what sells tickets.”
“Don’t play naive with me, Scott.” Kelly put her cup down with a sharp click. “I’ve been doing this since you were in diapers. I know the difference between performative chemistry and the real, messy, fuck-each-other’s-brains-out kind. You’re giving them the latter.”
He opened his mouth to deny it, but Kelly held up a hand.
“Save it. I don’t need the details. What I need is for you to not let history repeat itself in cataclysmic fashion. Last time this…” she circled her finger between him and the general direction of Ryan, “…this thing blew up, it took the band with it. Quietly, from the inside. This time, the stakes are higher. We have real money, real momentum. If this turns into a tour bus soap opera, it won’t just kill the reunion. It’ll be a spectacle. It’ll follow you.”
“I have it under control,” Matthew said, the lie tasting flat.
“Do you?” Kelly leaned forward, her voice low and intense. “Does Robert Healy, currently touring Europe and presumably thinking he has a boyfriend waiting for him in LA, have it under control? Does Jonathan… whatever his name is… have it under control?”
Matthew looked at the floor, at the cables snaking into the dark.
“Manage it,” Kelly commanded, not unkindly. It was the voice of a general sending a soldier into a minefield. “Compartmentalize. Be a producer. Be a professional. Whatever is going on, you keep it away from this work. You finish this record. You launch this tour. Then, on your own time, you blow up your personal life however you see fit. But not before. The financial and professional well-being of too many people—including yours—is riding on this.”
She stood up, straightening her jacket. “The track is brilliant, by the way. It’s got a yearning in it that’s going to connect. I just hope to God the yearning is for chart positions and not for your ex-boyfriend.”
She left him alone in the dim room. The air felt heavier, pressurized with warning. He splashed cold water on his face in the small sink, the droplets tracing paths down his neck. When he returned to the control room, the mood had shifted.
Ryan was in the booth alone, singing the problematic bridge. His eyes were closed, one hand cupped around his headphone. He wasn’t fighting the melody’s vulnerability; he was sinking into it, his voice a raw, cracked whisper that nonetheless carried perfectly.
…the phantom of the touch I can’t replace…
It was devastating. It was a direct line into the quiet, wounded heart of the song. Into Matthew’s own heart. He wasn’t producing anymore; he was just listening, transfixed, his hand frozen over the fader.
Marie, listening from beside him, was uncharacteristically silent. When Ryan finished, she let out a slow breath. “Okay,” she said, a note of grudging respect in her voice. “Maybe you don’t need to belt everything.”
Ryan opened his eyes, finding Matthew’s through the glass. This time, he didn’t look away. The connection was electric, a live wire strung across the room, humming with everything unsaid—the memory of skin, the weight of Kelly’s warning, the terrifying, beautiful possibility of a second chance.
“That’s the one,” Matthew said, his voice rough in the talkback. “We’ve got it.”
He held Ryan’s gaze for a beat too long, the professional mask slipping. In that moment, he knew two things with absolute, terrifying clarity: Kelly was right about the danger, and Sara was right about the story. He was no longer in control of either. He was just along for the ride, hoping the track they were laying down wasn’t the only thing that would be labeled Untouchable. Hoping his own carefully constructed world wouldn’t prove to be just as fragile as a high note held in the silent space after the music faded.
The final backing vocals were punched in, the last synth line automated. A strange, collective exhaustion settled over the studio, the kind that only comes from emotional labor disguised as work. Marie, finally satisfied with her ad-libs, swept out with a wave, her assistant scrambling behind. Sara hugged Matthew, a long, wordless squeeze that said everything about secrecy and support, before heading to the parking garage to call her kids.
Matthew was shutting down the console, the ritual of saving files and powering off amps usually a solace. Tonight, it felt like tidying a crime scene. Ryan lingered by the door, shuffling his feet on the thick carpet. "You need a hand with anything?"
"No. I think we got it," Matthew said, not turning around. He could feel the weight of Ryan's stare between his shoulder blades. "You should get home."
"Jonathan's not there."
The words, quiet and direct, hung in the hushed room. Matthew finally turned. Ryan was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, looking not like a soap opera star but like a nervous teenager.
"That doesn't mean—" Matthew began.
"Walk out with me?" Ryan interrupted. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a request, stripped of charm.
The Los Angeles evening was cool, the sky a deep indigo smudged with the orange glow of the city. Their footsteps echoed in the nearly empty concrete structure. The scent of car exhaust and distant jasmine replaced the studio's sterile smell. Ryan stopped beside his car, an understated Audi, and leaned against the driver's side door, blocking his own escape.
"Come over," Ryan said. The streetlight above cast his face in sharp relief, all angles and shadow.
Matthew’s gut tightened. The professional mask was gone, leaving only the messy aftermath. "Ryan, I don't... I don't feel right sneaking around like this. What happened in the studio, that focus, that was real. But this?" He gestured weakly between them. "It feels like we're back in a supply closet. I can't do the secret thing again. Not with Robert. Not with Jonathan. It's not who I am anymore."
"I'm not sneaking around."
Ryan’s voice was calm, clear. He took a small step forward, invading Matthew's careful personal space. The move was deliberate.
"I ended things with Jonathan. Two days ago."
The parking garage seemed to tilt. The distant hum of traffic faded to a dull roar in Matthew's ears.
"What?"
"It wasn't working. Hadn't been for a while, if I'm honest." Ryan’s gaze was unwavering. "I told him I didn't think we were compatible. He was hurt. Confused. But he didn't suspect anything. How could he? He doesn't know you. The real you. He only knows the guy from magazine photos and platinum records."
Matthew’s mind raced, scrambling for purchase. This changed the equation, violently. The ball, solid and heavy, was now squarely in his court. Ryan had cleared his side of the board. It was a gesture of terrifying finality. A declaration.
"And you're telling me this why?" Matthew heard the defensive edge in his own voice, a last bastion. "To pressure me? Because I'm not ready to—"
"I'm telling you," Ryan cut in, his own voice gaining a faint, ragged edge, "so you know I'm not playing a game. So you know I'm not here for a nostalgic fling before I go home to my boyfriend. I'm here. I'm free. And I want you."
The raw want in those three words was a physical force. It echoed off the concrete, stripping away twenty years of practiced distance. Matthew remembered the feeling of Ryan’s hands on him in the sunlit silence of his living room, the uncomplicated hunger. He thought of Robert, of the unread texts, of the metaphorical and literal ocean between them. Trusting Ryan felt like stepping off a cliff blindfolded. But saying no felt like choosing to remain in a beautifully furnished, empty room.
Ryan saw the conflict. He softened, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Look, you don't have to decide anything about Robert tonight. That's your life. Your call. I'm just asking you to come over. To talk. Or not talk. Just... be there. With me."
It was the 'or not talk' that did it. The honesty of it. The promise of a continuation, not a negotiation. Matthew’s careful, detail-oriented mind, the part that had built his career and his fragile stability, screamed at him to go home, to call Robert, to reinstate the order. But a deeper, older part, the part that had written Upside Down in a haze of secret longing, was already reaching for the car door handle.
He couldn't help himself.
"Okay," Matthew said, the word exhaled more than spoken.
A slow, real smile broke over Ryan's face, erasing the tension. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'll follow you."
The drive to Ryan's place in Los Feliz was a blur of streetlights and nervous energy. Matthew’s hands were slick on the steering wheel. He had just tacitly agreed to an affair. He had just walked past a line he'd sworn he'd never approach again. The ghost of Robert’s laugh from the Dover cliffs photograph seemed to mock him from the passenger seat.
Ryan's house was a mid-century modern nestled into a hillside, less sterile than Matthew's, more lived-in. Art covered the walls—bold, colorful abstracts—and guitars leaned in corners next to script binders. It smelled like sandalwood and coffee.
"Can I get you a drink?" Ryan asked, tossing his keys into a ceramic bowl.
"Water's fine."
Ryan brought him a glass, their fingers brushing again in the exchange. This time, Matthew didn't flinch. He took a sip, the cold water a shock.
"He really didn't suspect?" Matthew asked, putting the glass down on a coaster with a definitive click.
"No. He's a good guy, Matt. Simple. He wants to post protein shake recipes and get a one-line part on a police procedural. Our split was a mystery to him because his world is uncomplicated. Mine isn't. Not with you back in it."
Ryan moved closer, drawn into Matthew's orbit. "I meant what I said in the garage. No pressure. But I need you to know what I want. I want this. I want you. However fast or slow that goes. I spent twenty years being a coward. I'm not doing it again."
Matthew looked at him, at the fierce certainty in his blue eyes. This wasn't the scared boy who had chosen the closet over their love. This was a man who had come out, who had built a life, and who was now tearing it apart for a second chance.
"I don't trust you," Matthew said quietly. The truth, sharp and ugly, laid bare between them.
Ryan flinched, but held his ground. "I know."
"And I love Robert."
"I know that, too."
Matthew shook his head, a painful, disbelieving laugh escaping. "So what are we doing?"
"We're giving it air." Ryan reached out, his hand hovering near Matthew's cheek before finally making contact, his palm warm against his skin. "We're seeing if this thing, this phantom we've been carrying, can actually live outside of memory and a really good pop song." He paused, his thumb stroking Matthew's cheekbone. "Stay."
It wasn't a command from the studio. It was a question, fragile and full of hope.
Matthew closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. The sensible part of him was packing a bag, calling a taxi, retreating. But that part was losing its voice, drowned out by the pounding of his own heart and the feeling of Ryan’s hand, solid and real.
He opened his eyes.
"I'll stay."
Matthew’s words seemed to hang in the sandalwood-scented air, a vow stripped of everything but breath. Ryan didn’t smile. He just nodded, once, as if accepting a solemn charge. Then he closed the distance.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision of twenty years of silence, a desperate reunion of mouths that knew every secret. It tasted of studio coffee and unleashed want. Ryan’s fingers fisted in Matthew’s shirt, pulling him closer, as if he could dissolve the space between their bodies through force of will.
Matthew’s hands came up, cradling Ryan’s face, his thumbs sliding along the stubble on his jaw. The world outside—the tour, the contracts, the other lives they were currently butchering—melted into a distant hum. There was only this: the heat of Ryan’s mouth, the solid plane of his chest under Matthew’s palms, the low, frantic sound vibrating in his own throat.
They broke apart, gasping. Without a word, their hands went to each other’s shirts. Buttons gave way under urgent fingers. Fabric was tugged and pulled over shoulders, discarded in heaps on the polished concrete floor. The cool air hit Matthew’s skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of Ryan’s chest pressed against his.
They stumbled backwards toward the sofa, a tangle of limbs and hungry kisses. They landed in a heap, all roaming hands and rediscovered terrain. Matthew traced the lines of Ryan’s back, relearning the topography of muscle and bone. Ryan lowered his head, his mouth exploring the hollow of Matthew’s throat, the curve of his shoulder, his tongue tasting salt and skin.
It was slower now, deeper. A languid rediscovery. Their kisses grew longer, less frantic, more devastating in their thoroughness. Ryan’s lips traveled down Matthew’s sternum, his breath hot. Matthew arched off the cushions, his fingers threading through Ryan’s blonde hair.
“Bedroom,” Ryan murmured against his skin, the word more vibration than sound.
He stood, pulling Matthew up with him. They left a trail of clothing down the hallway—a belt, a sock, Matthew’s watch clattering on a side table. Ryan’s room was dark, blinds drawn, the bed unmade. They finished undressing each other there, in the dim light, the act itself a silent conversation.
Then they were naked. No more barriers, fabric or otherwise. Ryan guided Matthew down onto the sheets, his eyes black with intensity in the shadowed room. He kissed his way down Matthew’s body with a reverence that stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. His mouth was everywhere, and then it was there, and Matthew cried out, a shattered sound as the world narrowed to a single, overwhelming point of pleasure. He let go, completely, his hands fisting in the sheets, giving himself over to the skilled, knowing attention he’d spent a lifetime trying to forget.
After, when Matthew could breathe again, he returned the favor. He took his time, mapping Ryan’s body with his mouth, learning the new sounds he made, the way his hips jerked, the whispered curses that were prayers. When Ryan finally came apart under his touch, it was with Matthew’s name on his lips, choked and raw, a benediction and a claim.
They lay entwined in the aftermath, skin slick, hearts hammering a slowing syncopation against each other’s ribs. The digital clock on the bedside table glowed 11:47 PM. They talked. It spilled out of them in the dark—incoherent, hilarious, profound. They talked about the sheer terror of live TV during their Fusion4 days, about Sara’s disastrous attempt at baking seen-through brownies, about the time Marie locked herself in a hotel bathroom for eight hours over a bad hair color.
The laughter faded into quieter confessions. The conversation turned, inevitably, from what was to what might be.
“What do you actually want, Matt?” Ryan asked, his voice a quiet rumble under Matthew’s ear. “I mean, out of all of this. The noise.”
Matthew was silent for a long time, staring at a crack in the ceiling he couldn’t quite see. “I want to be done,” he finally said, the words feeling dangerous. “Not with music. Never with music. But with the industry. The perpetual scrutiny. The ladder that has no top. I’m so tired of building my life in rooms with no windows.”
He felt Ryan’s arm tighten around him.
“I want a cottage,” Matthew continued, the dream taking shape in the dark. “Somewhere it rains. Ireland, maybe. Or the coast of Portugal. Stone walls, a big, dumb dog, a kitchen that smells like real food. I want to produce music for obscure folk bands nobody’s heard of, just because I love the sound. I want quiet.”
“That sounds… fucking perfect,” Ryan whispered.
“I thought I wanted it with Robert,” Matthew admitted, the guilt a cold stone in his gut. “But he thrives on the noise. The bigger the crowd, the brighter the light, the more alive he feels. He says he wants to slow down, but he never does. He can’t. I don’t think he ever will. And I can’t keep waiting for a version of him that doesn’t exist.”
Ryan shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked down at Matthew, his expression unreadable in the gloom. “I want that too,” he said, simple and direct. “The cottage. The dog. The rain. The quiet.” He reached out, his thumb stroking Matthew’s lower lip. “I want that with you.”
The directness was a shock. It was also a key, turning in a lock Matthew had thought was permanently sealed. Before he could form a response, a jarring, electric chirp sliced through the room.
Matthew’s phone, discarded somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor, was ringing. The specific, pulsing tone he’d assigned to one person.
Robert.
The warmth of the bed evaporated. Matthew’s heart, so calm moments before, began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. Ryan went very still beside him.
“Don’t answer it,” Ryan said, his voice low.
But the phone kept ringing. A siren call from the other life. Matthew untangled himself from Ryan’s arms, the cool air painful on his bare skin. He scrabbled on the floor, finding his jeans, digging the screaming device from the pocket.
He accepted the call, his throat tight. “Robert? Is everything okay?”
“Matt! Christ, it’s good to hear your voice.” Robert’s voice was a burst of energetic warmth, crackling with a bad connection. He sounded like he was in a bar, or backstage. There was laughter in the background. “Everything’s brilliant. Listen, a miracle. The Hamburg shows got rescheduled. The lads are flying to Ibiza for a week. I’ve got seven days. Totally free. I’m on the next plane to LA. I’ll be there by lunchtime tomorrow. Surprise!”
The floor seemed to drop away. Matthew’s vision tunneled. He could feel Ryan’s eyes on his back, a physical weight.
“Tomorrow?” Matthew croaked. “But… the reunion. We’re in the thick of it. Studio time, meetings…”
“Perfect! I’ll be your muse. I’ll keep you sane. God, I miss you. I need to see you. It’s been too long.” Robert’s voice softened, intimate even through the static. “I’ve been thinking. About things. About us. We need proper time, Matt. This is it.”
Panic, cold and thorough, flooded Matthew’s veins. “Robert, I… that’s… amazing.” He forced the words out, trying to sound delighted, sounding only strangled. “I just need to… scramble a bit. You know, clear the deck.”
Robert laughed, a beautiful, careless sound. “Don’t scramble on my account. Just be there. I’ll text you the flight details. Love you.”
The line went dead.
Matthew stood frozen, the phone clutched in his hand, his naked body suddenly feeling grotesque and exposed. The ghost of Ryan’s touch on his skin felt like evidence.
“He’s coming.” Ryan’s voice was flat from the bed.
“Tomorrow.” Matthew turned. Ryan was sitting up now, the sheet pooled around his waist, his face a pale mask in the dark.
The silence was a crushing weight. Everything they’d just said, the fragile future they’d sketched in the dark, disintegrated under the glaring, urgent light of Robert’s arrival.
“I have to go,” Matthew said, the words automatic. He began rushing, a manic parody of dressing. Underwear, jeans, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. He couldn’t find his other sock. He abandoned it.
Ryan didn’t move. He just watched, a statue of withheld pain.
“Ryan, I’m sorry. I just need to… I need to think. I need to be at my place when he lands.”
“You need to get your story straight,” Ryan said, the words devoid of accusation, just a simple, terrible fact.
Matthew flinched. He found his shoes, shoved his feet into them without tying the laces. He looked at Ryan, at the beautiful, heartbreaking picture he made in the rumpled bed they’d just shared. He wanted to crawl back in, to pull the covers over their heads and hide. Instead, he turned and walked out of the bedroom.
He didn’t look back. He hurried through the living room, past the scene of their earlier passion, and out the front door into the chill night. The engine of his car roared to life, too loud in the quiet hills.
He sped down winding roads toward the freeway, his mind a cyclone of fragmented thoughts. Robert’s eager voice. Ryan’s quiet “I want that with you.” The cottage in the rain. The platinum records on his wall at home. Kelly’s warning about blowing up the tour.
He was a man hurtling toward a catastrophic convergence. He had exactly the hours of a single night to decide who he was, and who he was going to betray. The mess he was making was no longer a contained spill. It was a tidal wave, and he was right in its path, desperately trying to build a dam out of lies and hope, knowing it would never, ever hold.