Chapter 2: Psychological Preparation
The contracts arrived, were signed, and immediately the digital calendar on Matthew’s refrigerator began to blink with ominous new entries: Blocking rehearsal, Studio B, 10am. Vocal review, Sunset Sound, 2pm. Each notification was a tiny, electronic heartbeat of impending doom.
He’d thrown himself into work, producing a somber indie folk singer whose album required painstaking attention to the texture of acoustic guitar strings. It was a useful distraction. He could lose hours in the precise calibration of reverb, in the surgical removal of a breath that was too loud. In the studio, everything could be controlled, corrected, perfected. Life was not a studio.
Three days before the first rehearsal, a key scraped in the front door lock.
Matthew froze, midway through pouring a glass of Malbec at the kitchen island. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The cleaning service had come yesterday. A cold thread of alarm wound through his chest before a familiar, languid voice called out, “Darling? I’m home. And before you ask, no, I’m not a burglar. A terribly handsome one, perhaps.”
Robert stood in the doorway of the great room, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his leather jacket worn soft at the elbows. He looked like a beautiful storm that had blown in—hair artlessly messy, a two-day shadow gracing his jaw, his eyes bright with travel and mischief.
“You’re in Oslo,” Matthew said, the words stupid with surprise. The wine bottle hovered mid-air.
“I was. Then I finished early, looked at my schedule, saw a vast, empty three days, and thought to myself, ‘Robert, your beloved is about to relive his teenage traumas for national television. He needs you.’ So I got on a plane.” He dropped his bag with a thud and opened his arms. “Aren’t you going to welcome your knight in slightly-rumpled armor?”
Matthew set the bottle down, a laugh escaping him—a short, relieved burst of sound. He crossed the room and let himself be folded into Robert’s embrace. He smelled of airplane air and his own particular scent of sandalwood and cigarettes. Solid. Real. “You’re mad. You hate flying for fun.”
“I do. But I love you more than I hate Norwegian Air’s snack options.” Robert kissed his temple, then his lips, a warm, claiming pressure that seemed to dissolve the coiled tension in Matthew’s shoulders. “You sounded stressed on the phone. And I was bored. So here I am. Rescue mission.”
“It’s not a rescue mission,” Matthew murmured into his shoulder, clinging a moment longer than necessary. “It’s a one-song nonsense gig.”
“And the lead singer of the ‘one-song nonsense gig’ is the man who broke your heart. Let’s not minimize the Shakespearean potential for drama.” Robert pulled back, holding him at arm’s length, his gaze scanning Matthew’s face. “You look tired. Have you been overthinking this into a bloody epic?”
“I’ve been working.”
“You’ve been obsessing. I know the difference.” He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa. “Right. First order of business. Food. I’m starved. Second order of business. A proper distraction.”
They ordered Thai food and ate on the floor by the coffee table, knees touching. Robert talked about the Oslo gig, about a fan who’d thrown a bra that had hit the drummer in the face, about the peculiar stillness of Scandinavian backstage rooms. His stories were a wave of normalcy, of the chaotic, glamorous, ridiculous world Matthew had chosen to link his life to. Robert lived in moments, not in memories. It was his greatest strength and, sometimes, his most profound limitation.
“Have you spoken to him?” Robert asked casually, scooping more panang curry onto his rice.
Matthew didn’t need to ask who. “No. All the logistics are going through our agents and the show’s producers. A coordinated social media post is scheduled for tomorrow. That’s it.”
“Clever. Avoid the awkward pre-game chatter.” Robert chewed, thoughtful. “And the boyfriend? Jonathan?”
“What about him?”
“Is he the looming, muscular type who’ll be glaring from the sidelines? Protective, that sort of thing?”
The image was so foreign to the Ryan he’d known—a Ryan who prized independence and cool above all—that Matthew almost laughed. “I doubt it. From his Instagram, he seems… placid. He makes smoothies.”
Robert’s eyebrow quirked. “You’ve been Instagram-stalking the boyfriend. I see we are at Defcon Two on the anxiety scale.”
“Research,” Matthew said, too quickly.
“Of course.” Robert’s smile was soft, knowing. He reached over and wiped a stray grain of rice from Matthew’s chin with his thumb. “You know, you could always just not go. Burn the contract. Flee to a non-extradition country. I know a guy in Montenegro.”
“I signed it. Sara’s excited. It’s… it’s happening.”
“Then we’ll face it head-on.” Robert said it with such easy certainty. He stacked their empty containers, his movements efficient. “And tonight, we don’t think about it at all.”
He stood, extending a hand. Matthew took it, letting himself be pulled up. Robert didn’t let go. He drew Matthew closer, until their bodies aligned from chest to thigh. The familiar heat of him was a shock to Matthew’s system, which had been running on cold anxiety for days.
“Missed you,” Robert whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Matthew’s ear.
It was a simple statement, but in Robert’s mouth, it felt like a revelation. They’d been apart for six weeks—not unusual, but longer than usual. The distance was a fact of their lives, a negotiated peace. But here, now, with the physical proof of him filling Matthew’s senses, the absence of those weeks yawned, vast and hollow. He’d missed this. The solidity. The undeniable thereness.
Matthew answered by kissing him, pouring all the unspoken fear and coiled tension into it. It was less a kiss and more a claiming, a desperate reaffirmation of his present. Robert met him with equal fervor, his hands coming up to frame Matthew’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
Robert met him with equal fervor, his hands coming up to frame Matthew’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones. The kiss unraveled something tight in Matthew’s chest, a knot he’d been carrying since Kelly’s call. He fumbled with the buttons of Robert’s shirt, his fingers unsteady against the worn cotton. “Need you here,” Matthew breathed against his mouth, the words more confession than request.
“I am here.” Robert’s voice was a low rumble. He helped, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders until it fell, forgotten, to the polished concrete floor.
Matthew’s palms slid over the familiar landscape of him—the defined planes of his chest, the scatter of dark hair, the lean muscle of his stomach that clenched under his touch. He lowered his head, mapping the territory with his lips, tasting salt and the faint, clean scent of his skin. It was a ritual of return, a tactile proof of presence. Robert’s breath hitched, his fingers threading into Matthew’s hair.
Then Robert’s hands were at his waist, pulling at his own shirt. “My turn,” he murmured, and the soft fabric was drawn up and over Matthew’s head. The cooler air of the room whispered over his skin, followed immediately by the heat of Robert’s body as they pressed together again, skin to skin. The contrast was electric, a shock of pure sensation that short-circuited thought.
They stood tangled in the kitchen, the residual smells of lemongrass and chili oil in the air, kissing with a slow, deep hunger. Robert’s hands roamed his back, tracing the line of his spine, pulling him closer until the buckle of Robert’s jeans pressed a dull promise against Matthew’s hip. There was no rush, only the deliberate, wordless conversation of touch, a rebuilding of intimacy stitch by stitch. Matthew let his head fall back as Robert’s mouth traveled the column of his throat, a soft groan escaping him.
“Bedroom,” Robert finally said, the word rough at the edges.
They left a trail of clothes from the kitchen doorway down the hall—belts, jeans, socks—a hapherscript of urgency. The muted city lights bled through the blinds in the bedroom, painting stripes of silver across the rumpled duvet. Robert pushed him gently onto the edge of the mattress and knelt before him, his eyes holding Matthew’s in the dimness. His hands settled on Matthew’s hips, steadying, claiming.
What followed was not an act of performative passion, but one of profound re-acquaintance. Robert’s mouth on him was focused, unhurried, a reclamation of territory that had only been separated by geography and time. Matthew’s hands fisted in the sheets, then in Robert’s hair, his senses narrowing to this single point of exquisite connection. The world, with its impending rehearsals and ghosted memories, dissolved into a rising tide of feeling that crested, broke, and left him breathless and trembling.
After, he pulled Robert up beside him, their bodies slick and languid. He returned the favor with the same deliberate care, losing himself in the rhythm of Robert’s ragged breathing, in the tremors that passed through his body. It was an exchange, a quiet conversation of pleasure that spoke of knowing, of five years of learned intimacy.
They collapsed side by side in the dark, legs intertwined, the only sound their slowing breaths. Robert turned his head on the pillow, a slow, sated smile touching his lips. “See?” he whispered, his voice scratchy. “No thinking about boy bands required.”
Matthew huffed a laugh, the remaining tension leaching from his muscles into the cool cotton. He draped an arm over Robert’s waist, anchoring himself in the solid reality of this man, this moment. The rehearsal was still coming. Ryan was still coming. But for now, the silence in the room was soft, and complete.
But for now, the silence in the room was soft, and complete.
Later, tangled in the damp sheets, Matthew rested his head on Robert’s chest. He listened to the steady thump of his heart beneath his ear, a metronome keeping time in the dark. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling, and he idly traced circles through the light dusting of hair on Robert’s sternum.
“We should just go,” Matthew murmured, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.
“Go where, darling?” Robert’s hand stroked his back, absent and warm.
“Somewhere no one has streaming services. A white village in Spain, up in the hills. One house, no Wi-Fi, just a view of olive groves.” The words were a familiar, sleepy incantation. “We could forget fusion anything and twilight anything. Just exist.”
Robert’s chest vibrated with a low, comfortable laugh. “Your dream of Andalusian exile.” He kissed the top of Matthew’s head. “Who would produce my terribly important rock anthems? Who would manage your mother’s weekly crisis calls about her orchid?”
“We’d get a satellite phone for the orchids. A very slow one.”
“And the Indigo Twilight autumn tour? The sessions for the new album? Your name is inked on the contract, maestro. In very expensive ink.” Robert’s tone was fond, dismissive, a well-worn groove in the record of this conversation. He shifted, wrapping an arm more tightly around Matthew. “We’ll go for a long holiday after. Two weeks, maybe three. I promise.”
Matthew knew the promise was air, shaped by good intentions but lacking any substantive foundation. He tried to savor the moment—the weight of the arm, the smell of their shared skin, the profound quiet of the house. But the old twinge of pain, delicate and precise as a needle, found its mark. He wanted the house. He wanted the tangled garden and the shared, silent mornings. He wanted to settle into a life that didn’t require flight schedules and separate continents.
He feared, deeply, that with Robert, it would never happen.
“Right,” Matthew whispered into the dark. “After.”
He closed his eyes and let the sound of Robert’s breathing, already deepening toward sleep, fill the space. The rehearsal was in forty-eight hours. Ryan was a ghost waiting in a studio on Sunset. And the man he loved was already dreaming of stadiums, not silent Spanish hills. Matthew held on tighter, as if he could anchor them both to this single, fleeting point in time.
Matthew held on tighter, as if he could anchor them both to this single, fleeting point in time.
For the next few days, they built a temporary, perfect world within the hillside house. They played the grand piano together, Robert mangling an Oasis cover while Matthew improvised complex jazz chords underneath to confuse him. They ordered ridiculous amounts of sushi and ate it straight from the containers, and Robert listened, truly listened, as Matthew dissected the vocal arrangements for "Upside Down" with detached, professional interest.
“The second harmony on the bridge is deceptively simple,” Matthew said, pointing at the sheet music on his stand. “Sara always wanted to belt it, but it works better as a breathy counterpoint.”
“Fascinating,” Robert said, not looking at the music. He was watching Matthew’s face, a soft, unreadable expression in his eyes. He didn’t mention Ryan’s name again.
The morning of Robert’s departure dawned bright and harsh. His flight to London was at seven in the evening, connecting to rehearsals in Berlin. Matthew made coffee, the silence between them growing thicker with each passing hour. He could feel the goodbyes stacking up in the room.
“Just stay,” Matthew said abruptly. He was at the sink, not looking at Robert, who was re-packing his duffel by the sofa. The words hung there, blunt and pleading.
Robert’s hands stilled on a folded shirt. He didn’t look up. “You know I can’t, Matt. The band’s already there. Studio time is booked, promoters are paid.”
“One day. Come to the first rehearsal with me tomorrow. Fly out after.” Matthew turned, gripping the cold granite countertop. “Just be there when I walk in.”
Robert finally met his eyes, his expression pained. “It’s a blocking rehearsal. You’ll be working. I’d just be some bloke leaning against a wall, glaring at your ex on behalf of a wound I don’t actually understand.” He zipped the bag with a definitive sound. “It’s ancient history, darling. What’s he going to do, sing off-key at you?”
That was the heart of it. The canyon between understanding and truly knowing. Robert saw a minor, awkward professional encounter. Matthew’s entire body was remembering the feeling of Ryan’s hands, the specific way his laugh used to unravel something in his chest, the devastating quiet of the phone call that ended it all. History wasn’t ancient when its architect was waiting for you in a studio.
“Right,” Matthew said, the fight leaving him. “Of course.”
Robert crossed the room and pulled him into a hug. “You’re Matthew Scott. You’ve produced albums that defined genres. That man is a footnote in your story, not the other way around.” He kissed him, hard. “Text me when it’s done. I’ll call you after the Berlin soundcheck.”
Matthew walked him to the hired car. They kissed once more, a quick press of lips under the indifferent California sun. Then Robert slid into the black sedan, gave a jaunty wave, and was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the winding canyon road.
The house didn’t feel sleek and modern anymore. It felt cavernous. Every sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant whine of a leaf blower—was amplified in the silence he’d been dreading. He stood in the great room, his eyes landing on the grand piano, the platinum records, all the curated evidence of his success.
It meant nothing. The professional armor felt thin as rice paper.
He poured a drink but didn’t drink it. He pulled up the rehearsal schedule on his phone. 10 AM. Studio B. Call Time: 9:30 for hair/makeup test. Sara had texted a string of excited emojis and a photo of her five kids holding a homemade "Go Mom!" banner. Marie had sent a terse, professional confirmation. From Ryan, there was only a read receipt on the group thread.
Matthew’s fingers hovered over his own phone’s keyboard. He could call Robert right now, hear the bustle of an airport terminal behind him, and maybe say the words that would make him understand. It’s not a footnote. It’s the first chapter. And I’m terrified of how the book might end.
He didn’t call.
Instead, he sat in the growing dark, the city a sprawl of twinkling indifference below. He was no longer a successful thirty-eight-year-old producer. He was nineteen again, in a cheap hotel room after a show, listening to the quiet, frantic rhythm of another boy’s heart, and believing, with every fiber of his being, that it was a sound he would get to keep. The memory was a physical ache, fresh and startling in its intensity.
Tomorrow, he would have to face the source of that sound. He would have to stand beside him and harmonize. Matthew finished the drink in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to warm the cold, hollow place Robert’s departure had left behind. The night stretched ahead, long and entirely his own.