Chapter 6: Reclamation
The Pacific was a sheet of hammered silver in the late afternoon light as Matthew guided his car along the PCH, the ocean air doing little to clear the static in his head. The ghost of Ryan's embrace clung to him, a tactile memory pressed against his chest, the whispered words—what could have been—looping like a corrupted track. He was so deep in the replay that the vibration of his phone in the cupholder made him jump.
He fumbled for it, saw Robert’s name, and a different kind of tension tightened his throat. “Hey, you.”
“Matty.” Robert’s voice was a warm, scratchy rasp, the sound of backstage and late nights. There was a roar of ambient noise behind him, a terminal announcement. “Just touched down at LAX. Managed to twist fate, love. The Berlin gig got pushed. I’m here for the whole bloody week.”
Matthew’s grip on the wheel tightened. “You’re… here? Now?”
“In the flesh. Cab’s pulling up. Give me your address again, the one in Hollywood. I’m coming straight to you.”
The surge of elation was immediate, sweet, and then it mutated, complicated by the lingering scent of Ryan’s cologne on his own shirt. “That’s… incredible. I’m just driving back from Malibu. I’ll beat you there. I’ll open the wine.”
“Fuck the wine,” Robert laughed, a low, promising sound. “Just be there. Missed you.”
The call ended, leaving Matthew in sudden, vibrating silence. He’s here. The thought should have drowned out everything else. But as he accelerated towards the city, the two men in his life began a dissonant chorus in his mind.
The key was still in the deadbolt when the elevator down the hall chimed. Matthew turned, a bottle of Malbec in hand, to see Robert striding down the corridor, a worn leather duffel slung over one shoulder. He looked like a rumpled rock god rejected from heaven: tight black jeans, a faded Clash t-shirt, three-day stubble, and eyes that found Matthew instantly, gleaming with jetlag and intention.
“Hey,” Matthew breathed.
Robert didn’t answer with words. He dropped his bag with a thud, crossed the space in three long strides, and cradled Matthew’s face in his hands. The kiss wasn’t hello. It was a reclamation. Deep, hungry, all tongue and heat and the faint, familiar taste of airport whiskey. The wine bottle thunked onto the console table, forgotten.
Robert’s hands slid from Matthew’s face, down his neck, over his shoulders, gripping hard as if checking for damage. Or possession. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Matthew’s, breath coming sharp. “Tell me you missed me.”
“You know I did.”
“Tell me.” Robert’s voice was a gravelly command.
“I missed you, Robert. Every day.”
That seemed to unlock him. Robert’s mouth found Matthew’s again, a bruising press as his hands went to the hem of Matthew’s linen shirt, yanking it up and over his head. Fabric snagged on his watch. Matthew heard a button pop and skitter across the floor. It was frantic, devoid of the usual teasing preamble.
“Bedroom,” Matthew managed, but Robert was already walking him backwards, shoving his own t-shirt off, their mouths separating only by millimeters. The back of Matthew’s knees hit the edge of the large platform bed, and he fell onto the cool duvet, Robert coming down on top of him, a delicious, familiar weight.
Jealousy. The thought was a cold splash in the heat. Is this about Ryan? Robert’s mouth was on his throat, sucking a mark that would be hard to hide tomorrow. His hands were everywhere, rough and claiming, mapping Matthew’s slimmer body as if searching for new contours, evidence of another’s touch.
“Fuck, Matty,” Robert growled against his collarbone, his fingers making quick work of Matthew’s belt and fly. He wrenched jeans and underwear down together in one violent, efficient motion. “Need to be inside you. Now.”
The rawness of it, the sheer need, stole the breath from Matthew’s lungs. This wasn’t their usual rhythm. This was a statement. “Yeah,” Matthew heard himself gasp, arching up. “Yeah, do it.”
Robert shoved himself up, kneeling on the bed to strip his own jeans, his cock already thick and hard. He fumbled in the nightstand drawer, found a bottle of lube, slicked himself with a few hurried strokes. His eyes never left Matthew’s.
“Turn over,” Robert said, his voice thick.
Matthew obeyed, rolling onto his stomach, then pushing up onto his knees. He felt exposed, vulnerable, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cool air on his skin, then the hotter, heavier press of Robert’s body covering his back. A lubed finger pressed against him, not teasing, just a blunt, urgent preparation. He flinched.
“Relax,” Robert murmured, but it was an order, not a comfort. The finger pushed in, a brief, burning stretch, then a second joined it too soon, scissoring quickly. Matthew buried his face in the duvet, a groan escaping him. It was almost too much, too fast, but it also lit a fuse in his gut, a primal response to being wanted with this kind of desperate intensity.
Robert withdrew his fingers. The blunt, slick head of his cock pressed where they had been. He gripped Matthew’s hips, his fingers digging into the bone.
“Mine,” Robert whispered, a ragged claim lost in the sound of the city through the open window.
Then he pushed in.
A sharp, punched-out gasp left Matthew’s lips. The invasion was swift, brutal, an exquisite burn of full, immediate penetration. Robert didn’t stop, didn’t pause for him to adjust. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one long, relentless thrust, his pelvis slapping against Matthew’s ass.
“Christ,” Robert hissed, bowing over him, his breath hot on Matthew’s neck.
He began to move. Hard, deep, punishing strokes that shook the bed frame. Each thrust drove Matthew forward, his hands scrambling for purchase on the rumpled duvet. The wet, filthy sound of skin on skin, of Robert’s balls slapping against him, filled the room. Robert’s grunts were animalistic, wordless.
Is he thinking of him? The thought was a torment. Is he fucking Ryan out of me? It should have hurt, but twisted with the physical stretch, the overwhelming presence of the man he loved, it ignited something darker, more visceral. Matthew pushed back against each thrust, meeting his force, a soft, broken “oh, fuck” escaping him with every drive.
Robert’s hand snaked around his hip, finding Matthew’s cock, which was hard and leaking onto the sheets. He gripped it, his strokes rough and out of sync with his pounding rhythm, creating a chaotic, overloaded sensation that climbed Matthew’s spine.
“You feel… so fucking… good,” Robert gritted out, his pace becoming erratic, losing its punishing rhythm for a frantic, jerking chase. “Gonna come. Gonna fill you up.”
That was all it took. The raw, obscene promise tipped Matthew over the edge. His orgasm ripped through him, blinding and silent at first, a white-hot seizure of his muscles that clamped around Robert’s cock. Then the sound followed, a choked, ragged cry as he spilled over Robert’s fist and onto the duvet.
Robert gave three more jagged, hard thrusts and stilled, buried deep. A long, guttural groan shuddered out of him as he pulsed inside Matthew, his whole body locking and shaking with the release.
They collapsed together, a ruin of sweat and spent breath. Robert’s weight was crushing, comforting. He softened inside Matthew but didn’t pull out, his face buried in the space between Matthew’s shoulder blades. His heart pounded a tattoo against Matthew’s back.
Minutes passed. The world seeped back in: the distant wail of a siren, the faint smell of sex and Robert’s particular scent of leather and sandalwood.
Robert finally rolled off, onto his side. He pulled Matthew against him, spooning him, his arm a heavy band across Matthew’s chest. He nuzzled his damp hair. “That was…”
“Intense,” Matthew finished quietly.
Robert gave a faint, breathy laugh. “Yeah.” He was silent for a long moment. His fingers traced idle patterns on Matthew’s sternum. “So. Malibu. How was the ex?”
The question, coming now in the spent quiet, was a landmine. Matthew’s entire body went still. Here it is.
“It was… productive. For the band.” He chose his words with the care of a bomb disposal expert. “Emotional. A lot of history.”
Robert’s hand stilled. “Yeah. I bet.”
He didn’t ask more. He just held tighter, his embrace softening from claiming to something nearing desperation. Matthew lay awake in the dark, feeling the dry ache of Robert’s climax inside him, listening to Robert’s breathing even out into sleep.
The embrace on the Malibu deck had been a ghost, a whisper of a lost song. This, tonight, had been a screaming guitar solo, all feedback and primal need. But as Matthew stared at the shifting streetlight patterns on the ceiling, the same question echoed, unanswered, in the space between them. A claiming, or a fear of being replaced?
Robert slept deeply, an arm possessively over Matthew. Matthew watched the shadows, feeling more seen, and more utterly unknown, than ever.
Matthew watched the shadows, feeling more seen, and more utterly unknown, than ever. He finally drifted into a thin, unsatisfying sleep just as the grey pre-dawn light began bleeding into the room. When he woke, Robert was already in the kitchen, the aggressive scent of burnt coffee and the sound of clattering pans replacing the previous night’s silence.
“You’re a domestic vision,” Matthew said, his voice rough.
Robert turned, a smirk playing on his lips. He wore only his jeans from last night, his hair a magnificent disaster. “I’m trying to fry eggs. It’s a declaration of war.” His eyes, however, were watchful, scanning Matthew’s face for something.
The buzz of Matthew’s phone on the marble countertop cut the air. Ryan’s name glowed on the screen. Robert’s knuckles went white around the spatula handle for a second before he turned back to the smoldering pan.
Matthew picked it up. The message was long. Hey. About last night… I came on too strong. That embrace, the things I said. It was a lot. I’m sorry if I made it weird. Just seeing you again… I’m really glad we’ve reconnected, Matt. I’d like us to be friends, if that’s possible.
A weird relief, cool and clear, washed through him. A boundary, however fragile, had been re-established. He typed back, his thumbs feeling clumsy. No need to apologize. It was a big weekend. Friends is good. I’d like that too.
He looked at Robert’s stiff back. “It’s Ryan,” he said, because hiding it felt worse.
“Figured.” Robert didn’t turn around. “Everything okay in ex-boyfriend land?”
“He’s just apologizing for getting deep last night. Wants to be friends.” Matthew paused, then added the news like he was laying down a card. “I mentioned you were in town.”
Robert flipped a charred egg with unnecessary force. “And?”
“He suggested the four of us get dinner. Him and Jonathan, me and you. A civil, adult double date.”
Robert finally turned, his expression unreadable. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. The taut muscles of his stomach tightened. “A dinner. Right.” He nodded slowly, a performer considering a new stage. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s have a perfectly nice dinner with your first love and his… what’s his name again?”
“Jonathan.”
“Right. Jonathan.” Robert pushed off the counter and picked up his coffee mug. “Should be a riot.”
The restaurant was one of those sceney places on Sunset where the lighting was calculated to make everyone look both famous and famished. Jonathan, predictably, looked like he’d stepped from a catalog for expensive activewear, his smile broad and unwavering. Ryan looked nervous, his eyes darting from Matthew to Robert and back.
“So, Robert,” Jonathan began after the waiter took their drink orders. “Matthew says you’re in a band. That’s cool. Do you, like, work out a lot? Touring must be tough on a regimen.”
Robert took a slow sip of his bourbon. “My regimen is mostly whisky and poor decisions. It keeps me lean.”
Jonathan laughed, a single, confused “Ha!” He glanced at Ryan for help. Ryan just gave a tight smile.
“Jonathan’s really into functional fitness,” Ryan offered, placing a hand on his boyfriend’s forearm. “He’s got a huge following for his mobility flows.”
“Fascinating,” Robert said, his tone flat enough to skate on.
Matthew kicked him under the table. Robert didn’t flinch.
The conversation stuttered like a faulty engine. Jonathan asked Robert about tour buses. Robert gave him a three-word answer. Robert asked Jonathan about acting, and Jonathan launched into a monologue about auditions and his “brand alignment” that made even Ryan’s eyes glaze over.
But when Matthew accidentally bumped the salt shaker and Ryan simultaneously reached to steady it, their hands brushing, a different current snapped to life. “Remember,” Matthew said, laughing, “that dive bar in Cleveland where the mic kept cutting out during ‘Upside Down’?”
“And you fixed it with a gum wrapper and sheer panic,” Ryan finished, his face lighting up. “I thought Marie was going to have an aneurysm on stage.”
They fell into it easily, a rhythm built from a thousand shared moments. The time their tour van broke down in Arizona. The prank they played on Sara involving a bucket of glitter. The secret language of looks they’d used during interviews to make each other crack up. Their dialogue wove around Robert and Jonathan, excluding them by sheer, effortless history.
Robert observed, sipping his drink, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He interjected only occasionally, his wit a dry, precise blade. “Sounds utterly charming,” he murmured about the glitter story. “A real Cinderella moment.”
Later, as Ryan described the bizarre plotlines on his soap, gesturing wildly, Matthew laughed freely, the sound coming from a place that hadn’t been accessed in years. He saw Robert watching that laugh, watching him, a slight tautness at the corner of his mouth.
When Ryan excused himself to the restroom, Jonathan leaned in, earnest. “He talks about you so much, Matthew. All the music stuff. It’s really cool you guys have this, like, lasting bond.”
Robert set his glass down with a definitive click. “Yes. A bond. It’s palpable.”
The check came. Pleasantries were exchanged. Out on the sidewalk, under the neon glare, they said their goodbyes. Ryan hugged Matthew, a careful, brief press. “This was good,” he said softly, his breath a warm cloud in the cool night air.
“It was,” Matthew agreed.
In the rideshare home, Robert was silent, staring out the window at the blur of city lights. The space between them in the back seat felt vast and electrified.
“Jonathan’s nice,” Matthew finally offered, the words hollow.
“He’s a fucking lamp,” Robert said, not turning from the window. “A very handsome, very talkative lamp.”
“Ryan was just trying to be friendly.”
“Was he?” Robert finally looked at him, his face half in shadow. “It didn’t look like he was trying at all. It looked effortless. You two in your little time machine.”
Matthew had no rebuttal. The car pulled up to his house. They walked up the driveway in a silence that throbbed with everything unsaid. Robert walked into the dark house ahead of him, not turning on the lights. He went straight to the window, a silhouette against the city grid.
“He still has a hold on you,” Robert stated to the glass, his voice low and stripped of its usual melodic teasing. “It’s in the way you lean in when he talks. The way your whole fucking face changes.”
Matthew stood rooted in the doorway, the ghost of Ryan’s laugh still in his ears, the sharp, wounded edge of Robert’s profile before him. The careful peace of the morning had shattered, and the pieces now lay between them, sharp enough to draw blood.
The careful peace of the morning had shattered, and the pieces now lay between them, sharp enough to draw blood.
Matthew closed the front door softly. The click of the latch echoed in the dark living room. He could just make out the rigid line of Robert’s shoulders against the window.
“He doesn’t have a hold on me,” Matthew said, his voice quieter than he intended.
Robert didn’t move. “Then what do you call that performance? The two of you, finishing each other’s sentences about gum wrappers and glitter.” He finally turned, his face a mask of cool, controlled anger that was somehow worse than shouting. “You folded right back into him. Like I wasn’t even in the room.”
“It’s just history. Shared history.”
“Shared history,” Robert repeated, the words flat. He took a step forward. “You know what I heard tonight? I heard the ghost of the boy who wrote ‘Upside Down.’ And he was singing right to Ryan. Again.”
The accuracy of the blow stole Matthew’s breath. He felt exposed, the careful layers of his adult self peeled back to the raw, infatuated kid he’d been. He sank onto the arm of the leather sofa, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a weary need to finally, truly, explain.
“You want to know what that history really is?” Matthew’s throat tightened. “It’s me at twenty-two, crying in a hotel bathroom in Toledo because Ryan just told me we had to stop. That it was too risky. That I was a distraction.”
Robert went very still.
“It’s him ignoring me for three straight days on a press tour after we’d slept together,” Matthew continued, the words coming faster now, pulled from a dark, deep well. “Him laughing at a journalist’s question about whether we were dating, calling it ‘ridiculous.’ He didn’t just break up with me, Robert. He made me feel like a dirty secret. He made me feel pathetic.”
He looked up, meeting Robert’s gaze in the gloom. “For years, that damage was a fucking echo chamber in my head. That I wasn’t worth the risk. That my love was something to be ashamed of.”
Robert’s expression had shifted from anger to something more complex, more careful.
“This weekend,” Matthew said, pushing on, “was the first time he ever looked me in the eye and took full accountability for that. He apologized. Not a vague ‘sorry things ended bad,’ but a real, gut-level apology for the cowardice and the cruelty. And it… it helped. It closed a loop that’s been open for sixteen years.”
He stood up, taking a step toward Robert. “Yes, there’s a bond. You can’t erase that. But it’s a healed scar now, not an open wound. He’s moved on with Jonathan. I have moved on with you.” His voice softened, insistent. “You. The man who’s never hidden me. Who took me backstage at Wembley and introduced me to everyone as your boyfriend. Do you know what that meant to me?”
Robert didn’t answer. He just watched Matthew, his eyes searching.
“I love my life with you,” Matthew said, the truth of it clear and solid amid the emotional chaos. “I love our messy, transatlantic, rock and roll life. I don’t want a time machine. I want the man who flew here on a whim because he missed me.”
The silence stretched, thin and delicate. Then Robert let out a long, slow breath, the rigid anger dissolving from his posture. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Christ, Matty.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all that before,” Matthew whispered. “It’s not a fun story to tell.”
Robert crossed the space between them. He didn’t kiss him. He just pulled Matthew into a tight, solid embrace, his chin resting on Matthew’s head. His heart thudded a steady rhythm against Matthew’s cheek. “You should have,” he murmured into his hair. “I’m not made of glass.”
They stood like that for a long time, the city’s pulse flickering outside. When Robert finally drew back, his hands came up to cradle Matthew’s face. His thumbs stroked the arches of his cheekbones. This time, his kiss was different. It was an acknowledgment. A landing. It was deep and slow, a quiet conversation without words.
He led Matthew to the bedroom not with urgent pulls, but with intertwined fingers. The lights stayed off. This was familiar territory, their own silent language. Robert undressed him with a focus that felt like reverence, his hands smoothing over skin he knew by heart. There was no frantic claiming, no undercurrent of vengeance.
When Robert entered him, it was with a practiced, careful ease that made Matthew gasp into the crook of his neck. The rhythm they found was theirs—a slow, rolling build, a synergy of breath and movement perfected over five years. It was intimacy as a settled fact, not a desperate proof.
Afterward, slick with sweat and contentment, Matthew rested his head on Robert’s chest, listening to the strong, gradual slowing of his heart. Robert’s fingers traced idle, possessive circles on his back.
“I believe you,” Robert whispered into the dark, his voice thick with sleep and sincerity.
“Good,” Matthew said, closing his eyes.
And he wanted, more than anything, to believe himself. The words he’d spoken were true. They were logical. They were adult. Yet, lying there in the safety of Robert’s arms, the ghost of a different heartbeat echoed in his memory—the frantic, scared rhythm of Ryan’s against his own on the Malibu deck. The feeling wasn’t a scar. It was a live wire, newly exposed, and it hummed treacherously through his veins, betraying his every sensible word.