Chapter 9: Aftermath
The room held the warmth and quiet of a spent storm. Matthew’s cheek was pressed to the solid plane of Ryan’s chest, rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He could hear the man’s heartbeat, a deep, reassuring drum against his ear. The smell of sex and sweat and Ryan’s particular skin, a mix of clean laundry and something vaguely citrusy, filled the air. It was a scent from his youth, fossilized in memory and now shockingly, vividly present.
He traced a faint, silvery line on Ryan’s abdomen, a scar he didn’t recognize. “Remember our first time?” Matthew’s voice was husky, worn out.
Ryan’s chest vibrated with a soft chuckle. “How could I forget? The fear of God was in me. I think I apologized for, like, forty straight minutes.”
“You did. ‘Sorry, is that okay? Sorry, am I hurting you? Sorry, my knee is in your rib.’” Matthew smiled against his skin. “It was in the closet of that shitty rental in Orlando. The one with the green shag carpet.”
“The carpet that smelled like wet dog, yeah.”
“We were so bad at it,” Matthew murmured, the memory softening the hard edges of the present. “All elbows and nervous laughter. Took us twenty minutes to figure out the condom wrapper.”
Ryan’s hand, which had been lazily stroking Matthew’s back, stilled for a moment. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Matthew’s forehead, his lips lingering. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice quiet, serious. “I think it was perfect.”
The words settled over Matthew, a warm, heavy blanket. He closed his eyes, willing the rest of the world—the texts, the commitments, the other lives they were supposed to be living—to stay outside the sun-drenched walls of this room.
They didn’t leave the bed for a long time. When they finally did, it was only to migrate, naked, to the living room. Ryan pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs and tossed a similar pair to Matthew. They felt like a uniform for this suspended day, a silent agreement that real clothes belonged to the real world, and this was not that.
Ryan’s house was a curious time capsule. Sure, there were expensive modern touches—a huge smart TV, a state-of-the-art sound system—but nestled amongst them were artifacts. A framed poster of Fusion4’s first tour, their faces cartoonishly young and optimistic, hung near the fireplace. The vintage guitar Matthew remembered Ryan noodling on between takes leaned in a corner, a fine layer of dust on its body. On a bookshelf, a cheap snow globe from their first promotional trip to New York sat beside a sobering Daytime Emmy nomination certificate.
“You kept the snow globe,” Matthew said, picking it up. The water inside had gone slightly cloudy.
Ryan was rooting through a drawer. “I kept a lot of things,” he said, without looking up. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just matter-of-fact.
He found what he was looking for—a weathered deck of cards—and they spent an hour on the worn-out corduroy couch playing a rambling, rule-less game of gin rummy, their feet tangled together. The conversation was easy, a lazy river of then and now.
“Do you ever talk to Marty anymore?” Matthew asked, laying down a run of hearts.
“The tour manager? God, no. He embezzled like thirty grand from our merch sales and bought a timeshare in Boca. Last I heard he was selling reverse mortgages.” Ryan discarded a card. “Your go.”
“Sara’s kids are obsessed with this one video of our ‘Upside Down’ performance on that kids’ show. The one where my pants split a little during the high kick.”
Ryan threw his head back and laughed, a real, unfettered sound. “I forgot about that! You did the whole second chorus clutching your seam. I thought you were going to die.”
“I wanted to. Marie kept hissing at me to ‘sell the joy’ through what she called my ‘apparent crotch discomfort.’”
“Classic Marie.” Ryan grinned, then his expression softened. “I always loved that song. Even before I knew.”
Matthew didn’t ask knew what. He just nodded, the familiar bittersweet ache blooming softly in his chest. Upside Down had been his secret confession, broadcast to millions. He’d written the cheery, inane lyrics about a world tilting on its axis while staring at the back of Ryan’s head in a rehearsal studio.
The afternoon bled into evening, gold light giving way to blue dusk. They ordered Thai food, eating straight from the containers on the floor, laughing when Ryan got a noodle stuck in his chest hair. The mundane act felt profoundly intimate, more so than the sex. This was the daily texture of a shared life, a ghost of what could have been.
And they touched, constantly. A hand on a shoulder passing through the kitchen. Fingers brushing when reaching for the same spring roll. Ryan pulling Matthew back against him on the couch, his chin hooking over Matthew’s shoulder as they scrolled through Netflix, finding nothing to watch. Each contact was a silent reclamation, a re-mapping of a body that had once been a home.
As the sky turned black outside the huge windows, the conversation ebbed. They ended up back in the bedroom, not for sex, but for the quiet. They lay on their sides facing each other, the sheets a tangled nest at their feet. Ryan traced the line of Matthew’s eyebrow, then his cheekbone, his thumb sweeping over Matthew’s bottom lip.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Ryan whispered. “Like if I blink too hard, I’ll wake up in my life and this will have just been… a really detailed fantasy.”
Matthew captured his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Don’t blink.”
But the spell was porous. Reality was a persistent, cold draft. Matthew’s phone, silenced and facedown on the nightstand, pulsed with a faint, blue light. A notification. Then another. He didn’t need to look to know. Robert’s texts, probably telling him about his day. Jonathan, maybe, wondering where Ryan was. Sara or Marie, buzzing with reunion plans. Each silent pulse was a tiny punch of guilt.
He saw the same awareness flicker in Ryan’s eyes. The shadows under them seemed to deepen. They were stealing time, and they both knew the vault was nearly empty.
“What are we doing, Matt?” Ryan asked, his voice barely audible.
Matthew didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled Ryan closer, tucking his head under Ryan’s chin, clinging to the solid reality of him. He inhaled the scent at the base of his throat, trying to brand it into his memory. If this was a dream, he would memorize the texture of it.
“Just… not yet,” Matthew murmured into his skin. “Tomorrow.”
Ryan’s arms tightened around him. “Okay,” he breathed, the word a surrender. “Tomorrow.”
Sleep came for Matthew like a thief, swift and deep, pulling him under the warm, seductive waves of denial. He drifted off wrapped in the smell and feel of his oldest heartbreak, his last conscious thought a desperate, silent plea for the night to never end.
He drifted off wrapped in the smell and feel of his oldest heartbreak, his last conscious thought a desperate, silent plea for the night to never end.
Morning did what morning does. It arrived, anyway. Not with a dramatic shaft of light, but with a slow, gray dilution of the dark. The shapes in Ryan’s bedroom—the dresser, the guitar case, the Fusion4 poster—reclaimed their solid forms. Matthew woke first, consciousness returning like a tide carrying flotsam: the weight of Ryan’s arm across his ribs, the dry taste in his mouth, the deep, familiar ache in his muscles. Then, the other weight. It settled in his gut, cold and leaden.
Ryan stirred, his breathing hitching. His blue eyes opened, blinking slowly, finding Matthew’s face. For one pure, unguarded moment, his expression was soft with wonder. Then he remembered, too. The wonder didn’t vanish, but it fractured, edged with the same grim understanding.
“Hi,” Ryan whispered, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“Hi,” Matthew echoed.
They just looked at each other. The bubble of yesterday, spun from nostalgia and desperate want, had popped. The air in the room felt thinner, colder. They both knew the next move, the only move left. They had to get up. They had to leave this room and re-enter the world where they were not the only people who mattered.
“Shower?” Ryan said, the word sounding like a concession.
“Yeah.”
The bathroom was all steam and white tile. They stepped under the spray together, the water almost painfully hot. It was a silent apology to their partners, a futile attempt to scour off the scent of each other. Ryan reached for the soap, worked it into a lather in his palms, and began to wash Matthew’s back. His hands were slow, methodical, kneading the tension from his shoulders, sliding down the knobs of his spine.
Matthew reciprocated, turning Ryan to face the tiles. He washed the broad plains of his shoulders, the fascinating new topography of muscle and coarse blond hair. He traced the faint ghost of a tan line at his hips. This was a goodbye. A careful, tactile memorization. Every stroke of his hands said this is the last time. The heat of the water, the slide of soap, the sheer intimacy of the act—it was too much.
Ryan turned around under the spray. Their eyes locked, water streaming down their faces. The ache wasn’t just emotional. Matthew saw the shift in Ryan’s expression, felt the answering stir in himself. Here, in this steamy confessional, with the world waiting just outside the glass door, desire flared one last time—not frantic, but mournful.
Ryan’s hand moved first, wrapping around him. Matthew let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against Ryan’s. He returned the touch, his hand finding Ryan, slick from the water. There were no words. Just the thunder of the shower, the syncopated rhythm of their breaths hitching, the slip and clutch of wet skin. It wasn’t about passion. It was a ritual of relinquishment. A final, shared release from the dream.
It was over quickly, their cries swallowed by the spray and the steam. They leaned into each other, spent, letting the water beat down on their bowed heads.
Finally, Ryan reached behind him and turned the water off. The sudden silence was absolute, broken only by their ragged breathing and the drip-drip from the showerhead. They stepped out, toweled each other off with a tenderness that felt catastrophic.
Back in the bedroom, dressing felt like putting on a costume. Each article of clothing—yesterday’s jeans, the wrinkled Henley—was a piece of his official identity being reassembled. Matthew Scott, successful producer. Faithful partner. Liar.
“So,” Matthew said, his voice rough. He couldn’t look at Ryan, focusing instead on pulling on his socks. “What happens next?”
Ryan was standing by the bed, buttoning his own shirt with deliberate slowness. “I don’t know.” He sighed, a hollow sound. “I want you to give me another chance. A real one.”
“Ryan…”
“Just let me say it.” Ryan finally looked up, his face pale but determined. “Jonathan is… he’s a nice guy. He’s kind. He’s uncomplicated. And he doesn’t hold a candle to you. Not even a spark. He never has. The way you make me feel…” He shook his head, seeming to search the cluttered room for the right words. “It’s like someone turned the volume back up on my whole life.”
Matthew finally met his gaze. The love there was real, and it was a wrecking ball. “It’s complicated,” he said, the phrase pathetic and inadequate. “I love Robert. That’s real, too. And what we just did… that wasn’t just catching up. I’ve already betrayed him. I can feel it sitting in my stomach like a stone.”
Ryan flinched but nodded. “I know. I’m in the same boat. I’m not gonna pressure you, Matt. That’s not what this is.” He took a step closer, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. “I just need you to know where I stand. I’m here. And I’m hoping, maybe, you’ll consider that we deserve a shot at what we ran away from.”
Consider. The word felt immense, a boulder he’d have to push up a mountain every single day. Matthew walked to him, cupped his stubbled jaw. He leaned in and kissed him, a soft, closed-mouth press of lips. It tasted like steam and regret and toothpaste. “I’ll think,” he whispered against Ryan’s mouth. It was the only honest promise he could make.
Then he turned and walked out of the bedroom. He didn’t look back at the guitar, or the snow globe, or the poster of their younger, unknowable selves. He walked through the living room, scooped up his jacket, and let himself out the front door.
The California sun was a brute, crisp and judgmental. The inside of his car smelled of leather and old coffee. He sat in the driver’s seat, the silence pounding in his ears. He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. They were the same hands that had touched Ryan just minutes ago, with possessive intimacy. They were the same hands that would tap out a loving reply to Robert’s next message.
He started the engine. The sound was obscenely normal. He pulled away from the curb, Ryan’s house shrinking in the rearview mirror until it was just another box on a hill. The terrible weight of what had happened didn’t crash onto him. It had been there all along. Now, it simply settled in for the long ride home, a permanent, silent passenger in the seat beside him.
Now, it simply settled in for the long ride home, a permanent, silent passenger in the seat beside him.
Now, it simply settled in for the long ride home, a permanent, silent passenger in the seat beside him.
The scent of Ryan’s shower gel, something cedar and sharp, clung to his skin despite the steam. It filled the car, a mocking ghost. He cranked the air conditioning, cold blasting his face, but the smell persisted, woven into the fibers of his shirt, the memory of his hands. The sleek, silent streets of the Hills felt like a blurry tunnel, the pristine houses holding their breath as he passed, a guilty man fleeing the scene.
His own house, when he finally pushed through the front door, felt alien. Too quiet, too polished, a museum of the life he’d just vandalized. The grand piano gleamed, a silent judge. He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor, a small act of rebellion against the meticulous order. He walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and his hand shook. The water tasted of nothing.
His phone, facedown on the counter, buzzed with a video call tone. The specific, insistent trill designated for Robert. Matthew’s heart didn’t just sink; it seemed to freeze solid, a cold, dead weight in his chest. He stared at the buzzing device, the screen lighting up the dim kitchen. He counted four rings, the vibration skittering the phone toward the edge.
On the fifth, he snatched it up, swiped to answer, and propped it against the toaster.
“Hey, you,” Robert’s face appeared, pixelated then clearing. He was back in his hotel room, hair a glorious mess, shirtless. He looked exhausted and beautifully familiar. A pang, sharp as glass, lanced through Matthew.
“Hey.” Matthew’s voice cracked. He took a quick sip of water to cover it. “How was the circus?”
“Still a bloody circus. They had me doing fan meet-and-greets today. One woman asked me to sign her arm so she could get it tattooed. I wrote ‘Eat More Vegetables.’” Robert grinned, but his eyes searched the screen. “You look rough. Late night with the reunion crew?”
The casual question hung there, innocuous and lethal. Matthew forced a laugh, a dry, brittle sound. “Yeah. You know how it is. A lot of catching up.” He could feel the lie, oily and thick, on his tongue.
“I can imagine.” Robert’s gaze was too perceptive. “Everything okay?”
“Just tired. Really tired.” This, at least, was true. He felt scraped hollow. “Missing you.”
Robert’s expression softened. “Miss you too, love. Listen, I’ve been thinking. This promo wraps day after tomorrow. The lads and I are heading straight into the studio in London to bash out demos for the next album.” He leaned closer to the camera. “You should come. We’re proper stuck. Could use your ears. Your… everything.”
London. An ocean. An entire continent between him and Ryan’s messy, complicated gravity. A lifeline.
“Yeah?” Matthew said, the word tinged with too much desperate hope. He modulated his tone. “I mean, that could work. I’ve got a light few weeks. Studio time booked, but it’s flexible.”
“Brilliant.” Robert’s smile was a sunburn, warming Matthew through the screen. “Come be our savior. We’ll hole up in the studio, order disgusting takeaway, argue about drum sounds. Like old times. And you can stay at the flat. No more of this video call shite for a bit.”
It was the perfect exit. A professional reason to leave, to step back into his real world, to reaffirm everything he had built with Robert. The guilt could be packed away, a secret he’d carry across the Atlantic, where it might fade with distance and the familiar rhythms of his actual life.
“That sounds perfect, Rob. Really. I’ll get Kelly to move some things. I can probably fly out end of next week.”
“I’ll count the minutes,” Robert said, then yawned. “Christ, I’m wiped. Going to pass out. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The screen went dark. Matthew placed the phone carefully back on the counter. The silence in the house expanded, pressing in on him. London was the answer. It had to be. He would go, they would work, he would remember why he’d chosen Robert, why their messy, rock-and-roll life fit. The thing with Ryan would recede, becoming a powerful, singular lapse, a ghost from a different life.
His phone rang again. Kelly’s name flashed, her contact photo a aggressively smiling headshot. Work. Normalcy. He answered.
“Matt, darling, hold onto your hat.” Kelly’s voice was a rapid-fire clatter, the sound of deals being made. “The numbers from the Y2K special are insane. Viral. Legacy labels are creaming their jeans. I just got off with Asteria—they want the band. New single, to start. A full EP if it charts. And a tour. A proper, twenty-city nostalgia cash-grab tour, theatres, maybe arenas if the single pops.”
The floor beneath Matthew seemed to tilt. He gripped the counter edge. “What?”
“The reunion, idiot! Fusion4. They want to capitalize. Now. Marie’s already in, obviously. Sara’s influencer crap can be scheduled around dates. Ryan’s soap has a break coming. And you… you’re the mastermind. You’ll produce. This is a goldmine, Matt. We’re talking real money, and a hell of a career renaissance for you in the pop sphere.”
Months. It would mean months. Writing sessions, recording studios, rehearsals, tour buses, hotel rooms in strange cities. Proximity. The ghost in the passenger seat solidified, whispering in his ear.
“Kelly, I… I’m scheduled to work with Indigo Twilight in London. I committed.”
“So reschedule! Robert will understand. This is business. This is your past paying your future’s rent. They want you, Matthew. Specifically. The label says the magic was in the performance, the chemistry. That chemistry includes the quiet genius in the back. Don’t overthink this. Say yes.”
Chemistry. The word landed like a diagnosis. He saw it: late nights in vocal booths, Ryan’s eyes on him through the glass. Long bus rides, bunks in close quarters. The careful, treacherous architecture of an affair already begun.
“I need to think,” he managed to say, his voice tight.
“Think fast. They need an answer by EOD tomorrow. This is a gift, Matt. Don’t be a schmuck.” She hung up.
The phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the marble countertop. The two paths ahead of him split violently. London with Robert: salvation, stability, a return to his chosen story. The Fusion4 tour with Ryan: a descent into a delicious, ruinous temptation, a chance to follow the gravitational pull of that old, never-extinguished star.
He knew himself. He knew the look in Ryan’s eyes in the shower, the feel of his heartbeat under his cheek. Given months of that proximity, the affair wouldn’t be a lapse. It would become a second life. He would fracture completely.
A low, involuntary sound escaped him, part groan, part suffocated laugh. He walked on unsteady legs out of the kitchen, down the hall, into the sterile perfection of his bedroom. The bed was neatly made, corners sharp. He didn’t bother turning down the covers.
He simply fell forward, letting gravity take him, and crashed face-first into the duvet. The expensive fabric smelled of lavender laundry soap, clean and empty. He didn’t move. The weight of it all—the betrayal, the choice, the terrifying, thrilling possibility of the tour—pinned him there. He had meticulously built this life, this beautiful, glass-walled sanctuary. And with one night, one phone call, he had placed a hammer in its very center.
Now, he just had to wait for the swing.