Chapter 2: Aprons Off, Gloves Off - A Backdoor Rendezvous
The rain started as a fine mist, blurring the neon pink awning into a watercolor smear. Matthew stood under the eaves of a closed bakery next to Café Neříkej to Mámě, pretending to check his phone. His heart was doing a weird, syncopated rhythm against his ribs. He’d spent the week in a state of low-grade electric anticipation, which Jake had meticulously short-circuited with a series of offhand comments. “You wearing that?” he’d asked that evening, nodding at Matthew’s simple black shirt. “It’s just… very you.” Matthew had changed, then changed back, feeling stupid.
“Will you stop looking like you’re awaiting sentencing?” Paula hissed, materializing beside him under a giant polka-dot umbrella. She smelled of wine and optimism. “It’s a party, not an interrogation.”
“What if it’s awkward?” Matthew muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “What if we walk there and have nothing to say? What if he realizes I’m actually incredibly boring?”
“Then you’ll have had a walk and a free drink, and you can leave. World keeps spinning.” She peered through the café window. “He’s locking up.”
The door opened, spilling a rectangle of warm yellow light onto the wet cobbles. Karel stepped out, pulling on a battered leather jacket. He saw them and smiled, a quick, genuine thing that reached his eyes. “You came. And you brought a bodyguard,” he said, nodding at Paula.
“This is Paula. She’s my moral support and potential getaway driver.”
“I have a tram pass and a low tolerance for brooding,” Paula said, shaking his hand. “Lead on.”
They fell into step, leaving the main street for a narrower alley. The cobblestones glistened under the sporadic glow of overhead bulbs strung between buildings. The air here was cooler, carrying the damp scent of stone and, faintly, the plum-brandy burn of slivovice from a hidden bar. The distant jazz record from the café was gone, replaced by the echo of their footsteps and the drip-drip from rusty gutters.
Karel walked beside Matthew, his hands in his pockets. “So, you survived a week of teaching the past perfect?”
“Barely. I think I convinced my intermediate class that ‘I had had’ is a stutter, not a tense.”
Karel laughed, the sound warm in the narrow space. “It is a stupid tense. We do not bother with it so much in Czech. Life is too short for two ‘hads’ in a row.”
They talked about the city, about the best places for cheap beer that weren’t tourist traps, about the peculiar dread of correcting the same pronunciation error a hundred times. The conversation wasn’t dazzling; it was easy. It flowed without the gut-churning effort Matthew had associated with trying to impress someone. Karel pointed out a doorway where a famous dissident playwright had once lived, then immediately undercut it with a story about the same doorway currently being home to a cat who hissed at everyone.
Paula hung back a few paces, humming to herself, giving them space.
At a cross street, a group of loud British lads spilled out of a pub, forcing them to shift closer to the wall. Karel’s hand brushed Matthew’s back, a light, guiding touch. “This way,” he said, his voice low near Matthew’s ear. The touch lingered for a half-second, then was gone, leaving a phantom warmth.
As they moved on, Karel didn’t move back to a more formal distance. Instead, he casually looped his arm through Matthew’s, his elbow slotting against Matthew’s with a natural, unthinking confidence. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, not exactly. It was practical, connective, a way to stay linked in the dim, crowded alley. But to Matthew, it felt like a seismic event. The simple pressure of Karel’s forearm against his sent a jolt through his entire system. He could feel the worn grain of the leather jacket, the solid warmth of the arm beneath it.
He didn’t pull away. He let himself be led, his own arm tensing for a moment before relaxing into the hold. His mind, usually a cacophony of analysis and worry, went quiet. There was just the feeling of the connection, the sound of their joined footsteps, the shared shadow they cast on the wet stones.
Paula, from behind, gave a soft, approving cough.
Ankali wasn’t a door so much as a mouth—a dark, arched entrance down a set of steps below street level, pulsing with a deep, subterranean bass. The sound hit them first, a physical pressure in the chest. Then the smell of sweat, cheap cider, and clove cigarettes.
Inside, it was another world. A cavern of exposed brick and tangled electrical cords, lit in strobes of crimson and indigo. Bodies packed the space, a sea of movement that seemed less like dancing and more like a collective, desperate exhalation. The music was relentless, an electronic beat spliced with distorted Czech folk samples.
“Welcome to the dungeon!” Paula yelled over the noise, her eyes already bright.
Karel released Matthew’s arm, but only to take his hand instead, lacing their fingers together. His palm was dry and calloused. “Stay close!” he said, his mouth close to Matthew’s ear, his breath warm.
He pulled Matthew into the current, weaving through the crowd with the assurance of a local. They found a marginally less packed spot near a pillar. Paula vanished towards the bar, waving a twenty-crown note.
Here, in the dark and the noise, something in Matthew unlocked. The watchful anxiety that followed him everywhere—the ghost of Billy’s criticism, the needlepoint of Jake’s gaze—dissolved in the sheer physical volume of the sound. There was no room for it. Karel let go of his hand and started to move, his dancing unselfconscious, a series of loose-limbed nods and shifts of weight that were more about feeling the rhythm than performing to it.
Matthew hesitated for one more second. Then he closed his eyes and let the beat come up through the floor. He moved his shoulders, his hips, awkwardly at first, then with a gathering abandon. When he opened his eyes, Karel was watching him, smiling that slow sunrise of a smile. He moved closer, their bodies not touching but sharing the same charged air.
Paula returned with plastic cups of something clear and fizzy. They drank. The liquid tasted like citrus and rocket fuel. It burned down Matthew’s throat and spread a glow through his veins.
Time lost its shape. It was measured in songs, in the sheen of sweat on Karel’s temple, in the way Paula whooped and spun. The crowd pressed tighter, a sweaty, glorious mass. During a slower, deeper track, the strobes slowed to a fluid wash of blue. Karel turned to face him fully. He put a hand on Matthew’s hip, just a steady, grounding point of contact.
“You are a good dancer,” Karel said, his voice a low rumble Matthew felt more than heard.
“I’m really not!” Matthew shouted back, but he was laughing.
“You are. You feel it. That is what matters.”
Karel’s other hand came up, resting lightly on Matthew’s shoulder. The space between them collapsed. They were dancing together now, a simple, close sway, their foreheads almost touching. Matthew could see the faint line of the scar through his eyebrow, the dark stubble along his jaw. He could smell him—clean sweat, leather, the faint, bitter scent of the drink.
Everything else in the universe—the break-up, the unrequited crush, the uncertain future—shriveled to a tiny, irrelevant dot. There was only this: the music, the heat, the pressure of Karel’s hands, the intense, dark focus of his eyes.
Karel leaned in. The world narrowed to the point where their mouths would meet. Matthew’s breath hitched. He didn’t pull back.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, immediate, a direct circuit completed. Karel’s mouth was insistent, tasting of the sharp drink. Matthew kissed him back, a surge of feeling breaking through a dam he didn’t know he’d built. His hands came up, tangling in the short hair at the back of Karel’s head, pulling him closer. The noise and the lights swirled around them, meaningless now. This was the only anchor: the slick heat of the kiss, the scratch of stubble, the solid reality of another person wanting him, here, now.
They broke apart, breathing ragged. Karel’s eyes searched his, a question in them. Matthew answered by kissing him again, softer this time, a silent affirmation.
Over Karel’s shoulder, Matthew saw Paula. She gave him two emphatic thumbs up, her mouth stretched in a triumphant grin, before turning and melting back into the dancing crowd.
He buried his face in the space between Karel’s neck and shoulder, breathing him in, the pulse of the music syncing with the wild hammering of his own heart. For the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t thinking about the past or the future. He was, exquisitely, completely, here.
He was, exquisitely, completely, here. The music eventually shifted again, the beat becoming something slower, more introspective. The crowd thinned slightly as people drifted toward the bar or the smoking area out back.
Karel kept a loose arm around Matthew’s waist, his thumb tracing a small, absent circle against the fabric of his shirt. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Matthew’s ear. “The noise is starting to live behind my eyes. My apartment is close. It’s quiet. Would you like to leave?”
The question landed not as a line, but as a simple, genuine offer. It carried the warmth of his chest against Matthew’s side. Matthew’s brain, sluggish from the drink and the dopamine, offered no analysis. The word was out before any committee could convene. “Yes.” He breathed it into the humid space between them.
They found Paula by the bar, her arm draped over the shoulder of a woman with severe bangs and a sleeve of intricate tattoos. “We’re heading out,” Matthew shouted over the din.
Paula’s eyes flicked between them, her expression shifting from party-mode to something more protective and sisterly. She pulled Matthew into a quick, tight hug. “Text me when you’re home,” she said directly into his ear. “Either home. You’re okay.” She pulled back and gave Karel a deliberate, assessing nod, which he returned with a small, understanding smile.
The cold night air outside was a shock, a slap that cleared the fog. Karel flagged a dented yellow taxi. They slid into the backseat, the vinyl seats cold and sticky. Karel gave an address in Žižkov, his Czech smooth and rapid to the driver.
As the car pulled away from the curb, the silence wrapped around them. It was different now. The protective roar of the club was gone, replaced by the rattling engine and the static hiss of the radio. Matthew stared out the window at the blur of dark buildings and occasional neon. The reality of the decision began to seep in, cold and trickling.
He was going to a near-stranger’s apartment. His body still hummed from the kissing, from the touch, but his mind was starting its frantic tally. Billy had been his first, his only. Their sex life had become a transaction, a bargaining chip, another thing Matthew could do wrong. The idea of being new at this again, of having unknown expectations waiting in an unknown bed, made his skin feel too tight.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Karel said softly. He wasn’t crowding him; he’d left a respectful space on the seat between them.
“Just thinking,” Matthew said. The taxi turned down a narrower street, tall, austere apartment blocks rising on either side like canyon walls. “I don’t really do this.”
“Do what?”
“This. The… taxi after the club. The implied… you know.” He gestured vaguely between them, his face heating.
Karel watched him, his expression unreadable in the intermittent streetlight. “There is no implied anything. There is an offer of a quieter place to talk. Or not talk. That is all.”
The taxi stopped. Karel paid and led the way through a arched passage into a courtyard, up two flights of echoing stone stairs. His apartment was at the end of a dim, linoleum-floored hall. The key turned with a heavy clunk.
Inside, it was small and warmly lived-in. One main room served as living and sleeping space, divided by a large bookshelf groaning with Czech paperbacks and records. A tiny kitchenette was tucked into an alcove. The walls were covered in framed film posters and black-and-white photographs of Prague’s streets. It smelled of coffee, old books, and the faint, clean scent of the cedar lining the closet.
“It’s not much,” Karel said, tossing his keys into a ceramic bowl.
“It’s great. It feels like you,” Matthew said, and meant it.
Karel smiled and closed the distance between them. He cupped Matthew’s face, his touch grounding. “Good.” This kiss was slower, deeper than at the club, exploratory without urgency. It dissolved the last of Matthew’s taxi-ride anxiety into a low, pooling warmth. Karel’s hands slid down his back, pulling their hips together.
Matthew kissed him back, his own hands fumbling at the shoulders of Karel’s leather jacket, pushing it off. Karel did the same for Matthew’s thinner jacket, letting them both fall to the floor. Then his fingers found the hem of Matthew’s black shirt. He broke the kiss, a question in his raised eyebrows.
Matthew gave a slight, nervous nod.
Karel drew the shirt up and over his head, dropping it. The cool air raised goosebumps on Matthew’s skin. He reached for Karel’s simple henley, his fingers clumsy on the buttons. He got two undone before hesitation stiffened his hands. Karel watched him, still and patient, then finished the task himself, shrugging the fabric off his shoulders.
He was, as Matthew had guessed, fit in a practical way. Broad shoulders, a chest dusted with dark hair, the lean muscle of someone who worked on his feet and maybe cycled the city’s hills. A small, faded scar marred his ribcage. He was real, beautifully so, and Matthew’s breath caught.
Karel took his hand and led him the few steps to the bed. Matthew sat on the edge, the duvet cover soft and worn beneath his palms. Karel stood before him, one hand coming to rest gently on his bare shoulder.
“I feel… overwhelmed,” Matthew whispered, the admission wrenched from somewhere deep. He stared at the wood floor. “I’ve only ever been with one person. My ex. And it wasn’t… it wasn’t always good. I think I might be in over my head.” He forced himself to look up. “I’m not sure I’m ready for sex. Tonight. I’m sorry.”
The silence that followed was the most important of Matthew’s life. Karel didn’t sigh. He didn’t pull away. His expression softened into something profoundly gentle. He moved his hand from Matthew’s shoulder to the nape of his neck. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “That is honest. That is good.”
He sat beside Matthew, then leaned in and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his forehead. The gesture was so tender it made Matthew’s chest ache. “Lie down with me,” Karel said. It wasn’t a question, but an invitation.
He lay back, scooting to the center of the bed, and held out an arm. Matthew stretched out beside him, resting his head on Karel’s bare chest. The skin was warm, the heartbeat steady and reassuring under his ear. Karel’s arm came around him, holding him close.
“My first was a disaster,” Karel said to the ceiling, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Matthew’s bare shoulder. “A boy from my village. We were sixteen, in a hayloft. He was so nervous he kicked over a lantern. We nearly burned the place down trying to get dressed and run.”
A surprised laugh burst out of Matthew, the tension in his body loosening another crucial notch. “Really?”
“Really. My father beat my ass for the fire. The boy never spoke to me again. So, you see, your one experience is already better than mine.”
They talked like that for a long time, the dark room holding their voices softly. Matthew spoke, for the first time, about the controlling chill of his years with Billy, not in dramatic detail, but in the flat, factual tones that revealed the true damage. Karel listened, his hand now a steady, comforting weight.
Karel talked about a two-year relationship with a man who moved to Berlin, about the mutual, sorrowful end. He spoke about wanting something rooted, something that wasn’t always looking toward the next train out. “I am tired of provisional things,” he said, his chin resting on the top of Matthew’s head.
Matthew understood. He felt the same fatigue deep in his bones. Lying here, skin to skin, talking in the dark, didn’t feel provisional. It felt substantial. The frantic worry was gone, replaced by a drowsy, enveloping peace.
“Stay tonight,” Karel murmured, his own voice thick with sleep. “Just stay. No expectations. Just this.”
Matthew nodded against his chest. “Okay.” He shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, his arm draping over Karel’s waist.
Karel reached down with his free hand and pulled the duvet over them both. In the silent dark, wrapped in warmth and the scent of another man’s skin, Matthew felt a lock within him click open. The last thought he had before sleep took him was not of Billy, or of Jake, but a simple, startling one: This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
Their breathing evened out, syncing in the quiet room. The distant sound of a tram on the street below faded into nothing.
The distant sound of a tram on the street below faded into nothing.
Matthew woke to the soft, grey light of a Prague morning filtering through the uneven slats of the blinds. His cheek was pressed against the warm, solid plane of Karel’s chest, rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. The scent of sleep and clean skin filled his senses. For a single, disorienting second, he didn’t know where he was. Then it all rushed back: the club, the kiss, the quiet conversation in the dark.
A familiar panic, cold and slick, began to climb his spine. He was in a stranger’s bed. He’d stayed the night. The intimate confession about Billy felt like a naked nerve exposed to the daylight. He needed air, space, the safety of his own four walls to process. Carefully, so carefully, he began to extract himself, lifting his head, sliding his arm from where it lay across Karel’s stomach.
“Going somewhere?”
Karel’s voice was a sleep-rough murmur. His eyes were open, watching Matthew with a calm, unfocused clarity.
Matthew froze, halfway to sitting up. “Oh. God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just… I thought I’d sneak out. Let you sleep.” The words tumbled out, an apologetic torrent. “It’s fine, I can go, I just—”
“Matthew.” Karel’s hand, warm and heavy, settled on his bare back, stopping the flow. “Don’t be sorry. For any of it.” He blinked the sleep from his eyes, a small smile touching his lips. “Especially not for being here.”
The simple touch grounded him. The panic receded, leaving a flutter of something else in its wake. Karel shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His gaze traveled over Matthew’s face, taking in the sleep-tousled hair, the uncertain expression. He didn’t say anything else. He just leaned in and kissed him.
It was a slow, deep, morning kiss, tasting of sleep and shared breath. Matthew sank into it, his hands finding their way to Karel’s stubbled jaw. They kissed for a long time, a lazy exploration with no destination, the duvet pooled around their waists, their jeans still on from the night before. It felt profoundly different from the passionate clench on the dance floor. This was a conversation, an affirmation.
Finally, Karel pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against Matthew’s. “I would like to see you again,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “Properly. In the daylight. Where we are both awake.”
Matthew laughed, a soft puff of air. “We’re awake now.”
“You know what I mean,” Karel said, smiling. “A date. A slow one. With food. And talking. No taxis required at the end, unless you want one.” He traced a finger along Matthew’s collarbone. “I am tired of provisional things. I would like to try… not that.”
The words echoed his admission from the dark. Matthew’s heart swelled, a clean, sharp expansion in his chest. The ghosts of Billy’s controlling plans and Jake’s vague, confusing signals seemed to shrink, becoming faint and distant in this sun-dusted room. Here was a man asking for a date, for slowness, for something real. It was terrifying. It was all he wanted.
“Yes,” Matthew said, the word feeling like a key turning in a long-locked door. “A proper date. Slowly. I’d like that.”
They kissed once more, a soft seal on the promise. Then Matthew swung his legs out of the bed, the wooden floor cool under his feet. He found his black shirt on the floor beside Karel’s discarded henley. He pulled it on, the fabric carrying the faint, smoky scent of the club. Karel watched him from the bed, the duvet around his hips, looking utterly at ease.
“Text me,” Karel said. It wasn’t a question.
“I will.” Matthew stepped into his shoes, feeling somehow both lighter and more solid than when he’d arrived. He gave a final, small wave, a smile he couldn’t suppress, and let himself out.
The morning air on the street was crisp, chasing the last of the sleep from his head. He walked towards the tram stop, the city coming to life around him. For the first time in months, the space in his mind usually occupied by the intricate map of Billy’s moods or the cryptic calculus of Jake’s friendship was quiet. It wasn’t empty. It was full of a new, quiet potential, of a Czech phrase for “a proper date,” of the memory of a kiss that asked for nothing but its own moment. He boarded the tram, found a seat by the window, and watched the city stream by. He was going home, but he felt, for the first time, that he was finally leaving something behind.