Chapter 4: Terrible Wine and Good Company
The river air held a damp, mineral chill that seeped through Matthew’s jacket, a sharp contrast to the warmth blooming steadily under his skin. Karel’s hidden spot was exactly as advertised—a crumbling terrace tucked behind an unmarked door, accessed by a narrow staircase that smelled of wet stone and century-old dust.
“See?” Karel said, leading him through a wrought-iron gate choked with ivy. “Terrible wine, perfect view.”
It was more than perfect. The little terrace clung to the side of the building like a bird’s nest. Below, the Vltara was a slick, black ribbon stitched with the shimmering lights of passing boats. The Charles Bridge rose in a majestic, gothic arc directly across from them, its statues silent sentinels against the indigo sky. A single, rusted chandelier, missing most of its bulbs, hung from a timber beam, casting a fragmented, golden glow over a small table and two chairs.
Karel produced a bottle of red wine and two sturdy glasses. “The owner is my uncle. He doesn’t really run a bar. He just… sits here. Sometimes he lets me bring guests.”
“It’s incredible,” Matthew breathed, his voice swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of the city sky. The last remnants of the Billy call, the echo of Jake’s confusing hug, felt like they were happening in another country.
The wine was, as promised, terrible. It was vinegary and rough, leaving a tang on the tongue. Matthew coughed after his first sip, and Karel’s laughter was a warm, rich sound in the cool air.
“I told you! It is like drinking a rusty nail. But the view makes it taste better, yes?”
“It really does,” Matthew admitted, taking another, more cautious sip. The harshness became part of the experience, an authenticity that felt miles away from the curated cocktails of Austin.
They talked. Not the intense, confessional talk of the dark bedroom, but something easier, woven through with laughter. Karel told stories of growing up in a flat just like the one behind them, of learning English from American action movies with wildly inaccurate subtitles. He explained the correct way to pronounce ‘ř’ in řeka, his tongue performing a subtle, impossible flutter that made Matthew laugh and try, failing miserably.
“Your tongue is lazy. It is a Texas tongue. It only wants to say ‘y’all’ and relax,” Karel teased, his eyes crinkling.
“Hey, my Texas tongue is trying its best,” Matthew protested, grinning.
In turn, Matthew found himself talking about college, but not about Billy. He talked about the stifling heat, the endless, flat horizons, the peculiar comfort of breakfast tacos. He talked about his mother’s cautious pride when he told her he was moving to Prague to teach, and the way she’d secretly stuffed a bag full of American allergy medicine into his suitcase.
“She thinks we are still a post-communist wasteland with no pharmacies,” Karel said, topping up their glasses with the dreadful wine.
“To her, anywhere without a Target is a wasteland.”
They fell into comfortable silences, watching the lights on the bridge snap on, one by one. The world narrowed to this pocket of warmth between them, the rough wine, the spectacular, shared vista. For the first time in months, Matthew felt not like a refugee from his own life, but like a participant in a new one. This was what Paula meant. This was a concrete thing. A man, a place, a feeling you could point to.
“You are different tonight,” Karel said after a long quiet. His voice was soft, no longer teasing.
“Different how?”
“More here. Last time, part of you was… auditing the situation. Taking notes. Tonight, you are just sitting.” He smiled. “I prefer it.”
Matthew looked down at his hands wrapped around the glass. “I had a phone call. From my ex. Right before our date.”
Karel didn’t say anything, just waited.
“He wanted me to come back. Said he’d made a mistake.” Matthew let out a short breath. “For a second, it was like being sucked backward. All the old feelings, the confusion. But then I got here. And it felt like…” He gestured vaguely at the city sprawling before them. “Like closing a very heavy, very stupid book.”
“Good,” Karel said, simply. “Some books are not worth rereading.”
“What about you?” Matthew asked, turning the focus, wanting to know him. “Any heavy, stupid books in your past?”
Karel leaned back in his chair, looking out at the river. “A few chapters. Nothing epic. A Slovak photographer who was more in love with her own melancholy than with me. A Danish poet who could not decide if he was in Prague for me or for the cheap beer.” He shrugged. “I am a simple man. I like people who are where they say they are. Who mean the things they say.”
His gaze swung back to Matthew, holding it. The statement hung in the air, unadorned and powerful. It was the antithesis of Billy’s dramatic manipulations, the opposite of Jake’s opaque, conflicting signals. It was a clear, quiet offer of something straightforward.
Matthew’s pulse thrummed in his ears, louder than the distant hum of the city. “I’m trying to be that person,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I know you are.”
Karel reached across the small table. His hand, warm and solid, covered Matthew’s. The touch was a direct current. The anxiety that usually accompanied such a moment—the scanning for subtext, the fear of misinterpretation—was absent. There was only the pressure of Karel’s skin, the understanding in his eyes, and the vast, beautiful darkness of Prague around them.
They finished the bottle, the wine somehow tasting less terrible with each shared smile. When the chill finally became too much to ignore, Karel stood, gathering the glasses. “Come. I will walk you to your tram.”
The streets of Malá Strana were a labyrinth of shadows and golden light. They walked close, shoulders brushing, not speaking. The silence was no longer just comfortable; it was charged, anticipatory. Every accidental touch was a spark.
At the tram stop, under the harsh fluorescent light, the real world began to seep back in. The moment of parting approached. Matthew felt a nervous flutter, afraid the magic of the terrace would evaporate here on the gritty pavement.
The tram’s headlights appeared in the distance, a glowing beetle on rails.
“So,” Matthew said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“So,” Karel echoed, a smile playing on his lips.
“Thank you. For the terrible wine.”
“You are welcome for the terrible wine.”
The tram clattered closer, its brakes hissing. This was it. A handshake would be absurd. A casual hug felt insufficient. The unspoken question of the evening crystallized in the space between them.
Karel solved it. He cupped Matthew’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the lines of his jaw. His touch was deliberate, sure. “I am going to kiss you now,” he stated, a quiet announcement that stole Matthew’s breath. “Okay?”
Matthew could only nod, a sharp, eager movement.
Then Karel’s mouth was on his. It was not like the dance-floor kiss, which had been all heat and surprise. This was deeper, slower, an exploration. Karel tasted of the sour wine and something uniquely him—a hint of mint, the cool night air. His lips were firm, his stubble a delicious scratch against Matthew’s skin. One hand slid from his face into his hair, holding him gently, securely.
Matthew melted into it. His hands came up, gripping the front of Karel’s worn leather jacket, anchoring himself. Every nerve ending fired. This was not a ghost. This was not a vibe. This was a man, kissing him thoroughly by a tram stop, with a confidence that felt like shelter. He kissed back with a hunger that surprised him, a hunger that had been buried under months of doubt and analysis.
A catcall in Czech from a passing cyclist broke them apart. They were both breathing heavily, little clouds of mist mingling in the cold air. The tram doors slid open with a hydraulic sigh behind them.
The tram doors slid open with a hydraulic sigh behind them. Matthew didn’t move. He stayed rooted, his fingers still twisted in the coarse leather of Karel’s jacket, their breath mingling in the cold space between their mouths. The moment stretched, taut and fragile.
“Fuck it,” Matthew whispered, the words a hot, decisive cloud against Karel’s lips.
He pulled back just enough to see Karel’s face. “I’m not ready for this to end. Can I… can I come back with you? Tonight?” The request felt bold, a direct line drawn from the terrace, past the tram stop, into a room he already knew.
Karel’s eyes searched his, the playful glint replaced by a serious, dark intensity. “Matthew, are you sure?” he asked, his voice low. “Not because you are running from a phone call. But because you are running to this.”
It was the right question. Matthew felt the truth of it, solid and clean in his chest. He wasn’t fleeing Billy’s ghost or Jake’s confusing proximity. He was choosing the taste of Karel’s mouth, the solidity of his hands, the promise of a view that was just for them. He nodded, a single, firm movement. “I’m sure.”
A slow smile broke across Karel’s face, transforming his features. “Good.” He grabbed Matthew’s hand and pulled him away from the open tram doors just as they began to close. “Then we take a different tram.”
The ride was a blur of electric hum and swaying light. They sat on a hard plastic seat, Karel’s arm a heavy, welcome weight around Matthew’s waist, pulling him close. Matthew leaned into him, his head resting against Karel’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of leather, cold air, and him. He watched the nocturnal city slide by the fogged window, a silent film of cobblestones and Gothic shadows, feeling a profound sense of arrival.
They didn’t speak much. Karel just tightened his arm, his thumb drawing slow, absent circles on Matthew’s hip through his jeans.
“Next stop,” Karel murmured into his hair, his lips brushing Matthew’s temple. The simple touch sent a shiver down Matthew’s spine that had nothing to do with the chill.
Karel’s building was an old art-nouveau block, its ornate façade softened by time and grime. The staircase smelled of boiled cabbage and wood polish. His apartment was at the end of a quiet hall, a single door in a row of identical ones. The key turned with a clunky, satisfying scrape.
Then they were inside, the door thudding shut behind them, sealing them in a pocket of warm, still darkness.
Before Matthew’s eyes could adjust, Karel pinned him gently against the wall. Their mouths found each other again, with a hunger that had been simmering during the entire tram ride. This kiss was different from the one at the stop—less exploratory, more voracious. It was all tongue and heat and the faint, metallic taste of the city night.
Matthew’s hands came up, pushing the leather jacket from Karel’s shoulders. It fell to the floor with a weighty thud. Fueled by a confidence that felt entirely new, Matthew grasped the hem of Karel’s sweater and t-shirt in one decisive motion. “Off,” he breathed against Karel’s mouth, his voice barely recognizable to himself.
Karel complied, pulling the layers over his head in one swift movement. The pale light from a streetlamp outside the window sliced across his torso, illuminating the taut plane of his stomach, the defined lines of his chest, a trail of dark hair leading south. Matthew didn’t hesitate. He put his hands on Karel’s warm skin, feeling the firm muscle underneath, the quickening pulse.
Then he lowered his head and licked a hot stripe up Karel’s sternum. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, relishing the sharp intake of breath above him, the way Karel’s hands buried themselves in his hair. He worshipped that chest with his mouth and hands, mapping its contours with a deliberate, aching slowness he’d never allowed himself before.
“Your turn,” Karel growled, his voice ragged. His fingers worked the buttons of Matthew’s shirt with an impatient dexterity. He pushed the fabric aside and mirrored Matthew’s actions, his mouth hot and hungry on Matthew’s collarbone, his chest, his own nipples.
But Karel’s exploration felt more focused, more urgent. He dropped to his knees, his hands going to the button of Matthew’s jeans. He looked up, his eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “Yes?” he asked, his thumbs hooking into the waistband.
Matthew looked down at him, at the handsome face tilted up in question, and a powerful surge of desire, laced with pure trust, washed through him. “God, yes,” he whispered.
Karel peeled the jeans and Matthew’s briefs down in one smooth, practiced motion. The cool air of the apartment kissed Matthew’s bare skin. He stepped out of the clothes, standing fully naked as Karl remained on his knees, looking up at him. Karel’s gaze was a physical touch, traveling the length of his body with an open, appreciative hunger that made Matthew’s cock twitch.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Karel said, the words raw and simple. He leaned forward and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Matthew’s thigh, just below his groin. The sensation was electric, making Matthew’s legs tremble.
Then Karel stood, stepping out of his own jeans and briefs. He was fully erect, his cock thick and curving slightly upward. He took Matthew’s hand and led him wordlessly through the familiar short hall to the bedroom. They fell onto the narrow bed in a tangle of limbs, the sheets cool against their heated skin.
There was no hurry now. They explored each other with their hands and mouths, rediscovering the territory they’d briefly mapped days before. Matthew tasted the salt on Karel’s neck, ran his hands over the powerful curve of his ass. Karel kissed his way down Matthew’s stomach, taking him into his mouth for a few devastating, wet sucks that made Matthew cry out and fist the sheets, before moving back up to share the taste on his tongue.
“I want to feel you,” Matthew gasped, his own hand wrapping around Karel’s hard length. The skin was silken and hot, pulsing in his grip.
“Then feel me,” Karel moaned, doing the same to Matthew. Their rhythms started slow, tentative, a shared discovery of pressure and pace. Their foreheads pressed together, their ragged breaths syncing. It was intense, intimate, a mutual giving over that felt more profound than any frantic coupling.
“Just like that,” Karel urged, his own strokes becoming more firm, more deliberate. “Fuck, your hand feels so good.”
Matthew lost himself in the sensory overload: the slick friction of his own hand on Karel, the perfect tightness of Karel’s grip on him, the sweat-slick slide of their bodies pressed together. It was building, a coiled, unbearable pressure low in his gut. He was whispering filthy things, praises and pleas, words he didn't know he had in him. "Don't stop, fuck, just like that, I'm so close."
Karel’s breath hitched. “Me too. Come with me, Matthew. Now.”
It was the command, the use of his name, that tipped him over the edge. With a choked shout, Matthew’s orgasm ripped through him, spilling hot and wet over their joined hands. The convulsions of his own pleasure triggered Karel’s, who followed with a deep, guttural groan, his own release painting Matthew’s stomach in warm, sticky stripes.
For a long time, the only sound was their slowing, labored breathing. They stayed entwined, a mess of sweat and spent passion, their hearts hammering against each other’s ribs in a slowing, post-climactic echo. Karel eventually reached for the duvet, pulling it over them both. He gathered Matthew against him, his spent body a warm, solid anchor in the dark room.
Matthew lay there, listening to Karel’s breathing even out into sleep. The ghosts were quiet. The questions were, for now, answerless. All that existed was the weight of the arm around him, the smell of their sex on the air, and a deep, unnameable satisfaction that felt entirely, terrifyingly, like his own.
He drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, the kind that felt like sinking into warm mud. When he woke, the room was filled with a stark, white light that felt entirely different from the honeyed gloom of his own apartment. For a disorienting moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then the memories returned, not as a flood, but as a steady, sure pulse: the terrace, the tram, the wall, the bed. Karel’s weight was gone from the mattress.
Matthew stretched, his body singing with a pleasant, deep-boned ache. He looked at the clock on the crude bedside table. 10:17. He had a beginner’s class at two, and a pile of ungraded vocabulary tests back in his own room. The mundane reality of it was almost funny. He’d just had the most profoundly connected night of his adult life, and now he had to hurry home to correct misspellings of “apple” and “book.”
He pushed back the duvet. The smell of last night—sweat, sex, Prague—lifted from the sheets. He was naked. His clothes were a scattered trail from the front door. He wrapped the top sheet around his waist, tucking it clumsily, and padded out into the short hallway.
The scent of coffee and frying garlic met him first, then the low, soothing murmur of a Czech radio news report. He stepped into the living room. Morning light slanted through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing above Karel’s shabby sofa. Karel stood at the small stove, his back to Matthew. He wore only a pair of dark grey briefs, the muscles of his back and shoulders shifting as he moved a pan. Two plates waited on the counter beside him.
“I was going to bring you food in bed,” Karel said without turning, as if he’d sensed his presence. “A proper Czech breakfast for my Texas cowboy. But the bacon was about to burn.”
The casual domesticity of it, the easy claim of my Texas cowboy, sent a warmth through Matthew that had nothing to do with the sun. “You didn’t have to,” Matthew said, his voice rough with sleep.
Karel turned then. His hair was damp, his face freshly shaved. His smile was a quieter version of last night’s, less hungry, more settled. His eyes traveled down Matthew’s sheet-draped body, and the warmth in them intensified. He clicked off the stove and crossed the room in three strides.
He didn’t speak. He just put a hand on Matthew’s bare chest, over his heartbeat, and leaned in. The kiss was slow, deep, tasting of toothpaste and promise. Matthew let the sheet go to bring his hands up, skimming them over Karel’s shoulders, his back, feeling the warm, clean skin under his palms. The friction of his own bare chest against Karel’s was a sharp, delicious shock.
“You have to teach,” Karel murmured against his mouth, but his hands were sliding down Matthew’s sides, over the tucked fabric at his hips.
“I know,” Matthew breathed, kissing him again, losing himself in the simple, stunning fact of being wanted like this in the morning light.
“So this will be quick.” Karel’s fingers found the edge of the sheet. He pulled, and the linen pooled at Matthew’s feet. The cool air hit his skin, followed immediately by the heat of Karel’s gaze. He was fully, shamelessly hard.
Karel sank to his knees on the worn wooden floor. He looked up, his hands on Matthew’s thighs. “I just want to taste you again,” he said, his voice a low rasp. Then he leaned forward and took the full length of Matthew’s cock into his mouth in one smooth, wet motion.
Matthew cried out, his hands flying to grip Karel’s damp hair. There was no build-up, no teasing. It was raw, hungry need. Karel’s mouth was searing hot, his tongue working the sensitive underside with a filthy, practiced rhythm. He swallowed around him, the tight suction making Matthew’s knees buckle. He fucked into that warm, willing mouth, losing all sense of time, of responsibility, of everything that wasn’t this blinding pleasure coiling at the base of his spine.
“Karel, I’m gonna—” he gasped, a warning that was really a plea.
Karel just hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight up Matthew’s core. He pulled back, stroking him with a slick, tight fist, his eyes locked on Matthew’s. “Come for me. Let me see it.”
It was the eye contact that undid him. Watching this handsome, solid man on his knees, working his cock with utter focus, sent Matthew over the edge with a force that stole his breath. He came with a shattered groan, his release pulsing over Karel’s fist and onto the floor between them. His body shuddered violently, held upright only by Karel’s steadying hand on his hip.
He slumped against the wall, panting. Before he could even process the aftershocks, a different need ignited in him—a driving, reciprocal urge. He dropped to his own knees, the hard floor biting into his skin. He pushed Karel back onto his heels and hooked his fingers into the waistband of his briefs.
“My turn,” Matthew said, and his own voice sounded foreign, thick with ownership.
He yanked the briefs down. Karel’s cock sprang free, thick and flushed. Matthew didn’t hesitate. He licked a broad stripe from base to tip, savoring the salty pre-come, then took him all the way in. He mimicked what Karel had done, using his tongue, his throat, his hands on Karel’s shaking thighs. He wanted to consume him. He wanted to prove he could give this, too—this total, messy surrender.
“Oh, fuck, Matthew,” Karel choked out, his hands fisting in Matthew’s bed-mussed hair. His hips began to thrust, shallow and desperate. “Right there. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Matthew didn’t. He lost himself in the rhythm, in the weight and taste of him, in the guttural sounds coming from Karel’s throat. He felt powerful. He felt desired in a way that was tactile and absolute. When Karel’s release hit, hot and bitter on the back of his tongue, Matthew swallowed it all, a final, intimate acceptance.
They stayed on the floor for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, surrounded by the smell of coffee, garlic, and sex. Matthew had never felt so utterly used and so completely worshipped in the same breath. It was a fulfillment that went beyond physical, a silent answer to every hesitant question Billy had ever planted in his mind.
“I am very late,” Matthew finally said, but he was smiling.
“I know.” Karel stood, pulling Matthew up with him. He kissed him, softly now. “Go. Teach the children. Be a responsible man.”
Matthew gathered his clothes, dressing quickly while Karel plated the now-cold breakfast. They ate standing at the counter, shoulders touching. It was comfortable. It was easy.
At the door, Matthew hesitated. “Last night… this morning… it was…”
“It was real,” Karel finished for him, buttoning Matthew’s coat for him. “We will do it again. Soon. I will text you.”
The promise wasn’t a grand declaration. It was a simple statement of fact, and that made it more solid than any romance novel vow. Matthew walked out into the Prague morning, the taste of Karel still on his lips, the ache of him in his muscles. The city noises returned—trams, chatter, the river’s distant murmur—but they seemed to orbit a new, quiet center inside him. He was, for the first time in a long time, entirely his own. And someone else had seen that, and wanted it.