Chapter 7: Night Train to Budapest
The train sighed out of Praha hlavní nádraží with a metallic lurch, abandoning the grand arches of the station for the cramped, anonymous darkness of the suburbs. Matthew watched the glowing grid of the city shrink in the window, his reflection a ghost superimposed over retreating lights. The hum of the engine settled into a rhythmic,催眠的 clatter against the tracks.
He slid into the worn upholstery of their assigned seats, the compartment smelling of industrial cleaner and decades of stale smoke soaked into the fabric. Jake followed, tossing his backpack into the overhead rack with an easy motion before collapsing into the seat beside him.
“Regular seats, my ass,” Jake grinned, pulling two cans of Pilsner Urquell from his own bag. The sleeper car had been sold out. “This is authentic. Like proper backpackers.”
“Authentically uncomfortable,” Matthew muttered, but accepted the beer. The can was cool in his hand. He popped the tab, the sound sharp in the quiet compartment. They were alone for now, the other seats vacant.
“To adventure,” Jake said, clinking his can against Matthew’s. His smile was electric under the compartment’s dim overhead light.
They drank, and the initial stiffness melted away with the familiar currency of shared history. They talked about their students—Jake’s impression of a particularly dense vocabulary mistake, Matthew’s account of an elderly student who insisted on using Shakespearean insults. They dissected the other teachers at the language school, their laughter loud and unselfconscious in the empty space.
Jake had brought a battered guidebook. He flipped it open, his long finger tracing routes along the Danube. “Here—the Széchenyi baths. Outdoor pools, steam rooms. We have to go, even if it’s freezing. And this ruin pub, Szimpla Kert, it’s in an old factory. Seven different bars.”
Matthew leaned in to see, their shoulders brushing. He caught the scent of Jake’s cologne, something citrus and clean-cut, mixed with the malty beer on his breath. Different from Karel’s earthier, simpler smell. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m a planner,” Jake said, nudging him. “Unlike some people who float through life relying on their boyfriends to show them around.”
The mention of Karel was like a drop of cold water down Matthew’s spine. He took a long swig of beer. “He’s good at it.”
Jake’s expression didn’t change, but he closed the guidebook with a soft snap. “I’m sure he is.”
Outside, the world had dissolved into a void. Occasional clusters of lights—a lone farmhouse, a distant village—blinked past like lost constellations before being swallowed again by the immense dark. The rhythm of the wheels became a mantra. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.
“Another?” Jake asked, already fishing out two more cans.
The beers blurred the edges. The conversation meandered from Prague gossip to memories of their first months as flatmates, the time Jake had tried to cook a Turkish dish and set off the smoke alarm, the night they’d gotten lost in Karlín and ended up in a communist-era bunker bar. The laughter came easier. The space between them on the seats felt smaller.
Matthew found himself watching Jake’s hands as he talked—the confident gestures, the way he’d tap his fingers against his knee when making a point. He noticed the subtle wear on the cuff of his chambray shirt, a loose thread. Intimate details.
“You okay?” Jake asked suddenly, his voice lower. “You seem… distant.”
“Just tired,” Matthew said, which was true. The adrenaline of the departure, the weight of his secret, the beer—it was a sedative cocktail. “It’s been a long week.”
“Sleep,” Jake said, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “It’s a few hours yet. I’ll stay up, watch the stuff.”
Matthew wanted to protest, to maintain the vigilant, friendly distance. But his eyelids were heavy. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position against the upright seatback and the cool glass of the window. It was hopeless.
“Here,” Jake murmured.
Before Matthew could process it, Jake had shifted. He lifted the armrest between them, creating a sliver of shared space. Then he put his arm along the back of the seat, behind Matthew’s shoulders. Not quite around him, but an open invitation.
“Just lean. It’s less murder on your neck.”
It was a practical solution. A friendly gesture. It’s okay for friends to cuddle sometimes, Jake’s voice from an imagined future echoed in his head. This wasn’t cuddling. This was efficiency.
Matthew hesitated for a heartbeat that felt like a decade. Then, with a silent surrender to exhaustion and something darker, he let himself slump sideways. His head found the solid curve of Jake’s shoulder. The chambray was soft against his cheek.
He expected Jake to tense. He didn’t. He simply adjusted, his arm settling more securely along the seatback, his hand now resting lightly, impossibly, on Matthew’s far shoulder. His body was warm. He smelled of clean cotton, citrus, and the faint, sharp tang of male sweat underneath.
Matthew’s breath caught. He held it, every muscle locked. This was a line, blurred and smudged but undeniably crossed.
Jake’s thumb moved. Just once. A slow, unconscious sweep against the fabric of Matthew’s jacket, over the bone of his shoulder.
A tremor ran through Matthew. He forced himself to breathe out, to untense. The train rocked. Jake’s body was a steady anchor against the motion.
This means nothing, Matthew told himself, chanting it internally like a prayer. He’s straight. He’s comfortable. You’re tired. It’s just comfort.
But his body wasn’t listening. A deep, quiet heat spread from the point of contact. He was hyper-aware of the rise and fall of Jake’s chest, the solid muscle of his arm, the simple, devastating weight of his hand. He thought of Karel’s warning—It was hunger. And confusion. This didn’t feel confusing for Jake. It felt peaceful. Settled.
The clacking of the wheels synced with his slowing heart. The compartment light dimmed further on some automatic setting. In the semi-darkness, the world narrowed to the warmth he was nestled against, the rhythmic sound of Jake’s breathing, the faint pulse he could feel in Jake’s neck near his temple.
Sleep, thick and coercive, pulled him under.
He woke to a subtle change in pressure, in sound. The train was slowing, the clack-clack-clack elongating. His neck was stiff, but his head was pillowed perfectly. He was still on Jake’s shoulder. And Jake’s arm was no longer just along the seatback.
It was around his waist.
Jake’s hand was splayed flat against Matthew’s side, his fingers curled just over his hipbone. In sleep, Matthew had turned into him, his face buried now in the space between Jake’s neck and shoulder. One of his own hands had come to rest on Jake’s chest, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt.
Panic, cold and immediate, flooded his veins. He jerked awake, his body recoiling as if scalded. He shoved himself upright, his back hitting the window with a dull thud.
Jake stirred, blinking awake. His arm, now empty, dropped to his side. He looked at Matthew, his face soft with sleep, his hair mussed. There was no guilt in his eyes. No alarm. Just a slow, lazy recognition.
“You okay?” Jake’s voice was gravelly with sleep. He stretched, the muscles of his shoulders and arms shifting under his shirt. “We’re coming into a station, I think.”
Matthew couldn’t speak. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. The place where Jake’s hand had been on his waist felt branded.
Jake saw his expression and let out a low, easy chuckle. He rubbed his eyes. “Hey, relax. You conked out hard. You were going to get a crick in your neck. It’s okay for friends to cuddle sometimes on a night train. Survival tactics.”
Cuddle. He said the word. So casual. So utterly normal.
“I… I didn’t mean to…” Matthew stammered.
“You didn’t do anything,” Jake said, his smile gentle. He leaned forward, peering out at the darkened platform sliding past. Fluorescent lights strobed across his face. “It’s fine, Matt. Really.”
But it wasn’t fine. Because as the initial shock receded, it was replaced by a searing, shameful awareness. In the moments between sleep and waking, in that hazy, defenseless state, he had savored it. He had nuzzled closer. He had inhaled the scent of Jake’s skin and felt a profound, debilitating sense of rightness. A completeness he hadn’t even known he was seeking.
He remembered the solid weight of Karel’s body, the surety of his hands. That was real. That was chosen. This was something else—a stolen, ambiguous intimacy that tasted of betrayal and illicit longing.
The train pulled to a stop at some anonymous station. A few people disembarked; a few more boarded, their voices a foreign murmur in the corridor.
Jake settled back into his seat, looking at Matthew. The easy smile was still there, but his eyes in the shifting light were unreadable pools of shadow. “You want the other can? We’ve got another hour, at least.”
Matthew nodded, unable to trust his voice. He took the beer Jake offered, his fingers brushing Jake’s. A jolt, like a static shock, traveled up his arm.
He drank deeply, the beer now tasteless. He stared out the window at his own haunted reflection, seeing the ghost of himself still curled against Jake. He could still feel the imprint of that arm around him, the phantom pressure on his hip.
Jake resumed talking about their plans for tomorrow, his voice a steady, comforting stream. Matthew nodded along, making occasional sounds of agreement. But inside, he was splitting in two. One part was here, on this train, hyper-aware of every infinitesimal shift in Jake’s posture beside him. The other part was still back in Žižkov, in a room that smelled of soap and skin, hearing a voice whisper Be smart in Budapest.
And he knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that he was already failing.
And he knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that he was already failing.
The train finally groaned into Budapest’s Keleti station just after dawn, a gray light filtering through the grime-streaked windows. They joined the shuffling queue of backpackers spilling onto the platform, the air suddenly thick with foreign chatter and the smell of damp wool and diesel. Matthew’s body felt stiff, his mind frayed from a night of fractured sleep and loaded silence.
“Let’s find this place,” Jake said, heaving his bag onto his shoulder. His energy seemed renewed, electric. “I need a shower and a real coffee.”
The city outside the station was a monument in sepia, grand and soot-stained. They navigated the bustling streets, following a map on Jake’s phone, crossing the wide Danube on the majestic Széchenyi Chain Bridge. The water below was the color of slate, the Parliament building rising on the opposite bank like a gothic fairy tale. Matthew walked beside him, the ghost of Jake’s arm around his waist still clinging like a phantom limb.
Their hostel was tucked down a side street in the Jewish Quarter, a crumbling art nouveau building with a faded sign. The lobby smelled of incense and cheap detergent. A bored clerk with multiple facial piercings clicked on a keyboard.
“Your booking… yeah, the six-bed male dorm,” she said, not looking up.
Jake leaned on the counter, flashing his easy smile. “Any chance of an upgrade? A private room? It’s my friend’s birthday.” He threw a wink at Matthew, who stood frozen, clutching his backpack straps.
The clerk glanced between them, her expression unchanging. She clicked a few more keys. “There’s one. Private twin. Extra forty euros total.”
“Sold,” Jake said, pulling out his card before Matthew could utter a word.
The privacy was a tangible, dangerous new element in the room. It was small, with two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a single window overlooking a bleak courtyard. The space felt charged, like the air before a lightning strike. Matthew dropped his bag by the bed farthest from the door, a feeble attempt at establishing a border.
“Score,” Jake said, throwing his bag on the other bed. He immediately pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the rumpled blanket. His torso was a revelation of tan skin and defined muscle, a light dusting of dark hair across his chest that trailed down his stomach. It was unselfconscious, purely functional. He stretched, the cords in his neck standing out. “God, I feel gross. Baths first, then food. Shake off the train.”
Matthew turned away, busying himself with unpacking his toiletries. His heart hammered against his ribs. The image of Jake shirtless, the sheer casual masculinity of it, was seared into his vision. He thought of Karel’s body, solid and familiar, and felt a deep pang of guilt. “Yeah, baths sound good.”
The steam rose in great, billowing clouds from the open-air pools of the Széchenyi Baths, melting into the cold, afternoon air. The grand, yellow neo-baroque palace surrounded them, statues staring blankly from their niches. The water was a milky, thermal blue, rich with minerals and the faint, eggy scent of sulfur. Dozens of people lounged in the heat, their voices echoing off the water and stone.
Matthew followed Jake to a quieter, hotter pool. He kept his eyes fixed on the patterned tiles below the water’s surface as he peeled off his towel. He felt exposed, acutely aware of his own body and of Jake, who strode ahead without hesitation.
Jake descended the steps into the water, letting out a long, satisfied groan as the heat enveloped him up to his shoulders. The dark hair on his chest glistened, plastered to his skin. Water droplets clung to the sinewy muscles of his arms and broad shoulders. “This is the stuff. Come on, get in. It’s incredible.”
Matthew slipped in, the searing heat a shock that quickly melted into a heavy, luxurious warmth. He sank up to his neck, putting distance between them. The water provided a merciful veil.
Jake swam over, not crowding him but staying close. His movements were fluid, powerful. “So,” he said, his voice low amidst the ambient chatter and slosh. “You never really said. How are things with you and Karel?”
The question was a torpedo in the tranquil water. “They’re good. Really good.” Matthew’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears.
“Yeah? ‘Really good’ covers a lot of ground.” Jake tilted his head back, wetting his hair. He looked at Matthew through half-closed eyes. “Is it serious?”
Matthew’s stomach tightened. “I don’t know. It’s… heading that way.”
“Huh.” Jake paddled a little closer, the movement creating small waves that lapped against Matthew’s chest. “He seems like a solid guy. Stable.”
There was an edge to the word ‘stable,’ a faint implication that somehow made Matthew feel defensive. “He is. He’s kind. He knows what he wants.”
“And what does he want?” Jake’s gaze was intent now, no longer casual.
“Me, I think,” Matthew said, the admission feeling both like a shield and a betrayal.
Jake was quiet for a moment, the steam wreathing his face. Then he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lucky guy.” He splashed a handful of water playfully at Matthew. “Don’t look so tense. We’re on vacation.”
The playfulness continued, toeing a line. Jake would dunk him gently, a strong hand on his shoulder pushing him under before pulling him back up. He’d challenge him to swimming races across the narrow width of the pool, their bodies slicing through the hot water in close proximity. Once, as Matthew surfaced, gasping, Jake was right there, his hands steadying Matthew’s shoulders, his face inches away. Water streamed from Jake’s hair down his stubbled jaw.
“You okay?” Jake asked, his thumbs rubbing small circles on Matthew’s collarbones, just above the waterline.
The touch was electric, searing through the thermal heat. Matthew’s breath caught. He could see every pore on Jake’s skin, every individual eyelash clumped with moisture. “Fine,” he managed, pulling back gently.
He turned onto his back, floating, staring up at the leaden sky to break the unbearable intensity of Jake’s proximity. His mind screamed for Karel—Karel’s quiet smile, the rough touch of his hands, the sound of his voice saying láska. He clung to those memories like a lifeline. But his body, traitorous and humming with a current he couldn’t switch off, was achingly aware of Jake’s presence just feet away. Every splash, every low laugh, was a pull on his focus.
He felt a familiar, stubborn heat gathering low in his belly, a tightening that had nothing to do with the thermal water. He denied it, furiously. It was the heat, the proximity, the novelty. It wasn’t real. He focused on the architectural details of the palace roof, counting the statues, forcing his thoughts to Prague, to a specific night, to a specific touch that belonged to someone else.
But when he righted himself, Jake was watching him, a knowing, unreadable expression softening his features. The playful flirtation was gone, replaced by something quieter, more direct. It was a look that acknowledged the charade, that saw straight through Matthew’s desperate internal calculations.
Matthew felt the last of his defenses crumble under that gaze. He looked away, down into the opaque, blue water where their submerged forms were blurred and indistinct, and wondered, with a crushing clarity, how he was ever going to make it back.
He looked away, down into the opaque, blue water where their submerged forms were blurred and indistinct, and wondered, with a crushing clarity, how he was ever going to make it back.
They left the baths pruned and languid, their skin glowing from the minerals. The crisp air felt like a slap after the enveloping heat, a needed shock to the system. They walked without a firm destination, letting the grand avenues and crumbling side streets pull them along.
Jake pointed out architectural details with the confident, slightly showy knowledge of someone who’d read the guidebook cover to cover. “That’s Eclectic style, see the mix of Renaissance and Baroque elements?” Matthew nodded, letting the facts wash over him, soothed by the normalcy of a tourist’s rhythm.
They bought greasy lángos from a street vendor, eating the fried bread topped with sour cream and cheese as they walked. The rich, salty taste was grounding. “Better than any pub food in Prague,” Jake declared, a fleck of cheese at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t let Karel hear you say that,” Matthew said without thinking. “He’s fiercely patriotic about Czech frybread.”
The name hung between them. Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his smile thinning. “I’m sure he is.” He crumpled his paper wrapper, tossing it into a bin. “Come on, the shoe monument is up this way.”
The afternoon dissolved into a parade of landmarks—the solemn, bronze shoes along the Danube, the vast space of Heroes’ Square. They took stupid, grinning selfies in front of the statues, Jake’s arm slung around Matthew’s shoulders in a way that felt both familiar and newly charged. The ghost of the train ride was now a constant third companion, silent and observing.
As dusk stained the sky a deep violet, they returned to the hostel. The common room buzzed with a different energy. A guy with Australian flag patches sewn to his backpack was rallying a group. “Pub crawl! Ruin bars! Leaves in twenty!”
Jake caught Matthew’s eye, a spark of mischief there. “We’re in.”
Matthew’s instinct was to plead exhaustion, to retreat to their twin-bedded cell. But the thought of sitting alone with Jake in that quiet room felt more dangerous than a crowd. “Yeah, okay.”
The crawl was a blur of fractured, improbable spaces. A bar in a hollowed-out factory, rusted machinery still clinging to the walls, neon signs buzzing against crumbling brick. Another in a dusty, furniture-strewn courtyard, bathtubs planted with flowers serving as seats. The drinks were cheap, fluorescent, and strong.
Jake was in his element, drawing people in, his laughter ringing out. He introduced Matthew as his “flatmate from Prague,” a label that now felt like a costume. Matthew drank steadily, trying to match the pace, the sweet burn of unicum and the fizz of cheap beer merging into a protective haze.
With every bar, the space between them physically shrank. A press of the shoulder in a crowded corridor. A hand on the small of Matthew’s back guiding him through a dense knot of people. Jake’s breath against his ear as he leaned in to be heard over the pounding music. “Having fun?”
“Yeah,” Matthew shouted back, the lie becoming easier with each sip. The alcohol was a solvent, melting his resolve, dissolving the image of Karel’s patient face into a pleasant, distant ache. He knew he should run. He should extricate himself, claim a headache, walk back alone through the foreign streets. But his limbs felt heavy and willing. He leaned into the touch, each point of contact a small surrender.
The final bar was a pulsating heart of noise and bodies. The music was a deep, tactile throb in the floor. The dance floor was a sweaty, undulating mass. The Australian backpacker shoved shots into their hands; they threw them back, the liquid fire sealing Matthew’s fate.
Then they were in the thick of it, moving without rhythm. Jake was right in front of him, his shirt damp with sweat, his eyes reflecting the strobe lights like fractured glass. There was no pretense of conversation here, just the hammering beat and the palpable, screaming tension that had traveled from Prague on a night train.
Jake’s hands found Matthew’s hips.
Matthew didn’t push them away.
They moved together, a clumsy, intimate approximation of dancing. The world narrowed to the heat radiating from Jake’s body, the pressure of his fingers through the thin cotton of Matthew’s t-shirt. Matthew’s head swam, a cocktail of spirits and yearning. This was the cliff edge. He saw it. He felt the gravel giving way under his feet.
Jake leaned in. It wasn’t an accident. His gaze dropped to Matthew’s mouth, held, then locked back on his eyes—a clear, unmistakable question in the chaotic dark.
Matthew’s breath stopped. Every warning bell was a dull echo. He thought of the postcard on his dresser in Prague. Thinking of this view. Thinking of you.
He didn’t pull back.
Jake closed the final, infinitesimal distance. His lips were soft, surprisingly tentative against Matthew’s. The shock of it was a white-hot wire through the alcohol’s fog. Then Jake’s mouth grew urgent, insistent, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Matthew’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair.
Matthew kissed him back. A reckless, hungry sound escaped his throat as he opened his mouth to Jake’s tongue. The taste of him—sour beer, smoke, something uniquely and devastatingly Jake—obliterated every other thought. His own hands clutched at Jake’s shoulders, pulling him closer as the crowd jostled around them. They were making out in the middle of the dance floor, a frantic, public confession.
It was Jake who finally broke, breathing ragged, forehead resting against Matthew’s. His eyes were wide, almost scared. Matthew stumbled back, the reality crashing in like icy water.
He turned and pushed through the bodies, a desperate need for air suddenly suffocating him. He burst out into a narrow alley, gulping the cold, garbage-scented night. He braced his hands on his knees, trying to steady the spinning world.
The door creaked open behind him. Jake’s footsteps were sure on the cobblestones.
“Matthew.”
“We can’t do this.” The words were raw, ripped from him. He straightened, still facing the wall. “This is wrong. I have someone. You’re… we’re friends. This is a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake.” Jake’s voice was quiet, closer now. “I have had feelings for you for months. I can’t hide it anymore. I tried. I dated those women, I tried to just be your friend, but I can’t.”
Matthew turned. Jake stood a few feet away, his face illuminated by a single, buzzing security light. He looked utterly stripped of his usual charming armor, vulnerable and desperate. “What about Karel?” Matthew whispered, the name a token protest, his resistance already paper-thin.
“What about this?” Jake took the final step, his hands rising to frame Matthew’s face. His thumbs stroked Matthew’s cheekbones, a mirror of a gesture that now belonged to someone else. “This is real. Tell me you don’t feel this.”
Matthew’s willpower shattered. A low, defeated sound escaped him as he surrendered, closing the gap, his mouth finding Jake’s again. This kiss was different—less frantic, deeper, a confirmation. They kissed against the cool brick of the alley, hidden in shadow, Jake’s body solid and wanting against his.
When they finally separated, breathing hard, Jake rested his forehead against Matthew’s. “Come back to the hostel.”
It wasn’t a question. Matthew knew, with a hollow, terrifying certainty, what would happen the moment their private door clicked shut. The twin beds, the charged silence, the culmination of every loaded glance and accidental touch since he’d first moved to Prague.
He couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The part of him that wanted Karel, that valued what they were building, was locked in a distant room, pounding on a soundproof door. The part of him that had always ached for Jake, for this specific validation from this specific unattainable man, was in control now. He was drunk on more than alcohol; he was drunk on the finally, the at last.
He nodded, a barely perceptible movement.
Jake took his hand, their fingers lacing together, and led him back through the pulsating music and out into the night. The walk to the hostel was a silent, feverish dream. Each step was a decision not to turn back, a conscious walking away from one life and toward a glittering, catastrophic unknown. The city around them was a beautiful, indifferent witness.