Chapter 9: The Morning After
The first thing Matthew registered was the weight. A solid, warm pressure across his chest, pinning him to the thin mattress. Then the smell—his own skin, but altered, mingled with the musky, intimate scent of another man. Jake. Memories of the night detonated behind his eyelids: the frantic coupling against the door, the desperate whispers, the slow, exploratory second round that had felt like a revelation.
He opened his eyes. Pale, dust-moted sunlight cut through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the floating particles like stars in their own tiny galaxy. It fell across Jake’s arm, the one thrown over him, highlighting the fine dark hairs and the corded muscle beneath. Jake was still deeply asleep, his face buried in the pillow beside Matthew’s shoulder, his breathing a slow, even tide. In sleep, all his charismatic armor was gone. He looked younger. Softer. Vulnerable.
The guilt arrived not as a wave, but as a slow, creeping seep, cold water filling a basement. It started in his gut and spread outwards, chilling his limbs. Karel. Karel was probably awake in Prague, maybe making coffee in their sunlit kitchen, maybe texting him good morning. The postcard on the fridge. Thinking of this view. Thinking of you.
Matthew’s chest tightened. He tried to shift, to extract himself from under Jake’s arm, but the movement caused Jake to stir. A low, sleepy murmur escaped him, and his arm tightened possessively. He nuzzled closer, his lips brushing the bare skin of Matthew’s shoulder. The touch was unconscious, innocent in its sleepiness, and it shattered Matthew completely.
“‘Morning,” Jake rasped, the word muffled against his skin. His voice was gravelly with sleep, unbearably intimate.
Matthew couldn’t speak. His throat was sealed shut with cement.
Jake lifted his head, blinking slowly. His brown eyes were soft, unfocused. A slow, easy smile spread across his face, a smile Matthew had never seen before. It wasn’t his charming, classroom smile. It was private, unguarded, full of a quiet wonder. He leaned up and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to Matthew’s lips. A good morning kiss.
“Hi,” Jake said, settling back onto the pillow, his gaze tracing Matthew’s features.
“Hi,” Matthew finally managed, the word a dry crackle.
“You okay?” Jake’s smile faded a fraction, replaced by a flicker of concern. He propped himself up on one elbow. The sheet slipped down to his waist, exposing the taut plane of his stomach. Matthew’s eyes followed the movement against his will. He remembered the feel of that skin under his tongue.
“Yeah. Just… waking up.”
“Yeah.” Jake’s eyes searched his. “Me too. In, like, every possible way.” He laughed, a short, self-conscious huff of air. “Sorry. That was cheesy.”
“It’s okay.”
Silence settled between them, but it was a different silence than the night’s. This was daylight silence. It had corners and edges. It illuminated the crumpled clothes on the floor, the two separate beds shoved inelegantly together, the practical world reasserting itself.
Jake’s hand found Matthew’s under the sheet, their fingers threading together. His thumb rubbed slow circles over Matthew’s knuckles. “Last night…” he began, then stopped. He shook his head, looking almost bewildered. “I don’t have a frame of reference for that. It was… I can’t even.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Jake’s gaze was intent now. “Because for you, it’s… I don’t know, part of your life. For me, it’s like I’ve been colorblind and someone just gave me glasses. Everything is different.” He swallowed. “I’m different.”
Matthew’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was the confession from the dark, now given form in the daylight. It was terrifying. It made it real. It made what they’d done a thing with consequences, not just a stolen fever dream.
“Jake…”
“I’m not asking for anything,” Jake said quickly, though the raw hope in his eyes betrayed him. “I just. I needed to say it. In the light.”
The hope in Jake’s eyes was a physical pressure. Matthew felt the ghost of Karel’s hand on his own, a gentle, trusting grip that now seemed to belong to another lifetime. He pushed the image away. He pushed the guilt down, deep into a locked compartment of his mind. They had two days. Two days in this liminal space where the rules of Prague, of his actual life, did not apply. The line was crossed. Smashed. There was no uncrossing it, so why not walk farther into the new territory?
“In the light,” Matthew echoed, his voice quiet. “It’s still real.”
“Fuck yeah, it is.” Jake’s grin returned, wider now, relieved. He leaned in again, and this kiss was different. It wasn’t sleepy or soft. It was a reaffirmation. His mouth was warm and sure, his tongue sweeping past Matthew’s lips with a lazy confidence that hadn’t been there the night before. He tasted of sleep and himself, a familiar intimacy already.
Matthew surrendered to it. He let his hands come up to cup Jake’s stubbled jaw, anchoring himself in the scratchy, real feel of him. He kissed back, pouring every conflicted, hungry feeling into it. The compartment in his mind held, for now. All that existed was the heat of Jake’s skin, the weight of his body half-draped over him, the slow, building ache between his own legs.
They kissed until their breath grew short, a slow, deep exploration that was about mapping more than claiming. Jake’s hand slid down Matthew’s flank, over his hip, coming to rest on his thigh. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin there. “I could stay here forever,” Jake murmured against his mouth.
“We can’t.” Matthew pulled back just an inch. “We smell like a brothel.”
Jake barked a laugh, the sound wonderfully crude in the quiet room. “You’re not wrong.” He collapsed onto his back, stretching his arms above his head. The sheet fell away completely, and he lay there, gloriously naked and unselfconscious in the morning light. Matthew’s gaze traveled the length of him, from the tousled hair to the solid chest, down the happy trail to his flaccid cock, resting against his thigh. The sight was a visceral punch of want.
Matthew swung his legs out of bed. The wooden floor was cool under his feet. The distance from the bed felt like stepping off a cliff. “I’m going to shower.”
He walked the few steps to the tiny ensuite without looking back. He turned the faucet, and the pipes groaned in the walls before sputtering out a lukewarm spray. Steam began to fog the small mirror. He was about to step in when the bathroom door clicked open.
Jake stood in the doorway, still naked, leaning against the frame. The steam curled around his hips. “Room for one more?”
The question was casual, but his eyes weren’t. They were watchful, a little uncertain, braced for rejection. Matthew looked at him—the man who’d been his straight, unattainable flatmate, now standing in a hostel bathroom doorway asking to share a shower. A crazy, giddy feeling rose up, battling the guilt. He nodded. “It’s tiny. We’ll be on top of each other.”
“Perfect,” Jake said, and stepped inside.
He pulled the curtain closed, and the world shrunk to a translucent plastic hemisphere and the sound of falling water. They were pressed together, chest to chest, in the tepid stream. Jake’s skin was slick, water beading on his shoulders and chest. Matthew let his hands slide down the slope of Jake’s back, over the firm curves of his ass. He pulled him closer.
Their mouths met under the spray. Water cascaded over their faces, their lips sliding wetly together. Jake’s hands were everywhere, sliding over Matthew’s ribs, his back, gripping his ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Can’t stop touching you,” Jake mumbled into the kiss, his voice ragged. “It’s like I’ve been starving.”
“Then touch me.” Matthew guided Jake’s hand between their bodies. Their cocks, hard and insistent now, pressed together in the slippery heat. Jake wrapped a big, calloused hand around both of them, his grip clumsy with eagerness.
“Jesus, that’s good,” Jake hissed. He began to stroke, his fist gliding up and down their combined lengths. The sensation was intense, almost too much—the slick friction, the heat of Jake against him, the water sluicing over their joined hands.
Matthew groaned, his forehead falling against Jake’s shoulder. He could smell the clean, cheap soap and underneath it, Jake’s own musk. He reached down and covered Jake’s hand with his own, tightening the grip, setting a faster, rougher rhythm. “Harder,” he gritted out.
“Yeah? Like this?” Jake’s breath was hot in his ear. He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, his thumb rubbing brutally over the sensitive heads. Pleasure, sharp and electric, jolted through Matthew.
“Fuck, Jake! Just like that.” Matthew was babbling, lost in the raw, wet grind. He turned his head, capturing Jake’s mouth again, biting his lower lip. Jake growled into the kiss, his hips pumping, driving their cocks through the tight tunnel of their fists.
The climax built not as a wave but as a sudden, seismic fracture. It ripped through Matthew first. He tore his mouth away, a broken cry echoing off the tiles as his orgasm pulsed out, thick stripes of come mixing instantly with the shower water, hot against their grinding hands. The feel of it, the shamelessness, sent Jake over the edge.
“Matt! I’m coming—ah, fuck!” Jake’s body locked, his own release shuddering through him, adding to the mess between them. He kept stroking, milking them both through the last pulses until they were shuddering and sensitive.
They stood there, panting, foreheads pressed together, under water that was now cooling. Jake’s hand slowly uncurled. He looked down at their spent bodies, then back at Matthew, a look of dazed, sated wonder on his face. “Okay,” he breathed. “So that’s a shower.”
Matthew laughed, a breathless, watery sound. He reached for the soap. They washed each other slowly, a quiet, tender counterpoint to what they’d just done. Jake’s hands were gentle as they smoothed suds over Matthew’s shoulders and back.
Dressed in clean jeans and t-shirts, they stood by the door, backpacks at the ready. Jake slung an arm around Matthew’s shoulders, pulling him in for a brief, hard kiss. “Ready to go play tourist?”
Matthew looked up at him, at the easy smile that now felt like a shared secret. The compartment in his mind was securely locked. Karel was eight hours away by train. Here, now, there was only Budapest, and the man beside him, and the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of the fall.
“Yeah,” Matthew said, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go get lost.”
“Let’s go get lost.”
They stepped out into a Budapest morning sharp with the scent of roasting coffee and diesel fumes. The city hummed around them, a grand, ornate puzzle of bridges and spires. Jake’s hand found Matthew’s as they crossed the street, fingers lacing together with a natural ease that stole Matthew’s breath.
He expected Jake to drop his hand in the open daylight, on a crowded sidewalk. He didn’t. He held it tighter, his thumb stroking the space between Matthew’s knuckles. A couple of older women carrying net bags gave them a cursory glance and smiled. The simple, unremarked-upon normalcy of it was a revelation. It was also a lie, a beautiful, temporary lie he chose to wear for the day. He pushed the image of Karel’s gentle, trusting face into a deep, dark closet in his mind and turned the key.
“That one looks like a wedding cake stabbed with a toothpick,” Jake said, pointing his free hand at the Parliament building across the Danube.
Matthew snorted. “An English teacher’s critique. Profound.”
“It’s accurate!” Jake laughed, a full, unguarded sound that made several passersby turn their heads. He pulled Matthew closer, bumping their shoulders together. “Admit it. It’s a gaudy, gorgeous monstrosity.”
They wandered without a map, letting the cobblestone lanes dictate their path. They held hands past the vivid yellow trams, past stern statues and bustling cafes. Each time Jake’s grip shifted or he used their joined hands to pull Matthew toward some interesting shop window, a fresh bolt of electric surprise shot up Matthew’s arm. This was what he had watched Jake do with women for months—this casual, public possession. To have it directed at him was vertiginous.
At the entrance to the Central Market Hall, under the soaring, rust-colored ironwork, Jake stopped him. “Hold on.” He turned Matthew toward him, his hands on his shoulders. He didn’t kiss him. He just looked, his eyes scanning Matthew’s face as if memorizing it in the filtered, dusty light. “You good?”
The concern was genuine, a tiny crack in Jake’s confident facade. Matthew saw the flicker of worry there, the unspoken question: Is this too much? Am I too much? It mirrored his own hidden turmoil so precisely it hurt. He forced a smile, the brightest one he could muster. “I’m fantastic.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “And you’re staring. People will talk.”
“Let them,” Jake murmured, but he dropped his hands, a faint blush coloring his neck.
Inside, the market was a cathedral of chaos. The air was thick with the smell of paprika, smoked meat, rising dough, and ripe produce. They bought a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the oven, a paper cone of bright pink lángos sausage, two wrinkled peaches, and a bottle of cheap local wine with a cellophane-wrapped cork. Jake bartered poorly with a cheese vendor for a chunk of salty white cheese, his attempts at Hungarian earning a patient smile and a lower price.
“See? Charming the locals,” Matthew teased, bumping him with his hip as they walked away.
“It’s a gift,” Jake said, slinging his free arm around Matthew’s neck and pulling him into a headlock, peppering the top of his head with a quick, playful kiss before releasing him. They were acting like teenagers. Matthew felt twenty-two in a way he never had with Billy, where every interaction had felt so weighted, so analyzed.
They found a park near the river, a patch of grass still damp from the morning. Jake spread his hoodie on the ground. They sat hip to hip, tearing the bread with their hands, feeding each other bites of sausage and cheese. The wine was rough and slightly fizzy, but they drank it from the bottle anyway, passing it back and forth. Jake’s leg pressed firmly against his own, a solid line of warmth.
“I could get used to this,” Jake said, leaning back on his elbows. He was looking at the sky, not at Matthew. “The not-having-a-plan part. The eating-in-parks part.” He paused. “The you part.”
Matthew’s chest constricted. He took another swig of wine to wash down the sudden lump in his throat. The compartment in his mind rattled violently. Karel. Prague. Reality. He swallowed it all. “Yeah,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “Me too.”
The meal finished, they lay back on the crumpled hoodie. The sun was warm on their faces. Jake rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. He traced a idle pattern on Matthew’s stomach through his t-shirt. The touch was casual, intimate, possessive. Matthew watched the clouds drift, his mind blissfully blank for the first time in months. The guilt was a faint, persistent hum in the background, easily drowned out by the feel of Jake’s fingers on his ribs, the smell of cut grass and wine on his breath.
Then Jake’s hand stilled. He was looking at Matthew, his expression unreadable. “What?” Matthew asked.
“Nothing.” Jake leaned down and kissed him. It wasn’t hungry or desperate like the night before. It was slow, deep, and sun-warmed. Matthew kissed back, letting his hands come up to cradle Jake’s face. He tasted of peach and cheap wine.
They kissed until the world narrowed to the points of contact: lips, tongues, the weight of Jake’s body half over his, their legs tangling in the grass. Jake’s hand slipped under Matthew’s shirt, his palm rough and warm against his skin. Matthew arched into the touch, a soft sound escaping him. There was no one around them, no thin hostel walls, no ghosts. Just the vast, open sky and the man mapping his skin with a reverence that felt like worship.
Matthew had never felt more exposed, or more alive. This was the precise, piercing joy he had imagined when he’d first watched Jake laugh in their Prague kitchen. This was the dangerous, glittering thing he’d left his safe life with Billy to find. Jake was his now, in this stolen afternoon. He was radiant, real, and currently sucking a mark onto the sensitive skin just above his collarbone.
“Jake,” Matthew gasped, not in protest but in pure, undiluted feeling. He clutched at Jake’s back, the fabric of his t-shirt bunching in his fists.
Jake pulled back, his lips swollen, his eyes dark. He searched Matthew’s face. “Tell me this is real,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Tell me I didn’t dream last night. That this,” he gestured between them, “is happening.”
“It’s real.” The words felt like a vow, and like a betrayal. They were both. He pulled Jake down for another kiss, pouring every conflicted, glorious ounce of feeling into it. He was in love. The knowledge bloomed in his chest, terrifying and beautiful. He was in love with Jake, and he had just cheated on a good man to prove it.
The sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the grass. They packed up in a comfortable silence, their hands finding each other’s automatically as they walked back toward the hostel. The giddy bubble of the day was still there, but a thin membrane of dread had formed around its edges. With each step, Prague drew closer. The train back tomorrow. Karel’s face. The flat they all shared. The lies they would now have to tell, or the truth they would have to face.
Matthew held Jake’s hand tighter, as if he could anchor them both in this perfect, amoral day forever. He knew, with a cold, certain clarity, that the world of trouble waiting for him back home would be vast, and devastating. He pushed the thought away and focused on the calloused feel of Jake’s palm against his own, a tactile memory he knew he would need to survive what came next.