33. Fischer

33

FISCHER

" Y eah, sure. We can talk. If you're up for it." Matthew drops his gaze before disappearing into the bathroom again.

I drain the water and set the glass aside, then I flop onto my back, unable to hold myself up anymore. My ass gives a sharp twinge, and yet it also feels miserably empty. I hear the shower turn on and roll my eyes. He's never in a hurry to do anything. I hope he doesn't take so long that I fall asleep. I actually do have a few things I'd like to tell him.

I'm not sure whether I technically fell asleep while he was fucking me or not. I had thought I was blacking out, briefly—ears ringing, vision blurring from the insanely intense prostate-driven orgasm, but the next thing I remember, Matthew was railing me, and I had no idea how much time had passed, only that my body had completely reset. The heat in his eyes was searing. That he was still using me was beyond filthy and so hot . I've never been so fucking turned on. Despite having had multiple prior orgasms, one of which may or may not have knocked me out, that last one was even more bone-melting and by far the most draining.

I'm not sure what any of this means about me, but as long as it's working for him, I'll try not to stress about it.

His shower doesn't last long, and he comes out with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair damp but not soaking. Jesus Christ he's perfect. How was I able to resist him for so long? And was it too long? As far as I know, he doesn't do emotional commitments with his lovers. What I have yet to find out is why. And I'm not sure I'm ready to hear the truth.

I have to avert my eyes. My brain literally can't take his beauty. I happen to catch the time on my watch and see that it's almost dawn. That means we've been in bed more than four hours. Or my watch is broken.

He eyes his clothes on the ground. "I'm starving. Wanna go grab something?" he asks.

"I could order?—"

"I think maybe some air," he says, his gaze eating me up again. "If you want to talk, the bed's probably not the place to do it."

My chest and neck heat. "Okay," I say, sitting up.

We get dressed, him in the jeans and t-shirt he showed up in, and me in sweatpants, a tank, and a zip-up jacket. Once I've got my keys, wallet and phone, we leave the Eastmoor, duck out of the service entrance and walk to a small cafe on Lexington. He holds my hand on the walk as the sun rises on Manhattan. The smell of earth and dewdrops in the gardens we pass mixes with the shower fresh scent of him.

He asks me a lot of questions on the walk. Mostly about my physical well-being, covering everything from how my leg is doing to the state of my throat and ass. I reassure him I'm coping well without using the word fine again.

At the café, we order decafs at the counter and he gets two pastries, one savory, one sweet. I opt for a mixed berry parfait.

The barista keeps sneaking glances at me, some more obvious than others. She's young with dyed black hair and a septum piercing. Lots of tattoos. I smile awkwardly and she finally leans over the counter and says, "I love your show. I literally watch it every day."

"Oh. Um. Thank you."

I can feel Matthew looking at me. Feel the laugh he wants to let out like it's in my own throat.

"Do you have a podcast?" she asks. "I'd love to hear more about your take on things. You always manage to make me think."

"No, but, uh…thank you."

She grins and hands over our coffees. "Think about it. Enjoy. Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

There's one remaining table in the tiny establishment. Matthew makes a beeline fore it, claiming it before anyone in line behind us tries to. He holds out my chair for me, and I sit, leaning my cane on the wall. Matthew takes the other seat across from me, opens the lid on his drink, blows across the top of it, and says, "You're adorable when you blush."

I lift my eyebrows. "Am I?" I hate it when people recognize me. It makes me feel like I need to put on a show, be calmer, cooler, and more collected than I am. When I go out with Vaughn, I wear a cap and sunglasses so shit exactly like this doesn't happen. Not that she was rude or inappropriate, just that—like Matthew said—it makes me feel like there's a spotlight on me, and I tend to get flustered.

He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee. "Okay, I'm ready. What do you want to talk about?"

"This," I say, gesturing between us, relieved the woman who recognized me is busy behind the counter and not staring.

"Be more specific, my mind's all over the place with this right now."

"Give me a minute," I say, feeling too vulnerable. I have a few spoonfuls of my yogurt, drink some of my decaf and think about where I want to begin. "You're really…passionate," I finally say, aware it sounds somewhat ridiculous, but I can't think of a better or less awkward word.

His mouth pauses mid chew, and then he swallows. "In a bad way?"

"I feel like maybe in a way that could be misinterpreted."

"Oh."

We're silent a while, and I keep eating, giving him more time to respond because sometimes he needs it. Plus, I feel like I've just dropped a major downer bomb.

"This whole situation between you and me…" He trails off a moment, but I'm patient. "It's always felt intense. Even while you were gone."

I nod and internally brace for whatever comes next.

"I missed you," he says. "A lot."

Oh shit… there goes my heart . It's not the first time he's said it, but it's the first time I've felt it in my gut. I hate this tiny table because it's between us. I, for one, would have rather had this conversation in bed.

"Look. I'm not the most stable person," Matthew says. "I mean, I feel like I missed you in a lot of ways and not all of them were good."

"Explain," I say.

"I'm not sure I want to."

"Then why bring it up?"

"Maybe I thought you could read between the lines."

"You get bored easy?" I venture.

"That's not how I'd describe it, but if you asked Maggie, that's probably what she'd say." He takes another huge bite, this time of the hazelnut turnover.

"I'm more interested in how you'd describe it."

He looks up and to the side while he chews, like he's searching for a way to translate something only his brain could truly comprehend. "It's like…obsession and burnout."

"Hm."

"I get fixated on things." He briefly touches my arm. "Not that I think that's what happening here, but…I wonder if you think that's what it is."

"Ah."

"Do you ever feel like it's hard to trust your own feelings?" he asks.

All the time. "Sure."

"I feel really fucked up sometimes," he says before turning back to his coffee.

This is something I've always known we have in common. Both of us are mired in our own messy doubts and insecurities. One of the reasons I've always connected with Matthew is that he doesn't judge me—not the way my peers can, or my ex did. He's accepted my shortcomings, both physical and emotional. Always. He's never pressed for me to be anything other than who I am in a moment. And I think I could match his fucked up with my fucked up brick by brick.

"I get that I have weird brain chemistry, and I could do more to deal with that, but I wonder, too, if there's something deeper…"

"Like something that hurt you?"

"I don't know," he sighs, wadding up his napkin and dabbing it on his mouth. "Maybe."

"And no clue what that could have been?"

"I'm not sure if it's just one thing. It's more like—" he makes a broad hand gesture. "Everything that hurts. Like everything hurts," he finishes softly.

I wish I knew what he meant by that. I want to understand—more than anything. I wish I could be inside his head sometimes. Take a look around. Hang out awhile. Check out the view from in there. I absorb his comment in silence while I finish my yogurt, starving suddenly.

Once I've scraped the cup clean, I say, "I have a question."

"Is it gonna be impossible?"

I grin. "No. I'm taking mercy on you."

"Okay, go ahead." His eyes narrow slightly and it puts a flutter in my chest.

"How do you keep all these lovers of yours from falling for you?" I ask. Because I don't see a way to avoid it.

Matthew's silent for longer this time. "I'm not sure I can answer that. But it's usually not like that."

I frown, more at what he didn't say than what he did. "What's it like?"

"Sexual," he says.

"Like what we're doing?"

"No… I don't even know how you can ask that. How do you have a straight face right now?"

"Why?" I ask. "What's different?" Because I'm that desperate for reassurance.

"You can't possibly think I kiss everyone like that, can you?"

Or maybe this is all gonna go to my head way too fast. I avert my gaze, looking down at my coffee. "Matthew, don't say shit like that to me."

"You're the one who wanted to talk," he reminds me. "What did you think I was gonna say?"

"That you think I'm cute, but this is just casual and not to get attached ‘cause you're a rolling stone or some shit."

"Cute?" He snorts. "Anyway, you're already attached."

I scrub a hand over my face and sigh.

"Mind if I ask you something?"

"Maybe?" I say.

"On the subject of other lovers, you don't ever talk about you and Nicole."

I frown. "No?"

He shakes his head.

"You know her," I remind him. "You were friendly."

"But I mean, why her?"

With no idea where he's going with this, I give him a vague answer and hope he can take it from there. "She had a good sense of humor. We had a lot of similar interests."

"Did she turn you on?" he asks.

"She's an attractive woman."

"Were you always attracted to women?"

"Not every woman," I hedge.

"So…yes. Did you always want to be married?"

"That…" I'm not sure how the truth is going to resonate for him, and that makes it hard to look at him. "No. But it got harder to be alone."

"I get that," he says quietly, like he's ready to listen. Which means I have to talk.

I push some hair out of my face and lean back in my chair, needing some distance. "When I went back to work—after a few months in the field being mostly by myself all the time and not knowing what I'd be coming home to, I met her, and I thought—I could be coming home to someone. And she indicated she'd be happy to be that person."

"Oh." His soft sound lands like lead between us.

Guilt threatens to choke me.

The first time I'd come back to New York a few months after leaving the "sick bed," I'd intended to reach out Matthew —to Dick and Donna and Maggie, too, but once I arrived in Manhattan—once I'd taken literally one look at the bed he and I shared for the better part of a year, and saw no sign of him in our apartment, I couldn't bring myself to.

I had a lot of shame about needing him the way I had—keeping him from living his own life, and also the less than innocent thoughts I had about him that I'd kept to myself. Before I'd gone overseas—before the bomb blast—I'd been practically addicted to Grindr—to sloppy hook-ups with pretty men.

And I'd hated myself. I hated the way it felt to use someone to get off and not give them a second thought the next day. And yet, the pull I'd felt to sink right back into the habit once I realized Matthew had moved out made me feel like an alcoholic staring down a bottle of vodka. Just walking down the street to the deli meant I'd see a half dozen men and picture them on their knees. The act itself wasn't the trigger—it was the memory of self-loathing.

I hated myself for wanting Matthew, and I didn't know what I'd do if I saw him. If I'd even be able to have a normal conversation with him. If I'd be able to stop myself from making a pass at him. If he'd find me disgusting.

While I don't remember ever purposefully coming onto him in the middle of the night, Matthew is objectively attractive. But it isn't just that he's easy on the eyes.

Here's the thing about my brother. While he's the shier of the twins by far, he and his sister are both capable of filling a room with their presence, and they have a story for everything.

I've always worked in journalism. Facts. Bias. Truth. Lies. Black. White. Worthy. Not worthy.

Matthew's never looked at the world like that. He sees meaning. Poetry. Beauty.

And he's the embodiment of all those things, too. A heart still pure. A body capable of both grace and strength. And eyes that never judge or criticize. At the most, they make a geometric analysis.

He's just different. Different from me. Different than anyone. And he's always had the ability to make me feel things right along with him. Yes, sometimes things that made my dick inconveniently hard, but deeper things, too. Like that part of me that always felt disconnected to everything reached out finally and found a way to ground itself in his way of seeing things— in him .

And those were not the kind of thoughts I was supposed to be having about Dick and Donna's baby boy. "Remember, Matty, please—you were so young." He'd barely turned twenty-one on my first visit back to the city.

He breaks eyes contact and nods.

"The right thing felt like letting you live your life. I thought about us, though. Too much, maybe. That first week back, I was so alone. I'd wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and reach for you. It made me realize a couple things. I didn't want to die alone like that, and I wasn't about to put that kind of pressure on you."

I give him a moment to take this in. I hope he knows that was then. Now—we're something new, and my feelings for him are shifting in a different direction.

"So that's why Nicole," he says.

My voice is a choked whisper. "Yeah."

"You didn't want a relationship with a man?" he asks.

"My feelings about men are complicated."

His brow furrows. "Okay…"

"I have a lot of shame," I say, wanting to clarify and realizing too late how inadequate those words are.

"About being bi?"

I shake my head. "It's not that. I can accept that about myself. I didn't like who I was when I was hooking up with men. I was cold and selfish and…I don't know how to describe it, but I felt like an addict. Like I didn't care who it was or how I got off—I just cared about getting off."

"I get that, Fischer," he says, finally meeting my eyes.

I sense an understanding deeper than I expected. It makes me brave enough to say what comes next. "I wanted you. And I felt disgusting for how much."

"Because I was young or because we're…"

"Brothers? Both," I say.

"And now?"

I take a deep breath, needing to touch him, but unable to think of a way. "It doesn't feel as wrong knowing you want me, too."

"I do want you," he says firmly, validating me. "If you'll have me."

"Are you asking if I want to be your boyfriend?"

"Do you?"

"More than I want most things," I say.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "I get that I can't come first. I know you have Vaughn and your work?—"

"You're more important to me than my work."

He snorts. "Since when?"

I lean in, too, bringing our faces closer. "Since I decided I couldn't be away from you any longer. You're half the reason I'm home. Your emails. It was hard to be away from Vaughn, but we were used to it. But when I couldn't stop thinking about you and what it might be like to have you in my life again—it made me realize how much I was missing out on. What I could have, if I let myself."

"Is this what you pictured?" he asks softly.

I let out half a laugh. "Not at all. I mean, maybe in my dreams. In reality, I felt like I'd be lucky if we got to have lunch together a couple times a week."

"That's not what it seemed like when you got back," Matthew says.

I know what he means. I was all over him for the jump. "Everything changed when I saw you again," I admit quietly.

"For me, too," he says.

Impulsively, I stretch my neck out and press a quick kiss to his mouth. His hand grips mine as I sit back with a heavy breath. "Did you mean to do that?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Can you be out?"

Fuck. Here's a perfect sign I'm a mess. But I refuse to let his hand go even as I say, "I'm not sure. I could run it by the network." I frown and shake my head at myself. "That's a terrible answer. I'm sorry I said that."

"Why?"

"Well, because there are plenty of queer people on the air, and what the fuck do I care what they think? I have an appearance clause in my contract, but I don't have a sexuality clause."

"An appearance clause?" he laughs. "Like what? If you gain weight or something?"

"It's actually about my hair," I say, grinning prematurely at the mockery I'm about to be subject to.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"What's the clause?"

"That I have to get approval for anything other than a trim."

He laughs softly. "I want that clause, too."

"You want hair cut approval?"

"Fuck yeah. I love your hair. I'm crazy about it actually."

"I thought you were gonna make fun of me."

"I would never joke about your hair."

I flash him a smile.

"What about being my boyfriend?" he asks.

"I thought we already had the monogamy talk once already."

"Not the same thing," he says, his expression more serious.

"Yes, I want to be your boyfriend. Your one and only," I say.

"Good. Be patient with me, though," he says. "I've never done this before."

"I like that," I say. "We'll figure it out together."