Chapter Text
Matt leaned back in his chair. He’d been sitting at his desk for the better part of an hour now. The lights had been turned off. He was pretty sure Garcia was still around…but save for her, the place was empty. His day was done. It had been for a while. He should have been heading home, but he didn’t want to.
He let out a heavy breath, and cast a look outside. The winter sun was beginning to set. Rays of light spilled through bare branches, and danced off government issued cars.
His office was immaculate, not a speck of dust to be found. It hadn’t always been that way. Eight months, two weeks, and a day ago he’d lost his son. A late term miscarriage is what they called it. Six months into the pregnancy, and suddenly, he was gone. Matt and his wife, Kristy, had held him tight. They’d showered him in kisses. They’d named him, and they’d buried his tiny body in the cemetery just outside their small town. They’d wrapped him up in a blanket embroidered with his name. Lucas it had said.
Losing Lucas was the worst pain he’d ever experienced. Those first few months, it hurt to breathe. It hurt to exist. It felt like the world was caving in on him. At one point, he’d gone out to the garage, to wail on the punching bag. He’d gotten a dozen or so good hits in before he started screaming. By the end of it, he was curled up on the cement, screaming away the pain.
But it never left.
How could it?
His baby, his son, the light of his life had been snuffed out before he ever got a chance to take his first breath. It didn’t matter that Lucas was an accident. It didn’t matter that he’d been doubtful at first. All that mattered was his baby was alive one day…and the next he wasn’t.
Lucas dying had been what he’d started calling a dividing event. He could clearly separate his life from before the death of his child, and after. In fact, Lucas’s end had been the end of almost everything good. The only thing still standing was his career. His relationship with his wife had started deteriorating the day their son was pronounced dead. He hadn’t known it then of course. So consumed with grief was he, that he didn’t notice the way Kristy pulled away from him. Not until it was too late. By the third week, when the dust started to settle, and Matt could think past the agony, he realized she hadn’t so much as given him a hug since the day they’d come home from the funeral.
From there, he started to notice small changes. At first, he’d been alarmed. He’d demanded she seek therapy. He made an appointment for her to see her OB. He dutifully stood by her side, showering her with affection, monitoring her for signs of suicidal ideations, begging her to talk to him.
But she pushed him away.
And no matter what he did, she just continued to push him away.
Matt sighed, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door. He wasn’t going to go home, but he couldn’t stay here, in the silence. The quiet allowed time for him to be alone with his thoughts. Once upon a time, that had been his favorite thing…now it was just dangerous. He’d be lying if he said the desire to blow his brains out had never struck him while he was alone.
What did he have to live for anymore anyway? Who would even notice he was gone? Certainly not Kristy. Living with her was like living with a ghost. Sure, there was evidence of her occupancy. Empty protein bar wrappers on the countertops. Hairpins on the coffee table. Blanket and pillow nests atop the guest bed. But she hadn’t slept in the same room as him for six months. She had been actively avoiding conversation with him for at least two.
Matt let out a defeated sigh, and turned into King’s Place, his favorite bar.
The thing he liked most about King’s Place was it was always packed. There were people everywhere. It was hard to feel alone in a place where you could barely move. The second best thing about the bar was Ivan, the bartender. He was a cool sort of dude, just a little younger than Matt was, from a city out west. Said he came here for college, and just never left. Matt had once asked Ivan what his degree was in. The bartender had barked a laugh, shook his head, and told him philosophy. He’d confided in Matt that it had been the single worst decision of his life. Turned out, there wasn’t much need for that sort of degree. But damned if it didn’t make him an interesting person to talk to.
Gravel crunched beneath Matt’s boots, as he stalked toward the bar doors. He didn’t have a ride back home. This was probably a mistake. Then again…did he care if he got a ticket? Got into an accident? Lost his job? Died? Not really. What did it matter? His life was in shambles anyway. It was honestly probably a better way out than most.
Matt pulled the door open, and was hit with the distinct smell of King’s Place. Like most bars, it smelled heavily of alcohol and regret. But the cigarette smoke and bad sex was unique to this bar in particular. King’s Place was named for the motel right above it, where hookers, drunkards, and blind dates would often find themselves in the throes of passion…or at the very least, a one night stand.
Matt had considered it. More than once, actually. He’d been propositioned by a hooker the week before, and if he were being honest with himself, if he had had the cash, he’d have done it. Two hundred dollars was a small price to pay to feel…anything. Something other than the crushing weight of what could have been.
Ivan tossed him a bright smile, as Matt sat down at his usual place. God that was pathetic. The fact that he had a usual seat at the local bar. “Whisky?” The bar tender asked, and Matt gave him a nod. “How’s it going, Matt?”
Matt offered the man a shrug of his shoulders. He and Ivan both knew the drill. He was stoic when sober. Quiet. Willing to shoulder the burden alone. But once he got a few drinks deep, he’d start to bare his soul a little. He’d tell Ivan about how long it had been since Kristy had let him so much as hold her hand. Since she’d texted him something that wasn’t part of a grocery list. Since she’d asked how his day was, or entertained his questions about hers.
He was one drink in when a man, no more than twenty-five, sat down at the bar next to him. In the dim light, he couldn’t see much beyond a tight dress shirt, a pair of slacks, blonde hair, and a pretty smile. “Hey,” He said, with an uncertain sort of smile. He was new. The sex trade around here was running rampant. Poor thing had probably been hooking since he was a teen. That was always the story wasn’t it? Wayward sons and daughters of a cruel system, felled by the hand of pimps willing to offer them the world…and give them shit.
He barely cast a glance his way. “Hey.” He answered, locking eyes with Ivan, and raising his empty glass. Ivan was quick to pour a new one, and Matt was just as quick to offer him a five. He tipped two on every drink. Something the bartender much appreciated.
The man leaned toward him. “My name is Spencer. Can I ask yours?"
"Matt." The word was cold. Partially because he wasn't sure he was interested, and partially because he didn't want to be interested.
"I hope you don’t mind me saying, Matt, but you look like a movie star.” Brave. Very brave. The town wasn’t exactly red, but he didn’t know that it was blue enough for a twink to be hitting on randos. Poor kid was going to get himself killed.
He didn’t say that. Instead, he bit out a bitter chuckle. “No, I don’t. You and I both know as much. I look like a lonely enough bastard to take you up on an offer.” The last of the whisky sloshed over his tongue and down his throat. Bitter and warm. He both loved and hated it. He'd made a decision, one he'd likely regret...probably before morning. Maybe before he left the bar. “And I think you’re right.” He wished he was more drunk. He wished he could justify what he was about to do, but he couldn’t.
Not really.
Then again, he’d known this was coming.
He’d felt out of control for weeks now. It was just a matter of time before he did something really fucking stupid, and he supposed it was better to pay for sex than it was to blow his brains out. Although…the night was young. There was still time for both.
He looked almost alarmed. Like he hadn’t really been expecting Matt's response at all. Perhaps, Spencer was hoping he wouldn’t take him up on it. Maybe Matt had misread him. Maybe he was new. Maybe he didn’t want to be here.
Maybe Matt was projecting.
He supposed he’d find out soon enough.
Matt stood up, and motioned for Spencer to come along. Uncertainty danced in his eyes, but he stood all the same. The two of them weaved through patrons, and toward the back. While Matt had never been upstairs, he’d watched dozens of men and women file up them. A massive black man, with a shirt at least two sizes too small put a hand out, motioning them to stop. They complied. Matt raised a brow at him. “Two hundred.” The man demanded.
Matt put two crisp hundreds into the man’s hand. He made a big show of making sure they were real, before nodding, and opening the door.
They stalked up the stairs. As luck would have it, the first room they tried was unlocked. It smelled like bleach. The bed was covered with plastic, and throw-away sheets. He’d heard the place was strict about cleanliness. He hadn’t expected quite this level of scrutiny. Honestly, if he weren’t so overwhelmed with his impulsive decision, he would have been impressed.
Impulsive wasn’t the right word, he supposed.
He’d thought long and hard about it. That’s why he had the hundred dollar bills with him.
Stupid. Irresponsible. Disgusting. All those were the right words. Impulsive he was not.
Although…he cast a look back at the man he’d just bought an hour with. He certainly hadn’t been planning on a man. Not that he was opposed to it. He’d always been a little curious, but then Kristy had come along and…
“Fuck.” He hissed under his breath. His hand tightened into a fist, and he winced away from her memory. Kristy…god damn it, he’d been trying for the better part of a fucking year to pull her out of this. He’d begged. He’d pleaded. He’d done everything in his power to just get her to open back up to him.
A startling realization hit him, he didn't want sex. He just wanted a fucking conversation. But she couldn’t do that. And for that he hated her…and for that, he hated himself. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that the baby she’d been carrying had died. That their son had left her just as broken and battered as he’d left Matt. But fuck, he could only take so much rejection before…
Before this, he supposed.
Spencer walked inside first. Dress shoes click clacking on the hardwood floor beneath him. Matt closed the door, and locked it behind them. Spencer spun around at the sound, and for the first time, Matt could see well enough to take him all in. Twenty-five had been a little generous. He’d put him between twenty and twenty-three. His hair was darker than Matt had initially thought. Dirty blonde, with a hint of red. His skin was pale, and a little dewy. He was sure it was supposed to be attractive, but he just looked a little sick because of it. His eyes were a deep shade of brown, and his lashes were so long. For a second, Matt wondered if they were fake. He pushed those thoughts away, instead focusing on the way Spencer's eyes were a little too wide. The way his fingers curled around a powder blue dress shirt, and his lower lip found its way between his teeth. He was nervous as fuck.
This didn’t feel right.
“You okay?” Matt asked, concern alive in his voice. The man nodded, but the movement was jerky and rapid, and he took the smallest of steps back. “You sure?”
“The last guy…” Spencer paused, casting a worried look at the door. “He locked the door too.”
Matt unlocked the door with a loud click. “What happened?” He asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“He roughed me up a little bit.” Spencer's arms wrapped around his waist and he looked away. Shame.
Matt nodded. “You want to head back downstairs?” He asked. If Spencer wasn't into it, then neither was he. It was one thing to buy sex. It was another thing altogether to continue on while he was so obviously uncomfortable.
“No, then I don’t get paid. And you won’t get your money back. Once Trey takes it, it’s his.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” Matt said honestly, his voice low, defeated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be here anyway. What did he care if Trey kept the money?
Another shake of his head. “You won’t do that, right?” He asked, but the nervousness was scrawled all across his face. “You aren’t going to hit me? I…can’t work if you leave bruises the next guy can see.”
That was a gut punch. “No.” Matt said firmly. “Absolutely not.” There was a brief pause. He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “To tell you the truth…I don’t even want to have sex. The door doesn’t need to be locked.”
Confusion swept over the man’s features. “What do you want then?”
“To talk.” God, that sounded pathetic even to him. “Maybe hold you. I just need someone to listen to me.”
Spencer smiled, but it was sad, and it never reached his eyes. “I’m happy to listen.” He took a step forward, and wrapped his fingers around Matt’s wrist, pulling him closer. With the click clack of dress shoes, he led Matt to the bed.
Confusion crossed Matt's features, but he didn’t argue when Spencer pushed him down onto the bed, and laid down beside him.
Spencer smelled like sandalwood and cheap cologne. The sort you found at Walmart on discount. Matt didn’t care. He smelled like something that wasn’t an office. He was real, and willing to let Matt wrap his arms around him.
Spencer curled into him, draping an arm around his waist, and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. God, this felt good. He forgot what this sort of closeness with another human felt like. He forgot what it felt like to hold someone close. To have their breath spill onto his skin. To just lay beside someone.
He hadn’t meant to cry.
But he couldn’t stop.
The man wrapped himself around Matt, wiped away tears, and kissed his cheek. Matt turned into him, and buried his face in his hair. “Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you for this.”