Nick
You wanna come over?
Matt
Be there in 15 x
Sure enough, Matt’s at his door in twenty minutes. Nick greets him with a chaste kiss that quickly gets a lot less chaste. Nick gently pushes him up against the door and runs a hand through his hair. The dyed-red streaks have faded almost entirely, Matt still debating what color to change them to—apparently red was his color for the last album, and he’s not yet sure what represents the next phase of the band.
“Well hello there,” Matt drawls when they part, hands loosely bracing Nick’s hips. “Someone’s having a good day.”
“Better now you’re here,” Nick replies reflexively, then blushes. God, that was sappy. “I mean, it’ll be good to have some company.”
Matt kisses the tip of his nose, grinning. “I know what you meant,” he says, brown eyes dancing with a light that makes Nick’s heart skip a beat. “And I hate to burst your bubble, but I can only stay for a few hours. I’ve got band duties tonight—we’re going to this anniversary party at the record label.” He pauses, biting his lip. “You could… come with us? If you wanted?”
Nick freezes. He tries to step back, but Matt holds him in place, face earnest. “It’s a super private party, and we don’t have to say anything aboutus—we can tell everyone you’re just curious about music industry shit, trading favors after all the hockey stuff you’ve gotten us into. Hanging out as bros. No one will give a shit.”
That’s easy for him to say—it just takes one person at that party to question his presence, to notice the way he looks at Matt, to eveninsinuateto someone that there might be something between them, and Nick’s life is over. He’s already on thin ice after Valentine’s Day.
He shakes his head, veins flooding with ice, and wrenches himself out of Matt’s grasp. “I—I—I can’t,” he stutters. “I can’t, I—Don’t you see how dangerous that would be for me?”
“Is it any more dangerous than coming to our shows? Or me coming to that charity event the other week?”
“Those are all public events!” Nick retorts, the words coming out a little more sharply than intended. “I had Marco and Lindsay with me at your shows. And you had the band at the charity event—everyone knows you’re all into hockey, and you have money. It made sense for you to be there. There is absolutely no reason for me to be at a record label party. Except that we’re…” He trails off, grimacing at the hurt that flashes across Matt’s face.
“It’s a private party,” he repeats, the slightest defensive curl pulling at his shoulders. “No press, no media. Just label staff and artists, and their friends.”
“Yeah, because no one’s ever posted on socials from a private party before,” Nick bites out. “I’m sorry, Matt. I just—I can’t. Surely you get that. I appreciate the offer, but… it just isn’t gonna happen. I can’t risk it.”
A heavy sigh slips out of Matt, and he slumps back against the door. Nick hates how disappointed he looks, even as his lips twist wryly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I get it. I don’t mean to push, I just… it’d be nice to have you there.”
“I’m sorry.” When Matt reaches out for him, Nick lets it happen, falling back into the taller man’s embrace. “I wish I could. There’s just so many eyes on me right now… It’s too much.” As the panic starts to fade, his stomach twists sourly. Matt deserves to be with someone who can go with him to industry parties and shit, who can hold his hand in public. Not some closeted asshole constantly looking over his shoulder.
But, for some reason, Matt has chosen him. And selfishly, Nick isn’t going to argue with that.
“Will you come back here after the party? Spend the night?” he asks softly, leaning into Matt, one hand slipping into the back pocket of his jeans. Matt’s stubbled jaw nudges against his cheek as he brings Nick into a hug and hums a quiet affirmative.
“Sure thing, babe.”
They stay like that for a few moments, hugging against the door of Nick’s apartment, until a loud, demanding mewl echoes through the room. Nick pulls back enough to see Dolly sitting at their feet, eyes narrowed as she stares at him. Matt snickers, kissing Nick’s cheek as he lets him go. “The lady of the house requires attention.”
“Requires feeding, more like.” Moment broken, Nick reaches down to pick up his furry princess, tucking her against his chest. “It’s literally two minutes late, you impatient little monster.” She cries out again, as if arguing with him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He gets her food set up quickly, depositing her on the kitchen floor and leaving her to it. If he’s only got Matt for a few hours, he wants to make the most of it.
After Matt leaves for the night, Nick can’t get his mind off him. Guilt squirms within him, remembering the crestfallen look the musician had tried to mask.
He wishes he could’ve gone with Matt. Truly, he does. He literallydreamsabout shit like that these days; about being at Matt’s side at some swanky industry party, able to show off his boyfriend—because in these dreams, there’s no doubt about whether he’s allowed to use that word—and be proud of him in front of everybody.
He still feels like an asshole, though. Like he’s let Matt down somehow, no matter how many times Matt assured him it was fine and that he knew what he was getting into with Nick. He sits on his couch in front of some movie he’s barely even paying attention to, trying to think of some way to make it up to Matt that doesn’t involve going out together in public.
And then it hits him.
He jolts upright, startling Dolly into letting out an offended noise and sprinting for her cat tree. “Sorry,” he says reflexively, though he’s not looking at her. His mind is elsewhere; namely, on the hockey bag inside his wardrobe, filled with his spare gear.
This just might work.
The rest of his evening is spent waiting impatiently for Matt to text that he’s on his way over. The second that message comes through, he’s on his feet.
