THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Ryan

Written by Lady Poetess
egiggles at moose-mail.com
http://www.asstr.org/~bbp

Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This
story has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive.


PROLOGUE

From the betting book of a discreet club:

Mr MRP bets Mr BF that he will break a certain Playboy of The
Northern Hemisphere by the end of the month.



"They're talking about the bet, you know. Practically squealing
about it from rooftops. It isn't everyday a playboy and rogue
extraordinaire of a stature like yours get bandied about in
betting book of Juan's. Quite undignified and simply titillating."
Ethan Hawke sat back in his seat and waited for the explosion that
never came. He frowned slightly at the man standing immobile
looking down at the breathtaking vista of Cheraddior sands.
"Well?"

The man didn't even look at Ethan when he spoke in a lazy, bored
drawl. "As if there's anything they haven't said about me before.
What was the last time? That I seduced Prince William on his 17th
birthday? That one was a hoot, wasn't it?"

Ethan shrugged. "Did you?"

"However indiscriminate I may be in the past, give me some credit
for taste, Ethan. Young, spoilt royalties are a dreadful bore,
especially the virginal variety. Tearful, dreadful, guilt-ridden
sods, the whole lot of them."

"There's speculation that this particular young, blond man with a
predilection for making bets may just be a virgin. They call him
The Ice Prince, because no one, it seems, has been able to lure
the man into his bed. Not even predators like Lynch and
Farthosworth, and not for the lack of trying. It seems dear Prince
is holding out solely for you."

"I'm not interested."

"They are betting that you would show up and seduce this man and
break him into pieces. I have five grand on you doing just that.
Would you.?"

"No."

"What happened to you, Antonio? I swear these few months you
aren't fun anymore." Ethan shook his head in exaggerated
mournfulness. "Besides, champagne in Monaco is always bubblier and
sparker than grape pulp in Eden." He looked around the wooden log
ruefully. "Eden's too country and nature-r-us for cosmopolitan
metropolis jet-setting dwellers like you. You need to unwind and
relax amidst the silent clinks of dice hitting velvet table
surface and satin sheets."

"I'll pay you the five grand, Ethan, if you'll just take a hike
right now. Go back to your fat doctor."

For a while, Ethan's mouth gaped open. He shut his mouth with an
indignant gasp. "Doc is not fat. I like him the way he is."

"Fat arse."

"Take that back or I'll beat you bloody."

Antonio turned, and smiled in total bemusement at the other man.
"Ethan, of you don't leave when I count to five, I'm going to call
up your hotel room and tell Doc you're trying to cause trouble.
Again. We all know what Doc would do to you if he finds out,
right?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "One."

Ethan fled at three.

Antonio Sabato, Jr brooded at the darkening skies. Today was his
30th birthday. He was thirty years old and he felt like fifty.
Where had all the time gone? Usually birthdays meant waking up
with a severe hangover and someone he couldn't remember in his
sobriety sprawled across his bed, but he hadn't indulged in such
indiscriminate pleasures for two years now. No one night stand, no
reckless affair, no games, for such trivial pursuits had long lost
their attraction.

He was bored. At thirty, he had done almost everything that was
ever considered sin, and now there was little that could arouse
his curiosity, much less sexual arousal. Yet now, he felt the
undeniable stirring of curiosity. This Ice Prince, what was his
name again - Ryan? - had done something no one had ever dared. And
it was a game the Ice Prince was destined to lose, for no one
break hearts like Antonio.

Yes, it might just be the right time to make a quick stop at
Monaco.



ONE

He is here.

Matthew Ryan Phillippe almost dropped his wineglass, so sudden was
the attack of nerves that hit him the moment they began to whisper
that the Playboy had just walked in the ballroom. He could feel
the weight of so many eyes on him, and he knew they had been
waiting for this moment all along. Bloody buggers, the lot of
them. Ryan knew they accepted a commoner, worse, a mere artist
like him into their social circles only after he had made that
bet. It was the only way a blue-collar man like he could breach
the choking barriers of blue blood and old money that were the
elite Upper Ten Thousand of Europe. By being a clown that would
whet their jaded palate with outrageous entertainment, which was
no better at all than being a circus clown.

Oh, Ryan would entertain them all right. Though if he had his way
he would have fled to the sanctuary of his studio. His hands
trembled slightly and his knees began to wobble despite his best
to steel his nerves. Damn.

"Look, don't worry. I'm sure Tony would understand it's all a daft
joke," the man beside him was saying. What was his name? Brendan
Fraser, that's right. A snob who somehow was one of the more
welcoming of the lot, probably because Ryan had deigned to
entertain him most with the bet. "All the years we were together
in Cambridge, he always had an outrageous sense of the bizarre.
He's probably here to punch Ronan's teeth out for suggesting the
bet."

"I made the bet, not Ronan." It was the only way Ryan could think
of to drawAntonio from the latter's increasing withdrawal from
social whirl.

"But I had almost everyone believing it was Ronan's idea." Brendan
patted his back in what was supposed to a comforting gesture. "I
don't feel easy at the thought of a nice fellow like you tangling
with Tony. No offense, but a man like you would be devoured by
that lout in ten seconds flat."

Ryan knew his quiet, sullen demeanor gave the illusion of
innocence, disgustingly pure snow white innocence that either
aroused the lust of men or their protective instincts. Brendan, it
seemed, was predisposed to the latter, for which Ryan was grateful
as he liked Brendan somewhat. He felt safe around Brendan,
probably because Brendan was devoted to his partner. Likewise,
Ryan felt comfortable around Ronan who was exclusively
heterosexual in all aspects except when it came to Ronan's partner
Stephen, whom Ronan was lamentably loyal and faithful to. These
two wanted nothing from him expect from casual friendship, and
they were the ones he stuck to of all of Antonio's many
acquaintances.

But tonight all would end. Things would come to a full circle.
Antonio destroyed Ryan's father and family, and Ryan intended to
destroy him tonight.

"You want me to stay with you?" Brendan asked, his face expressing
nothing but concern mingled with bemusement. "You look frightfully
white in the face."

Stage fright - nothing but stage fright. Ryan took a deep breath,
then held it when the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea,
and there he was. Antonio Sabto Jr stood there under the
glittering lights of the chandeliers, resplendent in black and
white. He was still demonically handsome and strikingly haunting,
the same man that aroused Ryan's need to paint, to sketch, to
delve deep in Antonio's psyche until he could mingle freely with
Antonio's very essence when he saw Antonio six years ago from his
hiding place behind the balustrade. It was the same time he
overheard Antonio's vow to destroy James Phillippe, and thirty
minutes later James blew his own brains out.

He shouldn't be feeling this treacherous heat in his soul at the
sight of the son of a bitch. He should be furious. And he was.
Cold, acrid anger rose to a fever pitch. He saw Antonio's eyes
narrow, saw the man's slow blossoming smile, and Ryan's hand
slipped into his tux. In a smooth practiced motion Ryan pulled out
his semi and fired.



TWO

Later

Antonio was in heaven. He stood amidst visions of beauty and
salvation, redemption and acceptance, colors of tears and laughter
and raw emotions. He reached out and touched the nearest painting
reverently. The Fields Where I Lay, he read silently at the title
on the simple wooden frame. The painting was a glorious stretch of
meadow bathed in golden light, so vividly portrayed that he
touched a blade of oat, expecting to feel warm sunlight on his
skin when common sense told him that he wouldn't. The painting
was... peaceful.

Antonio turned to the next painting, simple pitch blackness with
only a thin shaft of light diagonally across the canvas.
Illumination. The contrast between light and dark was amazing,
especially when the shiver of light was so realistically done. If
he was mawkish he would say that it was a perfect metaphor of the
redemption of a soul blackened beyond black.

He wasn't an art critic and he was a rueful philistine when it
came to art. The only he use he had for art galleries was as an
exotic locale to bugger eccentric artists, not exactly a lofty
notion he would brag about. Yet he was strangely moved by the
artwork in this studio. He turned. Everywhere around him were
landscapes painted in oil and pastel and watercolors in vivid,
vibrant, passionate hues.

"He wasn't an established artist, for he was distinctly from the
Churchian traditional school, his art leaning towards religious-
like portrayal of scenery and people when the current vogue is
more towards daring, brash, and abstract," his man-of-affairs
Hubbs had told him. "No gallery display him in a major way, and he
has to resort to painting book illustrations to survive. And cover
artists are lower than low in the hierarchy of artisan
respectability."

Screw the elitist bastards. Antonio would buy an art studio and
showcase them himself.

He reached gently at the covered canvas on the easel in the center
of the studio, and almost fearfully lifted the paint-streaked and
still-moist cloth. It was a half-done coal drawing of a medieval
lady on a balcony being serenaded by a minstrel a story below her.
There was a notepad on the stool, scrawled between the sheets
notes like Princess loves jester. Major: sing in rain. Long
flowing dress - look up lib book LGFF by AS that made sense when
Antonio realized that these were preliminary notes for the book
jacket illustration Ryan had been doing.

Antonio absently rubbed the bullet wound in his right shoulder.
Ryan's aim had swung wild somehow, and the man's look of hatred
was rather disconcerting. Not that Antonio begrudged the man for
trying to kill him. He wasn't the first to want to kill Antonio
for any reason.

Hubbs, a short paunchy man who had been Antonio's faithful
employee for years, knocked on the door. "There's nothing to be
found sir, nothing worth a second look."

Indeed, it had angered Antonio, for reasons that eluded him still,
to see Ryan living in this narrow, almost furniture-less apartment
in downtown New York. There was a carelessly crumpled receipt on
the bedside table indicating that Ryan had pawned off a Rolex,
undoubtedly to finance his trip to Monaco, and the crumpled state
suggested that Ryan wasn't expecting to claim the watch back.

He would see to it that Ryan was kept in all human comfort and
more.

He was still surprised at his feelings. His flight to Monaco from
Eden was an agonizing six hours of trying to imagine what sort of
man the Ice Prince would be. A devious, cunning fortune hunter,
perhaps? He had conjured and discarded so many possibilities, yet
nothing prepared him for the real person.

He had stood there, struck. His first thought upon seeing Ryan was
how the man managed to make every other pampered and plastic-
altered handsome men in the crowd look just wrong and pale. In
candlelight, Ryan was gold and dreams. Slender to the point of
waifishness yet radiating inner strength, the man was captivating.
Antonio had stood there in the eternity of a few seconds,
transfixed; he watched the golden aura of reflected light around
Ryan's short golden curls and pale skin; of the slow, nervous tick
of the man's soft, well-defined jaw. At that moment he thought he
was in the presence of a Borticelli seraphim.

That night he stood over Ryan. The young man was still
unconscious, sporting a particularly nasty bruise along the right
side of his face. Monaco's police force wasn't so forgiving of a
man who almost destroyed the island's good reputation with the
moneyed and rich, and Antonio had left the hospital too late to
prevent the beautiful face from being marred.

Hubbs thought his employer was mad not to press charges, and
crazier still to take Ryan in. Maybe he was, but Antonio didn't
care. He forgave Ryan already for the bullet, and whatever it was
he did that made Ryan shoot him, he would make up for it.

He didn't notice he had stopped breathing as he touched the man's
smooth face, letting the warm skin sear his nerves. He trace the
pale lips with his fingers, marveling at the young man's beauty.
He breaks so easily. No longer. Antonio would make sure of it,
he'd buy Ryan three hundred art studios and hell, he'd force the
art journals to put Ryan on their front cover.

"I've hurt you, somehow, didn't I? But then again, I hurt
everyone, so it's nothing personal, you know," he whispered,
bending down. He couldn't help it; he moistened his lips and ran
the tip of his tongue along the other man's lips, first following
the thinner curve of the upper lip, then the plumper, more sensual
lower lip. It probably wasn't a noble or even virtuous thing to do
to plunder an unconscious man, but Antonio had no virtue, no
nobility. He forced his tongue into Ryan's mouth, moaning softly
and he climbed onto the other man's body, resting his weight on
his hands and knees as he covered the other man. It had been too
long since he fucked anyone, damn it, and now his cock was
rampantly insistent, throbbing like hell with engorged lust. He
pushed Ryan's thighs apart, and pressed his erection hard against
the man's heat. Just one simple act - he unzipped himself, and
then it would be only a small moment before he tear the man's
trousers to pieces and he would be in, so deep, so fucking deep.

He stilled when he heard glass shatter and a particularly nasty
and sharp jagged piece pierced a few milimeters into his back,
drawing a trickle of blood. He looked up from where his penis was
poised to penetrate Ryan to the man's face. Ryan was awake, and
the man had smashed the vase at the bedside table to pieces. The
biggest shard, it seemed, was now digging deeper into Antonio's
back.

"That's the last time I have them put vases at the bedside," he
told Ryan.

"Get off me." Ryan's voice was even, monotonous. Definitely
glacial. The Ice Prince indeed.

"Really? You sure you want that?" Antonio drew a deep breath of
pain when the other man raked the sharp glass blade down. He
pressed his groin lower, and felt the other man gasped when the
crown of his penis gently parted the tight ring muscles of Ryan's
sphincter. It would be so easy to just plunge hilt deep, but
Antonio knew how to make an unwilling bedmate want it bad. He
paused, almost crazy with lust, half of the tip of his cock just
nestled in Ryan's groove. Flexing his thighs slowly, lazily, he
pushed in another centimeter before withdrawing. The withdrawal
caused Ryan to tighten his hold on the man's penis instinctively.
In fact, Ryan's erection was now pressing insistently at Antonio's
stomach.

"Get off me." Ryan's voice was now a low growl. "Get off me!"

"Never!" Antonio growled back.

Ryan buckled, trying to throw off the man above him. It only
caused Antonio's cock to penetrate deeper, the wet hot velvet
embrace of the man's heated passage scalding every inch of
Antonio's nerves. His control snapped; he plunged deep. Hell, he
was wet enough for the both of them, and whatever pain he caused
Ryan with his sudden penetration was more than tenthfold repaid
when the other man cut him deep. Warm blood dripped down his back,
into the grove of his buttocks, down his thighs to where they are
joined. Antonio smiled, gritting his teeth in primitive victorious
satisfaction when Ryan's thighs raised to clamp around his torso,
and he began his savage driving, pistoning, thrusting, driving
them both to frenzied orgasmic bliss.



THREE

Ryan sobbed and wept bitterly, in fury and grief. He had let the
man fuck him and he had wanted it, maddened in his own need to
mark the man in some way, any way. And he had let down his father,
thanks to his weakness for a man so beautiful he had haunted
Ryan's dreams for years.

Antonio watched the man cry, and felt a strange agony in his own
chest.

"You killed my father," Ryan choked, heaving and doubling over in
his corner on the bed. "I hate you. I hate you!"

Antonio felt his world fade. He looked at the man on his bed, and
sat down on a chair, his knees suddenly devoid of strength.
"Matthew Phillippe. Son of James. I know my sins would come back
to haunt me one day."

It was at that moment Antonio's heart shattered into a million
pieces. Ryan had the right to hate him. He had, one day, arrogant
in his inheritance of his father's millions, retrenched three
quarters of his staff in budget cuts. James had met him, begged
for his job, for his daughter needed urgent surgery and they had
no medical insurance for her. Antonio had refused - James was an
unskilled labor and a not-too-bright man who was definitely
dispensable in the food chain. The man had shot himself not too
long after, hoping to leave his life insurance money for the
daughter. Poor stupid fool. His death was ruled a suicide and for
naught. The daughter died of her brain tumor and the son was sent
to some social home.

Antonio had spent three years trying to track him down in some
vague hope to make amends, only to have some cruel twist in life
dropping the boy in his life in this way.

He had wronged Ryan too unforgivably. Which was why he didn't
resist when Ryan pounced on him.



"I'm sorry." Pathetic two words, but he had no idea what else to
say. "I'm really sorry."

"Fuck off."

Antonio touched Ryan's face and the man flinched. Antonio
shouldn't feel the hurt he was feeling at the moment. "Let me make
it up to you. Let me make you happy." He winced; even to him those
words sounded like words used to proposition a new lover. But in
truth, he knew little else to say apart from sweet nothings. He
was stumped.

"You can't give back Susie and Pa!" Ryan yelled. "I hate you!" he
yelled, drawing the last word out in one long scream until he had
no breath left. Antonio stood there, frozen for a few minutes,
before leaving the room.



He was kept a prisoner. Every day Antonio would come in his
room/prison cell and just stood there, looking at Ryan with the
wounded/hungry look. And Ryan didn't know which was worse, that he
was slowly losing hold of his anger or that he was slowly looking
forward to Antonio's visit.

His fingers itched to draw the man. His body yearned for a repeat
of the one time Antonio had ravaged him. In truth, he had been
angry for so long that any other feelings, sexual arousal
especially, are unnerving. Today, he decided, things would be
different. He would take control of his emotions, and be in
control. He would fulfill his bet and break the man.

And if he destroyed himself in the process, well, Lord have mercy
on both their souls.



FOUR

Antonio shut the door silently behind him. "Good afternoon."

Ryan didn't look up from the book he was reading. "Good
afternoon."

"Look at me." It came out without thinking, but hell, he didn't
like Ryan looking anywhere but him.

Ryan looked up, and Antonio swallowed a sigh. Light streaming
through the window danced on Ryan's golden etherealness, the
beauty almost driving Antonio down to his knees in reverence and
adoration. "What?"

Antonio swallowed again, trying to regain some semblence of
control on his mental faculties. "Look, I've had a picnic basket
ready. Can we just forget who we are and enjoy the Eden
countryside today?"

Ryan closed his book. "Okay."



Antonio laughed, a gaily, unrestrained laugh that surprised even
himself. He stretched his nude body, feeling every muscle stretch
and protest, and sat up on the grass. Still enjoying the lull of
their recent lovemaking, he watched Ryan wash in the river. He
watched the man gently spread his thighs and cleanse the seminal
fluids flowing down them. Antonio squirmed, feeling his cock
rising as he enjoyed the view of Ryan cupping the clear cool
waters and letting the water run down his chest. Oh, to be that
drop of water trickling down the smooth, tightly muscled chest,
lingering at the sparse golden curls around that wine dark nipple,
before following the groove between the corrugated stomach muscles
to disappear into the thatch of gold pubic bush around that now
quiescent penis.

"I've seen your painting," Antonio said for no reason, really
enjoying the view but wanting to let his sexual urgency simmer
awhile. He had never been this voracious, insatiable, and
energetic with his many lovers before.

"I see."

"They're beautiful. I don't know much of art, but I know yours
move me deeply."

"So buy them. Make me rich." Ryan stood there, a nude Greek statue
in all perfection even Michaelangelo would be in awe of.

This wasn't going well. "Look, I'm trying to start a decent
conversation here. The least you can do is be nice."

It was then Ryan gave a smile. A small, brief smile that was only
a mere hint, but it was enough. "I know."

"Bastard!" Antonio cried, diving straight at the man. They fell
gently on the grass, their bodies easily joining, and Ryan
laughed. Laughed! Antonio's mouth fell open, and it had to be the
light, for he felt his eyes water. He had made the Ice Prince
laugh. It was a thought that made him feel ten feet tall.



"I'm tired of standing so still for so long," he grumbled the next
day, trying not to scratch an itch on his bum. He lay on the
carpet, nude, on his side. He had one leg bent and his left arm
resting on the raised knee. It was a pose Ryan wanted and he would
be in that pose until Judgement Day if Ryan wanted him there.
Still, that didn't mean he wouldn't complain.

Ryan looked from behind the easel, clad only in boxer shorts.
"Ssh," he said, curtly.

Still, the man was saying more and more each day, with an
increasing ease that Antonio was grateful for. Ryan had told him
stories about his art, this morning, and during their afternoon
lovemaking, he had shared anecdotes with him. They discovered that
they both loved Bruckner and Bach and Pachelbel, but anything else
classical made them nauseous. It wasn't anything grand, but it was
something.

Antonio wanted to know everything and anything about Ryan, but he
knew better than to push the still wary man too much and too far.
And he should be worried, but he wasn't, when he found himself not
able to hold anything back. He told Ryan everything about his
life, from his childhood to his current state of ennui. He told
Ryan about his sex orgies and experiments and he was quite
startled to find himself quite embarrassed by the extent of his
dissolution and Ryan's reluctant curiosity.

The third day, while continuing their art session, Antonio looked
straight at Ryan. "I'm sorry about your father. I was stupid then,
and if there's anyway I could turn back time and make amends, I
would. Believe me, Ryan. I never mean for you to have hurt so
much."

Ryan placed the brush down. "I never hurt as much as my father. It
is he you should be apologizing to." With that he looked away.



FIVE

The portrait was finished. Ryan looked at his painting of Antonio,
and it wasn't vanity that made him acknowledge that it might be
his greatest work ever. Narcissus Falls would be an apropos title,
he decided, and carefully rolled the canvas face-out. He would
have loved to buy one of those expensive art-carrier, but he would
have to make do, as always.

He replaced Narcissus Falls with another, a portrait calculated to
destroy Antonio. Carefully tying bedsheets and curtains together
to form a long strand of rope, he packed his art and brushes and
paints into a pillow case and slung it over his shoulder before
climbing out of the window.

He didn't get far. It wasn't his intention to. He tripped a
burglar alarm and was caught ten minutes down the road.



"You tried to leave me." Antonio practically spat that accusation.

"Why, you don't expect me to? You think a great fuck every two
hours is an inducement for me to stay?" Ryan turned away from the
stark and brutal expression of hurt on Antonio's face. A
treacherous guilt - making him feel as if he had destroyed
something precious and raw - was suppressed forcefully.

"I thought we - you - but..." Antonio turned away, suddenly
feeling weary. There was a dull ache in his chest and he felt as
if he had been carved open and there was a large gaping hole in
his soul. He pulled the canvas cloth and saw his portrait. He gave
a cry of pain. "Is this how you see me?"

Ryan shut his eyes, his own shame and guilt threatening to drown
him. Think of father. Think of father.

The portrait wasn't a portrait but a caricature. Antonio's face
was immaculately handsome but devoid of any resemblance to
humanity. The only other prominent anatomy apart from his leering
face was a large jutting cock, almost obscene in its thrust and
blatantness.

"Is this how you see me? Nothing more than a stud service?"

"I don't even like you," Ryan spat. "You have no character, no
integrity, no purpose in life. God, you disgust me. The only thing
you have to abuse is your face and cock, which you're stupid
enough to think would blind me to submission."

"No." This couldn't be true. He grabbed Ryan roughly, pulling his
mouth to his. Damn it, he thought desperately, deepening the kiss,
doing everything he knew to make Ryan respond. Ryan wanted him. He
had to. He bloody had to.

Nothing. Ryan was still in his embrace. His face, when Antonio
looked at it, was devoid of any expression apart of cold hatred
gleaming in Ryan's gray eyes. He pushed Ryan away and took a few
unsteady steps back. "So what we did the last few days mean
nothing to you at all?" he asked shakily. Please, please say yes.
God, he sounded pathetic. He was pathetic. He was in love.

God, what a time to realize that! He was in love with Ryan's sly
laughter, his control, his loyalty to his family, his
determination and strength to survive. He was in love with Ryan's
beauty.

He had nothing to live for now.

His mind reeled from the staggering blow that was Ryan. He gave a
choked cry. It was cowardly, but he fled from the room.



"You can't just hold him prisoner in your room!" Ronan exclaimed,
eyeing the man before him uneasily.

Antonio wasn't... Antonio. The man before Ronan was haggard,
gaunt, and looked more a ghost than anything human. Antonio talked
in a voice no higher than a murmur, and his eyes held the glazed
look of a man driven to desperation without any hope of
redemption.

"I'll hold him there until he learns to want me," Antonio said,
but his tone was without fire. "If I can't have him, nobody will."

"You're mad," Ronan said, shaking his head. "Look, there's a
better way than this, buddy. Woo him. You're the champion at
this."

"I did! I fucked him ten ways to Sunday and made him come left and
right, but he won't want me. With good reason." He choked. "I
killed his father. He did all this just to break me, like he did
in the bet, and he succeeded." He buried his face in his hands. "I
don't want to live without him, Ro. I live for the moment I make
him smile, the moment I make him laugh and sigh in pleasure and
cling to me like I'm the only person that matters to him. Oh God."

How melodramatic. Ronan patted Antonio's back awkwardly. "Sleep on
it, and do think about letting Ryan go, will you?" Then he fled
before Antonio decided to murder him or something, in order to
hide evidence or something equally dramatic.



"Tell me about the man you can love," Antonio whispered. "Damn it,
Ryan, talk to me!"

Ryan was silent.

"I didn't kill your father. I didn't put his gun to his head. My
own crime is arrogance, which I will pay penance for, believe me.
What can I do to earn your forgiveness, Ryan? What the hell can I
do?" The last was shouted out in a feral cry that Ryan jumped.
Antonio took a deep breath. "I love you. I don't know why, but I
love you. I don't like this, you know, because loving a man who
hates you is so bloody inconvenient. It's not worth it. But I'm
willing to change. I'll be anyone you want me to be, Ryan, so
please, talk to me. I can't bear me when you're so cold to me."

Silence.

Antonio felt something in him break. It didn't matter. He left the
room, so caught up in his misery that he failed to see tears
running down Ryan's cheeks.

That night he looked at his face in the mirror. They called him
the most handsome man on Earth. Good lot that did him, for the
only man he wanted found his face devoid of character and
humanity. He was nothing more than a pretty boy with large cock
and endless stamina to Ryan, and the sad truth is that, well,
Antonio was all that and just that. He looked at his nude body,
the beautifully gym-honed body that was almost perfect in its
sculpted musculature and sexual appeal. It held little appeal to
the man he loved.

And at this moment he hated himself with a virulence alien to his
usual easy-going manner. He wanted to be someone worthy of Ryan, a
man of wisdom and culture and intelligence, not the spoilt, pretty
boy he was now. He wanted to be anyone but himself, a shallow
idiot trapped in a gilded cage of beauty. And why should he be
trapped?

He didn't hesitate. He hurled himself through the glass window
panes, never even feeling the shattered glass cutting into his
face and skin, welcoming the oblivion.



When he came to consciousness, he saw light. The blurry lights
slowly focused, and he realized he was looking at the light
reflected on Ryan's hair. The man was sitting by Antonio's bed -
he looked around, he was in a hospital - and the poor man's chin
was on his chest as he slept. He couldn't help himself but to hope
for the impossible. Ryan, here, by his side? So close.

He touched Ryan's hand, and the other man jumped to awakeness with
a soft cry. "Tony," Ryan sobbed, eyes widening in undisguised joy
when he saw Antonio, and threw himself into his arms. "I'm so
sorry, I'm an idiot. Can you ever forgive me? Oh Lord, I'm so
sorry."

Antonio looked at the far mirror and looked at himself. His face
was heavily bandaged. No doubt he would have scars on his once
flawless face, but that thought somehow didn't elicit any regret
or anger or even disappointment. Why should he? His sole reason in
living is crying in his arms.

"Are you here to stay for good?" he asked Ryan.

Ryan nodded tearfully. Later he would tell Antonio that the latter
was right, his father shot himself and while Antonio wasn't in the
right, he didn't deserve the full brunt of the blame. Later. Right
now he needed to cry for his father, for himself, for Antonio, for
them both.

"Then I won't forgive you. You'll have to spend two hundred years
making up to me. And I must warn you that you may fall in love
with me along the way. Which I will do my best to ensure, by the
way. It wouldn't do for me to be the only lovesick sot in this
relationship."

Ryan's slight nod was enough.
