THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Frankie

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.

ONE

Odd duck? That was he, Fransisco Muniz the Third, the oddly
ugly/beautiful youngest boy of the beautiful, glittering Herman
and Eraminta Muniz, the crown of the beautiful, debauched, and
thoroughly spoiled fallen aristocrats of Europe. Queer duck? Well,
Frankie would be that too.

He was born when the Munizes' fortune was in a rapid decline that
it would never recover from. The market for precious stones was
not as good as it used to be, the Muniz men in charge had no
business sense, running the once long-respected Muniz dynasty in
gem trading right to the ground. The family once lived in high
rising penthouses, now they lived in more modest mansions in a
more grounded existance.

At ten, Frankie discovered that his family was made up of morons.
At eleven, he stopped telling his parents that they were morons.
At thirteen, he decided that he was getting too jaded and bitter
for his own good, and stopped caring. At sixteen, he had saved
twelve thousand dollars from his own part time jobs, which was a
start to sever his dependance on his irresponsible parents.

Now, Frankie was nineteen. He looked sixteen on the outside, and
he suspected that he would be cursed with this boyishness for a
long time to come. His sweet baby face was cherubic and
attractive, until one looked into his bright emerald eyes to see
the pent-up bitterness, frustration, and anger inside.

Why was he bitter? Frankie looked at the stupid landscape painting
on his bedroom wall and wondered for the millionth time the answer
to that question. Why, he was bitter because his family was
useless. Giving up on trying to balance his father's account
books, he tried not to think of his father's latest foolishness -
an obviously doomed-to-failure series of investments of money he
never have on unpredictable dotcom ventures. This meant that
Frankie would have to find his own way of paying his college fees
next term. He didn't have the money. He would probably have to
drop out of college.

His father knew that. So did his mother. Yet here was his father
making stupid business decisions just because he wanted to be rich
again in the shortest time possible, and here was his mother who
just spent five thousand dollars in renovating their house, money
that was supposed to be for emergency uses... like Frankie's
college education.

Frankie decided to be magnanimous and forgave his parents for
running through the trust fund Frankie's grandfather left the boy.
The silly grandfather entrusted the fund to Frankie's parents. The
money for college gave their house a garish but charming Japanese
garden, three Mercedes cars, too many cosmetic surgeries, and
other really important matters. They were always sure that the
money would come back... somehow, somewhere. They were the
Munizes, it was their birthright to be rich.

Morons, all of them. Frankie had endured so many disappointments,
anger, and embarrassments, such as having to borrow money from his
friends to pay for his band uniform and lying to his teachers
because his mother spent the money meant for tuition fees on
liquor. He had always been so angry that he rarely felt any
different. The rage was his entire existance - he knew nothing
different. He was so self absorbed in his anger that he never knew
how to make friends or have fun.

His counsellor said that he was a ticking time bomb. Hurrah.

He was in a really foul temper since Brendan Fehr left. His
patience was shorter and his verbal barbs became even more cruel
that his own family couldn't stand him now, just the way he
couldn't stand them the moment he mastered the Engliah language.

What took them so long?

Brendan was a distant cousin of an aunt who earned the scorn of
all the Muniz clan for marrying a Canadian tailor shopclerk. When
his parents died in a car accident, Brendan found himself an
unwanted baggage thrust from one house to another. He was too
uncouth to fit in, and he was made to know that early on. As a
result, he too was angry, but unlike Frankie who kept it all in,
Brendan showed the world his middle finger.

It was probably natural that both of them eventually found each
other.

It was fun while it lasted too. Both of them had fun. Not sex,
actually, not even a hint of anything carnal, since they were both
more eager to revel in the discovery that they actually could
laugh and act like teenagers up to no good around each other.
Frankie had watched without envy as Brendan deliberately smoked,
screwed around, and broke all the rules of the family, actually in
awe of the boy's ability to push all the moron grown-ups' buttons,
while Brendan... well, Frankie never knew what Brendan got from
him. Maybe those hours playing RPG games on Frankie's PC would
come useful one day.

Then when Brendan was eighteen, he told Frankie he had enough of
moving all over the country into the houses of uncles and aunts
that never wanted him anyway and took the first bus out of the
place. Frankie never showed how much he wanted to cry as he
watched the bus move out of the bus depot that day, but he hurt.
It was as if Brendan was abandoning him.

Brendan had asked him to come along, but Frankie thought the boy
was joking. Also, they had no money, nothing, how were they
supposed to live? Brendan could do anything, but Frankie, well, he
knew himself to be quite useless. He would be a baggage to the
other boy.

In the end, Frankie stayed behind with his own family that thought
him a freak. It was tough, but it was also safe.

But as the years dragged by, Frankie read Brendan's postcards and
his always too-brief scrawled note on them and wondered if he
hadn't made the worst the decision in his short life.

Tonight, Frankie was feeling more depressive than he had ever felt
before. He had just turned nineteen, and here he was, still a
virgin with no close ties with anyone other than one who had left
for good. In despair he had wrote back two weeks ago to that
person: "I'm going crazy here, help!" Brendan never wrote back
earlier than a month later, at least, so Frankie had no one to
talk to or seek solace with.

His thoughts were starting to run around in their usual cycle of
depression and anger when he heard someone call his name. Frankie
looked out his bedroom window just as a small pebble whizzed past
him, narrowly missing him as it fell onto his bedroom floor.

"Sorry," Brendan Fehr called sheepishly. But he perked up
considerably as he grinned that familiar roguish grin at Frankie's
stunned expression. "So, wanna come down and give your buddy a
hug, kiddo?"



TWO

Brendan Fehr lay on Frankie's bed, dominating the room with his
presence even as he slept. Frankie sat across the bed and stared
at the sleeping boy - no man now, for Brendan was twenty-two last
August. It wasn't just the age, for Brendan was now a man in every
manner of the word.

Gone was the young boy who tossed his sports bag containing his
clothes on the spare bedroom every May before running off to get
drunk or laid much to the dismay of the rest of the Munizes. Here
was a man who now bore lines around his lips and eyes, faint lines
that were visible only when Frankie was watching closely, and they
were marks of a life that Brendan's easy facade hid. Was it wrong
of him to want to soothe those lines away?

Brendan's physique had gained bulk, and it was all coarse muscle,
giving him a slightly pudgy appearance. But Frankie had hugged the
man, and his fingers had danced despite himself on the abundance
of solid muscles moving fluidly under Brendan's tanned skin. Those
biceps, those strong muscles of the other man's back, oh how his
fingers danced. And while Brendan was solidly muscled, his
physique was extremely unsculpted, rough and unhoned like a man
who made his way around doing hard physical labor in fisheries,
wood workshops, and other less discriminating establishments that
took in a man with no skill or high education. Brendan had lived a
hard life, but a good one if that bright and shiny bike in the
garage was any proof. Other people bought insurance with their
money, but Brendan bought a bike and thought of saving up for a
boat next.

Frankie thought it was crazy, but it was crazy in a good way.

But seeing Brendan now threw him into a turmoil of confusion. He
was shocked to find that he lusted after this friend of his. How
did it happen? When he shouted Brendan's name as he ran down the
stairs to open the door, his emotions broke free into open tears,
he was also caught off guard by the way Brendan's appearance cause
a shard of desire through his very core of being. In Brendan's
arms, he revelled in the scent of Brendan's cologne and
cleanliness - oh, the man bathed and cleaned up just for Frankie?
- and felt safe, sheltered, and very aroused. Damn it, he tried to
move away, but Brendan didn't seem to want to free him, even when
Frankie's erection pressed against Brendan's urgently.

And Brendan kissed him then. It wasn't just a peck on the cheeks,
but a forceful plunder of powerful tongue through Frankie's
unsuspecting lips, and Frankie only drowned. But it was just too
brief. Brendan's teasing smile and gleam in his eyes made Frankie
fret whether his stupid, stupid lust had destroyed everything.

But Brendan only whispered, "Hello, kiddo." He only made Frankie
hope and dream.

So now he lay on Frankie's bed, exhausted by his long trip here.
He got Frankie's letter, and he quitted his job, coming all the
way here to see Frankie and make sure the younger boy was alright.
For this devotion, Frankie would walk through fire for Brendan.
Why not? He was burning already.

"I came back as fast as I could. It isn't just your letter,"
Brendan murmured, and Frankie blushed, wondering if Brendan was
awake while Frankie stared like a besotted idiot that he was.
"It's my fucking job at the cannery, which I hated, and my life...
I need to see you, Frankie, before I lose it."

Despite himself, Frankie couldn't resist lying down beside
Brendan. "Hey, I'm here now," he said.

"Where are the Stooges?" The Stooges was what Brendan called
Frankie's parents.

"They won't be back until dawn at the earliest."

"Good." Brendan placed his rough hand on Frankie's scrawny chest
and Frankie couldn't breathe, now when his heart was thundering
this painfully. "It took me so long, but I finally realized this,
kiddo."

"Realize what?" asked Frankie breathlessly.

"You. I mean, you, yeah. I should have forced you to come along
with me. I should have been fucking you instead of all those men
in trucker bars and toilets. It's you I want."

"But - "

No go. Frankie gasped when Brendan roughly pinned him down by the
hands. "Brendan," he tried to tell him to slow down, but Brendan's
eyes were wild and urgent, driven by some primal obsession Frankie
never even knew the man had. The latter wouldn't listen. Frankie
was thrilled. He was so losing it. Then Brendan gave a rough rip,
and Frankie's shirt tore open in the middle in a tearing of fabric
and popping of buttons.

"I've never done this before," Frankie said. "And that is a very
expensive shirt!"

"Yeah?" Brendan just said, but his expression was pure male
triumph. Smug fucking bastard.

Then he kissed Frankie. Oh yeah. He kissed Frankie's tears of pain
when his cock forged through Frankie's unbreached defenses.
Frankie held him tight as Brendan fucked him hard, his thrusts
becoming more savage as he drove them both towards a fiery climax.
And when they both came within a heartbeat of each other, oh yeah,
it was good. It was fucking unbelievable.

And when Brendan asked him, Frankie said yes. This time, he was
going for the joyride.



Paul Walker stared at the account books, dazed. For the millionth
time he cursed his employers for sending him here. At first,
playing the acting CEO of Muniz Enterprises (recently acquired by
his bosses) seemed like a godsend promotion. After dealing with
the flighty, spendthrift Munizes, he was certain old Richard
Roxburgh just wanted to get back at him for hurting and then
sleeping with the son of Richard's acquaintance. Fucking sly
bastard, he had Paul believing that all was forgiven now that Paul
was playing the responsible head of family to the very family he
almost ruined.

This was a hopeless task, pulling Muniz Enterprises back into
shape. Every million he managed to obtain from a bank, the Muniz,
still a major playing force in the company, spent three in bad
investments and frivolous indulgences. And now, he was confronted
with another problem: young Frankie Muniz was missing.

Was he supposed to play the responsible head of this family as
well?

Nasty, nasty Frankie who thought his family members beneath his
notice had decamped. Paul was just surprised the young boy lasted
this long. Once, Frankie might be the oversensitive, imaginative
soul he looked, but all traces of the boy's idealisms had been
drained by his parents' neglect and irresponsibility. Paul could
vividly recall durig his second week of knowing the Munizes, when
Frankie, close to tears, asked him for a loan to pay off his
outstanding college fees.

Frankie dreamed of becoming a poet and filmmaker, he had let
slipped carelessly to Paul during the few times they interacted.
Now he just wanted to finish college with a business degree and
make a few million dollars so that he would never have to depend
on his parents for money again.

Maybe Paul liked that boy. He pitied the boy. No dreamy soul
deserved to be twisted into a younger version of Paul Walker.
Maybe this time he would listen to Shane, his guy, when Shane said
that Frankie could use a father figure in Paul. And after Shane,
Paul discovered that he had a liking for being the man of the
house. So maybe yeah, he would have to talk to Frankie one of
these days.

But first, he had to find Frankie, for the sake of the boy as much
as the shareholders of Muniz Enterprises. Unlike Herman, he didn't
believe this to be a kidnap. Who would want to kidnap a bankrupt
Muniz? No, Paul suspected that the answer lied in the sudden
reappearance of a Muniz diseased limb called Brendan Fehr.



THREE

Brendan Fehr made a lousy James Dean, even with a hog as an
accessory. He was the son of a daydreamer and a woman who loved a
daydreamer too much for her own good. His father lost what little
they had in bad investments, and his wife loved him and thought
him a god for his intelligence and genius. Brendan could laugh.
The genius and his wife left his son alone, with no money,
nothing, in their thoughtless assumption that they were immortal.

But that was okay. If he felt any guilt for hating his parents for
leaving him alone in a life of living hell, Frankie had taught him
that these feelings were not unnatural. Frankie was angry too, for
in a way he was as alone as Brendan, maybe worse, because Frankie
was alone while surrounded by people.

It took Brendan years to realize this, and when he realized the
magnitude of the wrong he had perpetuated on Frankie, he was
uncertain on how to go back. As he told Frankie now as they lay in
the cheap motel room, he looked at those days of sleeping in
trucks and anyway he could find, he wondered how Frankie would
survive that life of drifting. Frankie was sheltered and unused to
hardships. No matter how Frankie might have protested that it was
okay, Brendan knew that eventually Frankie would want his old,
easy life back and hated Brendan for being unable to grant it
back.

"So you are scared," Frankie said simply.

"Yeah."

"I was scared too. What you're saying I know all this while. Why
else do you think I didn't want to come along?"

Of course. Frankie was always pragmatic. Brendan reached out and
touched Frankie's eeriely beautiful face. Maybe one day, Frankie
would realize that it was the memories of their time together that
kept Brendan sane all those years.

"Maybe we can just fuck around and see the country until the end
of your summer vacation," Brendan offered as a suggestion. Like
Frankie, he too was lethally pragmatic about realism versus
romance. He had nothing to offer Frankie but his soul, heart,
body, and devotion, but he doubted these were enough.

"I always believe that I have a date with San Bernadino
mountains."

Oh yeah, and Frankie used words in a way Brendan always found
fascinating. "Count me in," he offered his inadequate rejoinder.

It was the beginning of their summer. They skinny-dipped, they
made love under the stars, and they behaved like two crazy kids in
love, Bonny and Clyde gone legit and queer. Both of them thought
of nothing beyond the moment, before they knew it had to end. But
both were determined to make it last, if only in their memories.



If Herman Muniz came to take Frankie home, Brendan would have
killed the man. But it was Paul Walker who rose from the seat in
their rented room. A man Frankie doubted Brendan could take down.

"Hope you didn't sit on the wet spot we left on the couch,"
Frankie had the temerity to say, but maybe that was because
Brendan was standing between he and Paul, shielding him from Paul.

"Shut up." The ice in Paul silenced Frankie where few could. "Do
you understand what you have done? Everyone was worried."

"Nobody cared, except me. I can take care of Frankie now," Brendan
asserted boldly.

"Yeah, and you'll live on canned food and sleeping in bus depots."
Paul's barbs hit their target in unerring accuracy.

He could drag Frankie home. He doubted Brendan could do anything.
So young, the young lad looked like an underdog that was kicked
too often that he developed aggressiveness as defense. But what
saved Brendan was the ferocity in his face. Paul had seen it too
often when he looked in the mirror: a lost soul who knew he was
lost, but he would never go down without a fight. This would be a
fight to the bitter end, Brendan's David versus the unconquerable
Goliath just to keep Frankie. Only Frankie and all about Frankie.

Paul looked at Frankie, who was probably too young to develop
emotions beyond infatuation... and indeed, Frankie's stunned look
told Paul that only now did the boy understand the extent of
Brendan's devotion. But to Frankie's credit, it was the bright
gleam of dawning comprehension and awe in his eyes, not fear, and
the determination taking hold in the boy was one to stand beside
Brendan to the bitter end.

Paul hoped he was never this melodramatic when he was their age.

"Go to my car and wait there, Frankie," he ordered.

"No." Frankie only wavered in his voice. "This is my vacation,
Paul. This has nothing to do with you or my family."

"A vacation? Ask Brendan, Frankie. Ask him if he thinks that this
is just a vacation."

Brendan didn't look at Frankie. At last, a weak chink - the man
feared Frankie's rejection. Frankie took an instinctive step
towards Brendan, and Brendan looked at him then. He would bare his
soul to Frankie to see and reject.

"He has no education or money, Frankie. You will be disowned by
your parents the way your family disowned Brendan's mother. How
about college? Your future?" Paul asked softly.

Brendan's whimper was a wounded sound. Paul cast him a stern look:
if Brendan was a man, he would stand here and face his demons in
the face. Brendan did stand his ground. He looked ridiculous as a
James Dean wannabe, but he had balls, Paul thought in grudging
respect. And despite himself, he knew what Brendan was feeling and
he felt a kinship to the young man. Love was causing them all to
bleed to death, the insecurities and fear of rejection always
there, but love was also the sweetest of heavens, the honeyed
arsenic in one's veins. The best way to die was to die from love.

"What you say will work on a wimp, Paul," said Frankie, surely and
coolly. "But not me. If my parents disown me, I'd say it's about
time. I'm a smart guy, and so's Brendan. We will find our own way.
Now please fuck off and let us be, Paul."

Brendan's grin was half male triumph and half relief. Only a fool
would turn away from the unabashed devotion in Brendan's heart and
soul, and Frankie was no fool, not when the same seed of affection
was growing in his own soul.

He and Brendan, against the world, as always, for always.

"If you need anything, give me a call," Paul said finally. "I mean
it."

He gave them one last look before he closed the door behind him.
He doubted they even heard him. Brendan was kissing and whispering
sweet nothings to Frankie, who recipocrated every kiss, every
promise.

Suddenly feeling weary to his bones and missing Shane who was now
asleep in their bed back in New York, Paul silently closed the
door.
