THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Olivier

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

Olivier Martinez realized that his nightmare was real the moment
the demon in his nightmare clamped his hand over Olivier's mouth -
a solid, real touch. He tried to scream or bite down on the hand,
but where his teeth found flesh, the hand refused to move. When he
tried to struggle up, he realized that the demon had pinned him
down on the bed with his body.

The demon was beyond attractive: he was mesmerizing. Blond hair
seemed to glow ethereal in what little light from the streets
outside, just as they said the fallen angel was the most perfectly
formed of all angels. Those eyes, cold and unfeeling, were the
deepest of azure, and the face was flawless to Olivier's eyes.

This was no demon. He knew this man.

He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the hand over his
mouth.

Rusty taste of blood filled his mouth, but that was nothing
compared to the ice of fear crystallizing in his heart. This man
would kill him, like he vowed to do so. This man was the enemy,
and Olivier, the last of his kind, was carelessly this one time. A
fatal mistake, as it would seemed.

He awoke in cold sweat. He closed his eyes from the blinding light
streaming in from the windows. What time was it? Seven? He was
late for work. Fuck work, he thought, burrowing into the sheets
despite the heat of the morning. The dream, always the dream. He
was so tired of these nightmares.

He didn't know how long he lay there, curled into a fetal huddle
on the bed, but eventually he staggered to his work table. There,
unfinished, was the portrait of the fallen angel, created out of
coal and Olivier's nightmares. His friend Ryan said that it would
be great if Olivier ever finished it. His young friend didn't
understand, however, that Olivier doubted he could ever finish
this work. When he finished it, his demons would be completely
exorcised, and he doubted that could happen unless in the eternal
sleep of death. He had been having these dreams since he was a
child.

When his boss rang and yelled where the fuck he was, Olivier
winced. He had it bad when he jumped at the sound of the phone.
But his boss Jonny's voice was reassuring in the man's usual
nonchalance. One of the reason why Olivier enjoyed working under a
fickle, thoughtless boss like Jonny was because Jonny seemed to
have a dismissive attitude for every problem in the world.

"I'm sorry, boss. I'm not feeling well," he told the man.

"Yeah? I should fucking fire you. Never mind, just get your ass
here before two, because I have some important clients coming at
four and I need help in putting the Ruminovia showcase in order,"
Jonny said.

Olivier didn't worry. Jonny would forget about this conversation
in a few hours' time, either during his lunch quickie with Brad,
the lawyer he had corrupted so much that poor Brad was an idiot
sex toy in Jonny's hands, or when someone complimented him on his
clothes, whichever came first. Jonny was an art acquisitor and
dealer who did a booming business thanks to his flamboyant charm,
genuine intelligence, and savvy, and Olivier was his assistant.
Olivier loved art, and he had a talent for coal art, but he had
learned early that he didn't have the stomach to starve for the
sake of art. His increasingly worse nightmares were destroying his
ability to hold a 9 to 5 job, and it was godsend two years ago
when Olivier found a part-time job under Jonny. The part-time job
soon became permanent, despite an average of ten threats of
unemployment from Jonny to Olivier per month.

The nightmare, the fallen angel. Olivier picked up a piece of
coal, studied the drawing, and proceeded to give his nightmare
life.



TWO

William Gregory Lee was once a beautiful young man. He was Prom
King, football captain, valedictorian, and colleges jostle for his
attention. He studied his reflection in the mirror. He was twenty-
eight now, and he was a scarred man. The scars were all in his
mind, for outside, he was still the beautiful blond god that had
the world at his feet. But some of his inner darkness had broken
through the cracks of his mask. His eyes were no longer gaily, and
he guessed his shrink was right when the man said that everything
about him, from his posture to his expression, kept people at bay.

He almost touched the glass, until he remembered that he was about
to leave his fingerprints on a $40,000 artwork and held himself in
check. He wasn't a fan of art, but he was told by his secretary
that he had to be a patron of at least one artist to be considered
cool. Dotcom millionaires, genuine ones, were still considered
pariahs by the old money people, and the recent dotcom bubble bust
and fickle, opportunist dotcom enterpreneurs only made it worse
for Greg to fit in. Never mind that his online company was
genuinely posting profits, he was still a dodgy nerd. Bill Gates
had a lot to answer to, that fuck.

But for the sake of his sister who wanted so badly to be in, he
decided that he should at least try.

But there was another reason he was here today. Last week, he saw
an artwork he wanted. Today, he wanted to buy it. He also wanted
answers, such as how the artist could draw a perfect portrait of
him. Was the artist someone he knew?

"I don't know what you are talking about," Jonny Lee Miller said,
walking into the studio. "I've checked every item in my inventory,
and I don't have a coal portrait of you or anyone that resembles
you even a bit." His expression was one that doubted Greg's state
of mind.

"I saw it," Greg insisted. "You made a fuss over it last Monday."

"Monday?" Realization dawned. "That's just an unfinished work done
by my assistant. I sort of picked it up from his place by mistake.
I was supposed to pick up a work by that upcoming artist
D'Richelieu, and can you imagine what my clients said when I told
them my mistake?"

"I want that art," Greg insisted.

"Then talk to my assistant," Jonny said, taking a step back when
he saw Greg's face. "He's not here - he's late today, but I'm
sure..."

"What's going on?" came a stranger's voice from the door.

"Olivier, you're here!" Jonny exclaimed quickly. "Mr Lee here
wants to buy your art."

Greg stared.

The world faded around him as he stared at the man who just walked
in. Olivier was short, yes, and probably he wasn't handsome when
his features were dissected one by one. The eyes were too flat and
elongated, the mouth seemed too big, and the man was only five six
or so in height. But put together, Olivier was beauty made life.
He was just stunning, and Greg felt as if he had just received a
blow in his gut that left him breathless.

He took a step forward, his fingers already curled in an
irrational and wild need to touch the man.

It was then the man, who had been staring back, fainted towards
the floor. As Greg caught him, he realized that the expression in
Olivier's face upon seeing him was not lust but genuine terror.



Olivier awoke to a room that was too big and too luxurious to be
his. Maybe, he thought in wild hope, his entire existance was a
nightmare upon which he had just woken up from. He staggered to
his feet, and wondered where the hell he was.

"You're awake."

Olivier turned, and gasped when he saw the demon lounging at the
chaise at a shadowed corner of the room, watching him.

"My name's William Lee. Call me Greg. You fainted, and I told your
boss I would take you home. I hope you don't mind that I took you
here to my place instead."

"I want to go home," Olivier said shakily. The demon was real. Or
he had gone mad.

"No, stay here for a while. I have great food and everything you
need to be comfortable. In fact, you may even like it here that
you won't want to live."

"What are you talking about?" Olivier yelled.

"Why are you so scared of me?" The demon uncrossed his legs and
approached Olivier, who shrunk back in fear. "Have we met before?"

"No!" But the demon's hand on his cheek was real, terrifyingly
real, and this was no dream. Olivier couldn't move, however. He
wanted to fight, run back to his apartment where he would lock the
doors and be safe, but he couldn't. He seemed to drown in the
demon's unfathomable emerald eyes, and when he gasped in
fear/fascination, Greg silenced him with a kiss. It was a shocking
sensation, Greg's tongue slowly lavishing slow, sensual attention
to every area it could reach, and Olivier found his knees
weakening even as his inside melted in scorching molten desire.
Greg, the demon, was just as beautiful as he dreamed, moonlight
and desire in a heady mix, and when Greg slowly kissed and bit
onto the curve of Olivier's neck, it was a possession Olivier
could find not the energy to fight.

Instead, his fingers pulled Greg's shirt out of his trousers,
burning when it touched hard muscled flesh, and he arched his body
as he was lay on the bed, letting Greg divest him of his jeans.
When that thick penis cored through his rear entrance to fill and
expand the width his anal passage to almost painful limits, he
could only cling to Greg and bury his face in the man's shoulders,
biting into the hard flesh as the man began fucking him.

The pain, the pleasure, all faded in a languid haze of bliss, even
as his body began responding to Greg's increasingly harsh and
urgent fucking. It was as if his mind and body had become
detached, with him looking down dispassionately at his body being
taken by his demon lover. He closed his eyes and lay his head back
heavily on the pillow, too tired to fight.

He had lost. The nightmare had taken him. And he shuddered, not
sure what he was feeling - fear or joy - as he felt Greg's tensing
and harsh cry as climax ripped through the man. He felt warm,
molten juices flooded him from inside. He slept to that sensation.



THREE

The sound of the saxophone played a bittersweet story of loss and
mourning. Olivier watched as Greg played from the safety of the
curtains hiding him from view. Greg played the saxophone every
night, in this room, like a damaged Captain Nemo, and it was
always some mournful ballad. Soon, Greg would put aside the
saxophone and go to Olivier, who would be waiting in the bedroom.
It was their nightly ritual for almost a week now.

Olivier, however, wanted to savor this moment, even if it was an
intrusion to Greg's personal moment. He couldn't believe that Greg
was real, and he wanted to know every single thing about this man
who hid so much secrets. Yet he also feared knowing what he might
find if he probed too deep.

The music ended, and Olivier missed it already.

"I know you're there. Come out where I can see you," Greg said in
a soft steely voice that managed to carry across the vast room
nonetheless.

What made such a man so hard and brittle?

Olivier nervously took a seat across from where Greg was standing.

"This was my mother's music room," Greg said softly. "She used to
sit here every night" - Greg walked to the giant piano and touched
it reverently - "and play this piano. I would sneak down the
stairs there" - and he pointed behind Olivier - "and sit there and
listen. She always played even when the cancer was close to
killing her. You know what she told me before she died?"

Olivier shook his head.

"She told me to change. Said I was too hard on myself and everyone
in this world. She didn't understand. The best way to survive is
to become so hard inside that nobody will ever hurt you again."

"She hurt you."

"Yeah. She left me, didn't she? Everyone leaves. My parents, my
friends, everyone. And it hurts so bad inside..."

"I know." Olivier looked down at his hands. "Greg, I know."

"Have I hurt you, Olivier?" Greg asked.

"No." Not yet. "I'm thinking of my own life. I'm always so
scared."

"Oh yeah. You dreamed of me. Or what you told me. I'm a big scary
demon who tried to kill you." Greg looked at the portrait,
unfinished, but framed on the wall. It was his. "Sorry about the
mocking tone, old habits die hard. Have you seen a shrink?"

"No longer. They never managed to help me."

Greg chuckled humorlessly. "Nor could mine. But you can help me,
Olivier."

"I can?"

"You're helping already, just by being here and letting me talk.
You're so beautiful, not because you look beautiful, but because I
know you understand me. We could be soulmates. Yes, terrifying,
huh?"

Olivier was terrified. This was so much like his nightmares, where
desire and fear often writhe and intertwined until they were
indistinguishable from each other. The pain and the pleasure that
was Greg was already too much, and any more would cause Olivier to
fear for his sanity. How could one feel so much and not go insane?
The dreams, the sex, and the feeling of finally being at peace in
the arms of his own tormentor - how could he make sense of it all?

"Oh, and my sister is visiting tomorrow evening. You may want to
meet her. Her name is Sherry." Greg pulled Olivier to his feet.
They never fucked here, not in this room where Greg cherished the
memories of his mother. "Come on, let's go to bed," Greg said as
he led Olivier by the hand.



Sherry was a nice woman, Olivier guessed, a fresh breeze of
accessibility and normalcy compared to Greg. But Sherry seemed
oblivious to her brother's stoic nature, teasing him until she got
a reluctant smile coaxed out of him. Judging from what she said,
she probably knew that her brother was a time bomb, but at the
same time, she didn't know how to see her protective big brother
in any other light. Much younger than Greg, she couldn't remember
her parents.

But she did remember the few men in Greg's life. They always left
when Greg's damaged clinginess became too much for them. Yes, Greg
was clingy, as Olivier could testify. Greg might be strong as he
built a business empire and a life for his sister by his sheer
willpower and drive that only ameliorated his keen business sense,
but that willpower was held together by a slight string that was
Greg's sanity. Loneliness had taken its toll.

"Be good to Greg, okay?" Sherry had asked Olivier.

Greg only smiled that crooked, sardonic grin of his as he
overheard his sister. "Be good to me," he said later. "You hear my
sister."

"I don't think she can make you listen to her unless you want to,"
said Olivier.

"Yes, you know me so well."

Yes, Greg was clingy. He never let Olivier out of his sight, as if
he was afraid that Olivier would disappear. And Olivier would
wonder: was he that worth it? What was it that bound Greg to him
that way? Could he even recipocrate? He was so scared; he doubted
if he could ever stop feeling scared. Poor, poor Greg.



FOUR

Olivier realized the extent of Greg's darkness when he found Jonny
dropping by the house to demand why Olivier wasn't showing up for
work for a week now. Greg all but ripped Jonny's head off as he
tossed the man out of the house.

"My boyfriend is a criminal lawyer!" Jonny yelled as he dusted his
jeans. "I will sue, you bastard, you just wait. I will sue you of
every fucking penny you have and then some, and I will make sure
all the papers know about this! Asshole!"

Greg clenched his fists and Jonny fled, but not before yelling
that Olivier was fired.

"Nobody talks to you without my permission, got that?" Greg
growled at Olivier. "I will kill anyone who tries to take you away
from me."

Maybe he should be scared, but Olivier wasn't. Actually, something
curious happened while he watched Greg's behavior. He was actually
becoming angry. Very angry. He was tired of being scared, he was
tired of hiding, and now, he didn't want to be Greg's possession,
just like that piano and Greg's locket he wore around his neck
containing a photo of his mother. He wanted to be free, and now,
he was angry enough to demand freedom.

"I'm leaving," he said, his voice curiously detached yet resolute,
strange even to his own ears. "You can't treat me this way."

"What are you talking about?" Greg's voice rose as Olivier just
opened the door and walked out. "Olivier!"

Olivier just kept walking. Each step was strange. It was as if he
was losing each chink of the chains that bind him in fear with
each step. Fuck Greg, fuck everybody, he was walking away from it
all. He quit.

He heard the click of a gun ready to be fired.

"Don't walk away from me, Olivier," came Greg's slightly shaky
voice. "Don't you dare."

Olivier took a step forward.

"Don't make me hurt you, Olivier, please. Come back."

Another step.

"I will shoot you, damn it. I will shoot you, and then myself.
Olivier, please... Olivier!"

One more step, and he would reach the gate.

And Greg fired.



Greg's fingers seemed to lose their grip on the gun after the
shot, and the gun clattered to the ground. He fell onto his knees
on the grass, before falling over to huddle on the ground, sobbing
brokenly.

Don't turn. But Olivier turned to look, and his heart, one he only
slowly learned of its existance, cracked. Maybe the pain was his
heart shattering to smithereens, and maybe the warmth that
followed was the pent-up emotions of his heart finally flying
free. A part of him wondered: did he reduce this man into a broken
shadow like this?

What heady power this was.

It was too bad he was enslaved by his own foolish heart, now
soaring with life, as if he could feel his blood finally warming
his body for the first time. But most importantly, to him, Greg
let him go. And in this freedom, he found that he never wanted to
be free. Maybe this wasn't healthy, for they were both damaged so
much that they would never be a normal queer couple.

"Please go," Greg whispered when Olivier knelt down beside him.
"Just go, before I change my mind."

Olivier didn't know what made him do it, but he saw Greg's wallet
on the ground, it having fallen from Greg's pocket when the man
collapsed. He flipped it open, and smiled, a free and easy smile
for the first time in his life. There, laminated in plastic was a
photo of Olivier asleep in bed, and behind? Olivier turned the
photo over. There, in Greg's handwriting, just one word - Olivier
- and a silly smiling face following the word.

Silly thing. Silly man.

"Come on, Greg, let's take a warm bath together," he whispered
soothingly as he reached out to help Greg stand.

And Greg's smile might be uncertain, but he held Olivier tight.




FIVE

The band was a success. In particular, their jazzed-up version of
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen went down very well with the audience.

Olivier still feared a lot of things. He feared being in crowds,
surrounded by strangers. He still dreamed of demons and death, but
this time, he had his own demon lover to help him find his way
home. And tonight, Greg made his move to slay his own demons. He
joined a band armed with his saxophone, and they jam on Thursdays
evening after all the equally part-time band members left their
day jobs.

The shrink had a field day with them both. Greg was agoraphobic
and obsessive compulsive, while Olivier, well, they were still
analyzing his REM patterns. In a way, they were two screwed up
individuals hobbling their way to a life they could call their
own.

Greg, though, kept his word and made his own efforts to make this
work too. And tonight was his big night, for this was his first
official performance with Electric Velvet. Knowing that Greg would
hate it but everyone else would love it, band leader Danny Nucci
deliberately made Greg perform a solo.

As for himself, well, Olivier went back to work with Jonny, but
after Greg did a major grovel and put $25,000 into Jonny's
favorite art foundation. Was he happy? He guessed so. He certainly
was now, tapping his feet and maybe shaking his body a little as
lead singer Christian Kane brought the house down with his soulful
voice and backed by Danny's and Greg's saxophone, Jude Law's
electric guitar, and Eliza Dushku's drums.

Yeah, he was happy. And as Greg grinned, embarrassed as much as
exhilarated by his debut, right at Olivier, well, yeah, they were
both happy in a most gloriously dysfunctional way. One could say
that his dream had come true.
