THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Ian

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

The young man grinned as he stepped down at the bus depot. He had
traveled thousands of miles across sea and plane, hitchhiked his
way through roads and highways, but this time, the feeling in his
soul was more right and intense than he had ever experienced it.

He had come home.

He had come home to the man he loved.

Love was a trivial word, one that Ian Joseph Somerhalder would
admit to have abused in his quest for pleasure in his carefree
life, but he would give up the games now. He was home. After years
of seeing the world and bearing so many badges of honor and sin of
his travels, he had finally learned one thing - he belonged here
to feel whole and complete.

Love and Ian's beloved Patrick Dempsey belonged together in one
combination that was so right, so perfect. Ian wished he had
realized it sooner, but he was so caught up in the rush of youth,
beauty, and pleasure that a man like he could indulge in that he
was so blind and stupid for too long. It had taken severe
heartbreak and memories of the man who had always been there for
him to make him realize what he was too blind to see all along.

He could recall from memory how Pat seemed to glow when the man
smiled. Pat was handsome, but he was handsome because of the way
the man's eyes lit up when he smiled, and the way those laugh
lines around his mouth and eyes deepen and crinkle when he smiled
like that. Even the way those dimples deepened in that deceptively
simple act of smiling - Ian always felt as if he was struck by a
hammer in the chest whenever he was at the receiving end of that
smile.

Pat made him feel as if he was caught up in a wild raging storm of
undefined emotions, and sometimes Pat made him realize how
unnaturally silent his life was.

He couldn't help performing a little skip as he hurried to catch a
cab home. Home - who would've thought the word would sound so
sweet and purifying on his wounded soul? "I'm coming home, Pat!"
he yelled, he had to get this hammering urgency in his chest out.
"Yeah, I'm coming home!" he shouted, this time louder, not caring
if he came off as crazy to anybody watching him - he stopped
caring a long time ago - and fuck the world, he began to dash down
the night, laughing in an exuberance he hadn't felt in too long.



"Ian's coming home huh?"

Patrick Dempsey ran his fingers through his hair wearily, biting
down his impatient response to that statement which he had heard
too many times already today. It was the tip of his tongue to tell
them that as Ian's closest to a family member, he would be the
first person to know. His house staff was excited about it. His
employees were animated by the thought of having the great Ian
around again. And now he couldn't even drink his blues away
without having the bartender getting excited about Ian.

"Another one," Pat said, barely able to mask his weariness, as he
ignored the unsubtle poking into his personal affairs. He caught
Rupert trying to launch another assault on his nerves and narrowed
his eyes in warning.

"Okay," Rupert answered smoothly. "I thought you'd be happy to
talk about the return of the prodigal son."

He couldn't take it anymore. Pat pulled out a cigarette. He had
stopped smoking so he didn't carry a lighter, but it felt fucking
comfortable to just feel a stick between his lips.

Rupert knew better than to say anything.

Anyone could see that Patrick Dempsey was far from pleased that
Ian Somerhalder was coming back. It was odd, for Patrick was known
to be very fond of the young man he had befriended through Ian's
late brother. It was probably because both men were gay and Ian
found someone he could look to for a mentor and a role model. Not
that Ian turned out to be anything like the sober Patrick. Ian ran
wild, enjoyed life to the hilt, modeled, bummed, and no doubt
fucked his way through life without much care for anything else, a
walking Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue pretty boy who never
failed to brighten up the life of those in his vicinity, and that
included Pat. So why was Pat looking depressed and even terrified?

Rupert wondered what the story was behind those two. But he knew
better than to ask.



TWO

Ian relaxed when he saw the familiar figure seated at the bar. Of
course, Patrick would come here. He always came here after a long
day at the office to loosen up and wind down. It was stupid for
him to panic when he learned for Marguerite that Pat never came
home after work. Pat was stable, Pat would always be at home when
Ian came home, and Pat was a rock. How could he actually imagine
that Pat would be gone from his life?

Beat slower, heart, for he could ease the weight on his heart that
threatened to rage out of control; breathe steadier and calmer,
and be calm and sane once more. The momentary desolation that
rendered a future in his eyes, dull and bleak, without Pat and his
smile and strength to bolster him on, all faded back into the
shadows in his soul as he stepped into the pub and let the warmth
in the building slowly drive away the chill in his bones.

But his voice cracked as he called out Pat's name, not caring if
heads turned to watch him in surprise, and his steps faltered even
as he tried to will himself to walk faster. He was being
melodramatic, he knew that, but he seemed to have lost all control
on his emotions when he saw Pat's red-rimmed eyes looking at him.
He was struck then by how Pat looked as if Ian was the last thing
he wanted to see, but Pat just couldn't look away. The very
concept of Pat repulsed by him ripped at his very core - he
couldn't accept that, he refused to believe that - and Ian willed
himself to remain in control even as the last of his willpower
shatter to pieces.

It was then his legs gave way, and he fell into darkness.



He was sleeping on someone. Ian didn't have to open his eyes to
know that Pat, as always, knew when to be there when Ian needed
him the most. He could recognize Pat's scent, clean male skin and
Pat's favorite soap and shampoo, and his hands could recognize
Pat's body, the contours of the man's torso, and he didn't have to
touch Pat's face to create a vivid image of the man in his mind.
It was enough that he was here and Ian needed him to reassure him
that Pat still wanted him.

Pat wasn't carved of muscle like Ian, and his body, while fit, had
enough softness to make Ian's cheek burned pleasurably as he
rested on the bare shallow groove between the man's pectorals. His
right palm was flat on Pat's stomach, enjoying the sensation of
Pat's abdominal muscles clench and relax as slightly with each
rise and fall of the stomach, with each breathe Pat took. When he
lifted his right hip, he realized with a pleasant surprise that he
was stripped down to his briefs. His bare thigh rubbed against
Pat's hairy thigh, and Pat, Ian learned, was wearing his practical
boxers. He hated those boxers. They hid just how well-endowed Pat
was - Ian's fingers deliberately tightened around Pat's cock,
rubbing the thick half-erect shaft of that fat cock with practiced
fingers as he recalled just how well Pat used that cock.

"That's enough," Pat gasped. "I know you're awake, Ian, so cut
that out."

Ian lazily opened his eyes and tried to smile. He couldn't, not
when the sight of Pat broke his heart, the pain glorious, because
he had missed the man so acutely he was only beginning to
comprehend the extent of his feelings for Pat. "You fucked me
happily enough during that Christmas three years ago. Or was that
your evil twin that fucked my mouth so hard in Joaquin's storeroom
before coming all over my face?" He deepened his sensual massage
on Pat's now very hard cock, and Pat couldn't help it, he absently
shoved the waistband of his shorts down so that Ian could play
with him without the hindrance of a layer of silk.

"I was drunk," Pat whispered. "No... oh yeah, Ian, don't stop."

Ian chuckled. "It's okay, Pat. If you want me, you can have me."

"But you're never around to let me have you," Pat told him. "I
fucked you as hard as I could that night, but you were gone even
before I had the chance to wake up and ask you if you would stay
one more day with me." He shivered when Ian rubbed his thumb along
the moist slit of Pat's cock. "Just like you will be gone
tomorrow."

Ian hooked his other thumb into the waistband of briefs and pulled
them down. "I'm staying this time," he whispered to Pat as he
lifted his right leg up over Pat's waist and out of his briefs.

"For now," Pat corrected him. But he didn't stop Ian from pushing
a foiled packet into his hand, and later, when Pat had protected
them both, from positioning his pucker over Pat's throbbing cock,
and he made the first hard thrust upwards, penetrating Ian with
one forceful pierce of his solid male flesh.

Ian laughed weakly despite the slight pain of having to adjust to
Pat inside him. He'd won.

Hadn't he?




THREE

"You'll leave me," Pat told him. "You always do."

He wanted to turn away, but he couldn't. He would probably never
could, even now, after one of the most powerful orgasms he'd had
in these last few months. He had fucked Ian so hard that the bed
creaked and threatened to give way. He'd fucked Ian with Ian lying
beside him, lifting his left leg high so that Pat could thrust his
cock deep in and out from behind, until he'd came what seemed like
a gallon into the rubber he was wearing. He was still hard, and he
then fucked Ian from behind the good old-fashioned way, this time
plunging right to his balls pressed and slapping against Ian's
taut buns with each thrust until they both made low, guttural,
maybe even inhuman sounds of pleasure from their coupling. One
more hot fuck, this time face to face so that Pat could ravage
Ian's mouth with his as they copulated savagely, their lust still
burning hot despite their last two powerful orgasms. And one more,
this time each of them taking each other's cock in the mouth, Ian
cleaning Pat's soiled cock lustily.

He wanted Ian to stay. He always had, even as he dreaded to
imagine what could have been if Ian actually stayed. His feelings
regarding Ian wasn't clean cut. With other men, he could set down
the rules, hell, they both knew the rules: they would keep this
simple and neat, and if their lust had burned out, they would walk
away, no messy emotional entanglements to get in the way. Pat
liked his sex life that way, neat and clean like the rest of his
life.

In life, he had learned the hard way, nothing remained constant,
and people always leave in the end. From the day he lost his
parents when he was six, with every move from every relative's
home that didn't want him until the Somerhalders, his parents'
friends, finally succeeded in adopting him, he learned that he
could only trust himself. Everyone else would hurt him even
unintentionally. He weakened slightly, befriending Jack
Somerhalder, the eldest Somerhalder boy who was also his age, and
even beginning to accept his foster parents into his life, when a
drunk driver took them all away from him just two years after his
new life started. Just like that, his brief moment when he was
finally beginning to live was gone.

But Ian, who had a flu that night, survived if only because he
didn't follow his brother and parents to the restaurant that
night. Pat stayed at home to keep watch on Ian. Today, Pat could
still remember the others' last words to him - a promise to bring
back some Chinese food to make up for Pat's taking care of Ian.

Ian was eight. Pat was sixteen. They were separated by social
services soon after, and it was only by chance too long later when
Pat happened to accompany a friend to her son's graduation that he
met Ian again. When Ian's foster parents departed the world soon
after, Pat took Ian in. The both of them seemed to cause deaths to
their loved ones, sticking together was probably the best way to
protect the world from them, Ian had joked through bitter tears
then.

Pat never told Ian that perhaps, Ian coming into his life again
was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Ian hid his pain well, and he was always smiling and laughing. He
enjoyed life freely, loving and making those around him feel like
the highest and luckiest bastards around to enjoy his attentions.
Pat also felt bitter envy of Ian's easy joie de vivre that he
suppressed very well from Ian. He was always the sensible, proper,
boring one. Someone had to be, to pay for Ian's outrageous trips
through South America (those photos and tales of Ian's orgies at
those countries would make even a hedonist's toes curls - needless
to say Ian happily shared everything with Pat) and to keep the
roof over their heads. He envied Ian's freedom sometimes. He
didn't care whom Ian fucked, but he sometimes wanted to run away
just like Ian did from his fucking life.

"I won't," Ian whispered, his snuggling closer to Pat interrupting
Pat's thoughts.

Yeah, maybe if he tried real hard, Pat might believe him. He held
the man close. How did they come to this? He didn't know how, but
he was shocked that Christmas when Ian made a move on him. He was
too drunk to resist, and prompted on by feelings he wasn't sure he
wanted to analyze too closely, he had reciprocated. He had dreaded
facing Ian after the moment he opened his eyes the next day, but
Ian left him a note saying that he had to catch an early plane and
Pat shouldn't worry about what they had done. Pat had assumed that
Ian wasn't serious about their fuck. He was relieved. He was
furious.

And now, when Pat had come close to putting his life back to it
was before, Ian came back and blow everything into disarray once
more.

Ian would bring on the heartbreak, and heaven help him, Pat
couldn't think of any sweeter torment.

Pat awoke to sunlight streaming into the bedroom and onto his
body, and he jumped alert before remembering that today was Sunday
and he didn't have to dash to the office. He couldn't remember
ever sleeping this late before, always waking up at five in the
morning even on weekends to go over his work, and now, as he
stretched his arms, he wondered why didn't do it often. He felt
lighter, it was as if a great weight had been lifted off his
shoulders and the room felt sunnier and airier. He could breathe -
he felt free.

Maybe today he would forgo caution and live today as if nothing
mattered but just he and Ian. He would think about tomorrow when
it came.

Where was Ian? He yawned softly and reached for his shorts.

Ian was leaning against the balcony and watching the world below
as he sipped at a mug of hot chocolate. He smiled when he saw Pat.
Pat frowned. That bastard was wearing only his briefs and Pat's
dressing robe, barely fastened. He scowled at the widow Andrea who
was watching appreciatively from across the block, and that woman
had the cheek to wave gaily. Ian grinned at her and blew her a
kiss.

"Ask Patrick to smile more, Ian," Andrea called out irreverently.
"He has a nice smile, but he is the grumpier than my bulldog."

"Don't let the building superintendent hear you have a dog," Ian
called out to her.

"I'll just bake him some cookies if he comes calling."

Ian laughed, and Pat watched, mildly annoyed when he realized that
Andrea was never this friendly when Ian wasn't around. But that
was Ian. He seemed to glow with confidence and easy charm, and
people found him accessible despite his forbidding beauty.
Beautiful Ian, whom everybody loved because he loved them all,
ugly or pretty, fat or thin, any race, any age, any creed. Pat
remembered how Ian took his friend's shy and plump sister to the
prom just to bring a smile to the girl. No doubt Catherine would
call soon when she learned that Ian was back - they had become, in
Ian's own words, the 'best of girlfriends' in the years after.
Ian, everyone's friend, everyone's lover, but no one actually had
any hold on him. He left when he wanted to, and - Pat realized
with sudden insight - not anyone in Ian's acquaintance actually
know the real Ian. He talked and laughed, and while he willingly
accepted what everyone wanted to offer, he never offered any
intimate part of himself.

Not even Pat was excluded from the wide circle of people who knew
Ian but never actually knew the man.

Andrea waved and retreated to her apartment, where she would get
dressed before heading off to her club. Pat waited until they were
alone before touching Ian's face softly with his hand. "Are you
okay?" he asked.

"Yeah." Ian didn't misunderstand the question. "I was tired from
the long trip last night, that's all."

"You ran all the way to Abracadabra to find me," Pat pointed out
gently. "Marge told me. She almost killed me when I brought you
home, because she blamed me for not being here for you. Her words
were something like me being the worst big brother ever to you."
And he was ashamed of his cowardice last night, he really. "I'm
sorry, Ian, for not being there."

Ian just shook his head mildly. "It's nothing."

Pat's hand, by its own accord, rested over Ian's heart, and Pat
sighed, loving this feeling, loving the way his own heart seemed
to beat in accord with Ian's. "Is everything okay, Ian? Really
okay?" he asked firmly but in a light tone. "Why do you come back
in a hurry, Ian? I saw your face when you ran to me. You're
fucking scared."

Ian looked away, his eyes downcast, but Pat wouldn't let him get
away so easy. "Ian?"

"Can you let this pass?"

Pat wouldn't play fair. Not now, not when he needed to know Ian as
much as he could. "Let me learn to trust you, Ian." A voice inside
sneered: when had he ever trusted anyone but himself? But he
deliberately ignored the voice, just as he tried to ignore the
look of desolation that briefly crossed Ian's face.

"Something happened, that's all, Pat, that convinced me that I
belong here, with you. It's hard to understand - I'm not sure I do
myself - but I just snapped here, one day," Ian said, gesturing at
his head. "It's as if all these cold feelings in me have collected
all these years and fucking boom, one day I just can't hold them
back anyway and they just came pouring out. I just know I have to
come home."

Something began to ease in Pat's heart at those words, something
that defied his natural wariness at dealing with anything relating
to emotions.

"Welcome home, Ian," he finally said.

"Let's get out of the house," Ian said with a smile.



Going out with Ian was like playing chaperone to the most sought-
after, popular hero in town. They seemed unable to escape Ian's
old friends, and after a while, they both laughed as they drove
instead to a motel at the outskirts of town and spent the whole
afternoon making love. When evening fell, they sat at the hood of
Pat's car and laughed as they laughed over anything they could
come up with to talk about.

"I don't want tomorrow to come," Pat said with a half-sigh, half-
wistful note as he later sat on his bed and watched as Ian walked
out of the shower. "I don't want to go to work. I hate my job. I
hate my life."

Ian looked momentarily distracted by that statement. "Why is
that?"

Pat tried to answer, but he couldn't. "I don't know," he
confessed. Then Ian came to him and he didn't care for talk or
uncomfortable questions anymore.




FOUR

an looked at the door and hesitated. Inside was Sebastian Spence,
renowned anthropologist and explorer, and Sebastian was looking
for someone with an affinity for South American, specifically
Venezuela, to join him in a study-cum-field trip of two months.

He wanted to go. That was his instinctive reaction to the notice
he saw in the newspaper. Yet at the same time as his wanderlust
reined its ugly head, he was also aware that his three-day
tentative peace with Pat might not survive his leaving for South
America again, so soon after he told Pat he would stay.

He should go back. If he wanted this relationship with Pat to
work, he should stop being so selfish and think of Pat.

"Thinking of applying for the post?" A ruggedly handsome man of
indeterminate age - anything from his late twenties to mid-
thirties was Ian's guess - said as he walked up to Ian.

Ian moved to help the man. The other man was carrying a huge
wooden crate and he was having some difficulty with it. "What's in
this box?" he grunted when they finally got the box into the table
in the office.

"Some souvenirs from a recent trip to Wales," Sebastian Spence
said as he picked up a crowbar from the table and began working on
the crate. "Moldy things for the history department," he explained
breathlessly. The history department of NYU had gained much from
its making Sebastian its honorary fellow.

"Wales, huh?" Ian's eyes widened as the other man pulled a dirty
jeweled goblet out of the crate. "That's not..."

"This? Not the Holy Grail, at least I don't think so," Sebastian
said. "I'll have to send this to the forensics department before I
can say anything definite. So, Mr...?"

"Call me Ian," Ian told him. "Ian Somerhalder's my name."

"Okay. Tell me about why you are standing outside my door while I
take a look at what else I've found, and we'll see where we go
from there."

It was at the tip of Ian's tongue to make his excuse and leave,
but he just couldn't. He hesitated, and then the phone rang.
Relieved, he mouthed that he had to go even as Sebastian pulled
his mobile out of his back pocket. The other man made a gesture
for Ian to stay, however, and Ian, who wanted to stay as much as
he wanted to go, hesitated.

"Sebastian Spence speaking."



"Don't take him on," Patrick Dempsey said as he looked out of the
window to the world below from his office. But all he could see in
the end was his reflection, faint, alone and desperately unhappy
with his existence. "My... companion Ian Somerhalder. I know he's
there."

"You have people spying on him?" Sebastian Spence sounded shocked.

Pat heard that the man was a little on the old-fashioned chivalric
side. Honest, open, and trustworthy like Sir Fucking Galahad, they
said. Well, this Galahad was not taking Ian away from him. "It
doesn't matter," he said curtly. "I am in a position to convince
my employer Russell Crowe to withhold this year's contribution to
your department, Mr Spence."

"You're either the biggest coward in the world or its worst
control freak," the man at the other line said. "Ian is sitting
outside. I can tell him what you're doing and it'll be toast
between you and your companion."

"Are you threatening me?" Pat snapped.

"No, but may I point out that you are threatening me? You could
have asked me politely and I would have cooperated with you."
Sounds of paper rustling. "You can't keep him grounded for long,
you know. I could see myself in him. He will want to see things,
explore new sights, but he will always come home to you."

"I don't need your advice," Pat said, and made to disconnect the
call.

"Go ahead and hang up," Sebastian Spence dared him. "I'm sure
you'll watch to spend every hour sending men to watch over him and
cutting his wishes by underhanded means. It'll be a great
relationship, I'm sure, you being paranoid and mistrustful of him
all the time while he will feel unhappy and miserable because he
wants to please you and doesn't understand why he and you are
slowly suffocating inside."

"Fuck you!" Pat said in a low, furious voice. "You have no idea
what you are talking about."

"What, Ian? In a minute." To Pat, Sebastian sounded unruffled by
Pat's temper. "Maybe you and I should meet up with our respective
partners sometime. You sound just like my partner when we first
started our relationship. It almost went under because we both
couldn't compromise. Nowadays I travel abroad a few months per
year, or twice at most, but I can tell you that I miss home the
most. I miss my partner. Traveling is what I love doing, but my
home is here. Is that simple? Why can't you or Greg get this in
both your fucking thick skulls?" Obviously things at the Spence
home wasn't as settled as he initially suggested. "Now if you'll
excuse me, I'll send Ian off. Pardon my temper, I've had a long
trip, I'm dirty and stinking, and I just came back from spending
two hours being grilled by airport security."

Then he hanged up.

Pat stared at his phone, stunned. Then he flung it aside to the
floor and ran his fingers through his hair, angry and confused and
wishing he had never set eyes on Ian. No, he amended honestly to
himself, he wished he knew what he could do to make things right.



When Pat came back that evening, he found Ian seated at his
favorite couch, watching TV. Ian turned and smiled, and Pat's
libido gave an upbeat perk despite his emotional turmoil at the
sight of Ian wearing only a pair of jeans that hung low without
any underwear underneath. But he held back, trying to arrange his
thoughts.

"I have a confession to make."

They both said the same time at the same time, it caused the both
of them to study the other in surprise for a few silent
heartbeats.

And Pat, never a foolish man, while he knew what Ian would say,
decided that it was best he didn't mention the PI that he had
hired (and now released) or the phone call. "You go first," he
said.

"I wanted to go to South America today," Ian said. "But I didn't,
because it isn't the right thing to do."

And Pat couldn't take it anymore. It wasn't fair for Ian to bear
this cross alone. "I know," Pat said. "Listen first, Ian, okay?
It's okay if you want to go. It's not my right to stop you just
because it's my problem that I cannot trust you to come back to
me. I don't care if you go all the way to Antarctica, just as long
as you come back to me." Fuck, how did he get this knot in this
throat. He tried to clear his throat. "I probably can't keep up
with you. You may get bored with me soon enough. But I have to
trust you not to do that, right?"

"Pat, I am not leaving for South America," Ian told him, walking
up to him. "We will make this work, you and me together. You're
right, Pat. I can't keep running away. I don't want to be alone."

"Neither do I," Pat said. He had to touch Ian, or he would drown
in this raging tempest in his heart. Touching Ian's cheek was the
solid reassurance he needed desperately. "Oh Ian, I'm glad you're
staying, but I will not stop you if you want to go." He looked
into Ian's eyes, willing the other man to believe him. "I will
just wait for you to come back."

"And I won't keep you waiting." Ian smiled weakly, maybe even
tearfully, for his eyes were suspiciously red and bright. "I've
had fun and seen the world. It can wait. We can see it together."

Pat nodded. "Now, my turn to confess," he told Ian with
trepidation. "And I hope you can forgive me, Ian."

And so he told Ian everything - the PI, the phone call, and
Sebastian Spence's angry retort to him. He even got down on his
knees to grovel. Ian just laughed, however. He told Pat that he
couldn't blame Pat entirely - he almost weakened and left, didn't
he? Ian got down on one knee and kissed Pat, willing the man to
believe that to Ian, it didn't matter. "We'll just have to start
over in a less messy way," he told Pat.

Pat laughed or sobbed, he didn't really know, and he held Ian
tight. "We will," he concurred. "Oh Ian, you walked back in here
and turned me into a mess," he tried to say.

"Wanna go get drunk? Rupert will be glad to see us, that nosey old
queen." Ian tried to smile.

Pat kissed a tear falling down Ian's cheek, and said that he
thought that suggestion was just most perfect.
