THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB Noah
By and copyright Lady Poetess
http://www.gentlemensclub.cjb.net
Disclaimer This story is fictitious and bears no resemblance to anyone dead or alive.
PROLOGUE
He hated having to kill someone at the early morning hour. The man staggered slightly, looking at the body on the floor. Blood, he thought -- Birkoff was actually bleeding.
Tonight, Noah Strausser Speer Wyle had shot the very man he had considered the only one in this fucked-up world he could trust. Matthew "Birkoff" Ferguson lay silent, except for his silent, painful attempts to breathe. At that moment, Birkoff coughed painfully, and his right hand clawed weakly into the rug before returning to its initial flaccidity.
Whatever control Noah had snapped at that sight of Birkoff trying to live. Birkoff was slime -- he never gave up in his attempts to survive even if he had to lie, beguile, and hurt everyone around him in the process. And Noah had thought he was invulnerable to Birkoff's habitual perfidy, until tonight, when he finally confronted the irrefutable proof that his comrade and fellow partner-in-crime was systematically planning his downfall.
"Why, Birkoff? I would have given you everything I have," Noah asked then.
"I know. I hate you... for that," Birkoff said weakly.
At that moment sirens broke the night. Noah knew he had to go. Yet, he couldn't resist one last look at Birkoff -- his other half, his soul -- before he walked out the door, a dead man in all but name.
ONE
Five years later
"Bingo! Voila! Eureka!" Enrique Martin Morales -- Ricky to everyone who knew him -- cried, breaking the silence of his office. "Solved this stupid bugger!"
His employer and immediate superior, Noah Wyle, CEO of Courtetron Securities, stood immobile behind Ricky's seat. So silent was he that Ricky looked up, puzzled. "What? I've spent sixteen hours cracking this firewall, at least be happy for me, will you Boss?"
Noah only smiled grimly at the sight of the binary numbers all over the monitor, incoherent patterns to all but those who knew what to look for. "Birkoff," he said under his breath, and his grin only widened without humor as he touched the monitor as if he was touching a lover's cheek. "I've found you at last."
Birkoff was an urban legend among the few Courtetron staff members. Ricky heard all about the stories when he joined this firm three years ago. Matthew Ferguson, known as Birkoff for reasons unknown, was a computer genius whose reputation was as large as his infamous eccentricity. Or rather, Birkoff was an agoraphobic bastard who clung to Noah like a barnacle. Both of them started Courtetron from scratch and by all means, as thick as thieves. Until one night five years ago Birkoff just disappeared.
Rumor had it that the cops suspected Noah, but couldn't come up with anything. Birkoff had no medical records, no living relatives (he had been scrubbing off Noah, living with the latter and his foster family whenever he could), no criminal records, nothing except the bare essentials that wouldn't help the cops much.
Whatever happened that night Birkoff left though, it left Noah a changed man. Ricky had seen a photo on Noah's office, one he glimpsed by accident, where a thinner, boyish Noah had grinned optimistically at the camera with a sullen, shaven-headed boyishly round-faced man in his arms. The Noah now standing beside Ricky was heavier, coarser in his looks, and while he smiled and was as friendly as ever, it was as if something had ripped open in Noah.
Noah boxed six nights a week, and it showed in his noticeably heavier musculature, but what was evident was the barely-suppressed violence than hummed from Noah's very being. Only a very observant man would have noticed this, of course, and Ricky was very observant. He suspected Noah was like this all along, reptilian cold, and it was with Birkoff's absence than the man was finding it increasingly difficult to hide his emotionless core from his acquaintances.
"Boss, what is it?" Ricky asked quietly. "What's this to do with Birkoff?"
Saying that name aloud was almost like an act of blasphemy, judging from the chill in Noah's voice. "See that? The fingerprints all over this program are Birkoff's. I would recognize his handiwork anywhere."
Noah looked almost pleased, an odd reaction if you discovered that a traitor who had betrayed you was working for a rival.
"Let me get this straight. You knew all along whose handiwork is this, and you made me spend sixteen hours on it even before I recovered from my jet lag?" Ricky asked incredulously.
"I'm paying you eighty thousand bucks a year," Noah said reasonably. "So what the fuck are you complaining about? This of this as making my money worth."
Ricky sighed. "I'm going home."
"So go."
Ricky got out of his chair -- damn, his legs were wobbly after so long a period of inactivity -- and was reaching for his jacket when his cell phone rang. At the same time Noah's cell phone came to life as well.
"Yeah, Brian," Ricky said to the phone. "Jesus," he said, seeing his surprise reflected in Noah's face as the latter answered his call (so, at least Noah could feel something, Ricky noted absently).
"Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital," Noah told Ricky after they both disconnected their calls.
Dr Linden Ashby hated nights like this. Sixteen non-stop emergency cases had passed through his day in a painful blur and now this, having to deal with yet another emergency case. He had almost lost two lives and now, barely able to stand, he raced along the corridor to surgery, pulling on his gloves.
"Jeremy, keep Marc from falling and stabbing himself on the magazine rack," he ordered as he followed the attendants wheeling a barely-hanging-on Brian Krause into surgery.
He hated this. He wanted to go home and sleep and wake up where Sean would make him some nice hot waffles. But for Brian, he would have to stay awake and alert one more time. Fucking hell, Brian better send him some nice champagne after this.
"I shouldn't have drunk," Goran Visnjic said in wretched misery, pressing at the bloodied bandage right above his left eye. "I shouldn't have."
Marc Blucas, Brian's significant other, paid him no attention. He hadn't uttered a single word throughout receiving his stitches, and he only stared into space now. In shock probably, Noah thought, standing silently in the corner. He was pretty surprised at the lack of emotions in his own self. When his father died two years ago, his lack of emotion he discounted as a fluke. Now, he wasn't so sure anymore.
Had he really lost all capacity for emotions? Throughout his childhood and later adolescence, he realized early that he seldom felt what others around feel most of the time. Rarely happiness or grief, it was always a mind-numbing void in his soul. He learned early though that he had better pretend he feel the same as others or he would never fit in. Hence he made it an art to pretend to be the happiest man on earth if he needed to be one, or the grieving son who had just lost his beloved father.
Oh, he loved his father. He loved Andrew, the first boy he fucked, too, and he also loved his many siblings and friends. Only that the love he felt was like a lukewarm simmer, three parts indifference and two parts bewilderment at the fact that he actually cared for them.
It scared him, this void in his soul. He was born with this, and he would probably die feeling hollow, and the thought terrified him.
But Birkoff was alive, and Noah knew now where to find him.
It was with Birkoff that Noah found his soul mate. Birkoff, frail and weak, was equally ruthless and cold, and paradoxically his coldness warmed Noah like nothing he had ever felt before. Like he, Birkoff was a great pretender, putting on an affable mask and making it an art to make people trust him -- only to betray them when he was backed against the wall.
Selfish, treacherous Birkoff who cared only for himself -- what would he say if he knew that Noah was planning to take their relationship further that night when he shot Birkoff? He had a feeling Birkoff would appreciate the joke.
"I have to go," he said to Jeremy.
"Go. I'll call you if anything comes up."
"He'll be okay?" Noah put on a concerned face as he nodded at Marc, a concerned mien that was an exaggerated display of the actual concern he felt. Oh, he cared for Marc, whose Boy Scout idealism made him believe sometimes that the world was still a fine place, but his cursed self refused to feel anything but mild concern. No hysteria, no panic, nothing.
Fuck.
"He will be. I'll make sure he will be," Jeremy said simply. "Don't want the world to lose its genuine last Boy Scout alive."
Noah grinned and shook his head. The Last Boy Scout. He wondered what Birkoff would think of Marc.
"Come on, Goran," he said to the miserable man huddled at the corner. Poor Goran, his lover was away on some business trip, and Pierce was the only man who could stand Goran for more than ten minutes. "I'll drive you home."
TWO
Birkoff lived in a small apartment (if one could call it that) in one of the poorest districts in the area. Noah had to choke the information out of Jim, the human resource officer of the rival company Hijack -- he would probably be sued for Jim by next week.
In his mind he had imagined scenes of this very moment. He would have liked Birkoff to go down on his knees and beg Noah to spare his life. Somehow things would get shady here and Birkoff would end up with his head between Noah's thighs, lustily sucking his penis. Even now, Noah's blood was humming at that possible scenario. Maybe he would just push Birkoff down and unzip his pants first, to hell with talk.
His cock was hard, not surprising, as he had always been sexually attracted to Birkoff. When he knocked on the door and Birkoff answered warily fifteen minutes later, he was tempted to risk fate with his hands curled into fists to do just that -- push Birkoff down on his knees and order that man to fellate him.
But the sight of Birkoff threw him off. He had forgotten, how could he forget? The same round baby face, the beautiful crew cut that always gave Noah a reason to run his hand over Birkoff's head, those cold, cold eyes hidden always behind those dark-tinted glasses (Birkoff's sole concession to luxury)... Noah felt his heart break.
"Noah," Birkoff said.
Then he made to slam the door shut. Noah anticipated the movie, however, pushing his hand into the way. He didn't even feel the pain or hear the painful crack of his fingers jammed in the forcefully slammed shut door. Not when he was hurting in unbearable agony inside.
"Please, don't."
"The pathetic look don't work with me," Noah said, somewhat surprised he could still speak above the thundering of his heart. Every sense of his was humming, focused on nothing but Birkoff alone. It was crazy, but he felt at peace for the first time in his life at this very moment.
"What do you want?" Birkoff asked, a tremor in his voice.
"My friend was admitted to intensive care tonight. I don't know if he will die or live."
Birkoff jerked as if he was given a staggering blow in his gut. "Why do you care?"
How he knew Noah so well. Noah grinned savagely. "I care, Birkoff. I'm human too."
Birkoff shook his head, his expression sneering disbelief, but he slowly, hesitantly pulled the door open wider. "Why are you here?" he asked again.
"I just need to see you," Noah said honestly. "It's been a long night." And a longer five years. "I don't think I can bear being alone anymore." He looked at Birkoff's face. At the surface, the young man seemed expressionless, emotionless as usual, but Noah knew from the other man's faster rise and fall of his chest and the way the man's fingers tightened around the door -- Noah knew Birkoff understood.
"You tried to kill me. You would have left me for dead if the cops didn't come."
"You are about to sell me out. You will ruin me and everything I have."
Birkoff had the decency to look away at least. Noah pushed the door completely open wide and walked into Birkoff's sanctuary, noting in satisfaction Birkoff's stepping back in fear. "That's not why I shot you," he told the man as he threw off his jacket. Birkoff didn't ask, but Noah continued nonetheless. "I trusted you, Birkoff, and I would have given you the world if you would only ask."
"And that is why I wanted you out of my life," Birkoff said finally. "Your price is too much for me."
"Is it?"
"I saw the bottle of expensive champagne that night, and the look in your eyes. You want me, you always have, and damn it, and I know you would want me to spread my legs for you. And I would say yes, fuck it, because I couldn't say no to you." Birkoff took a long, heaving breath. "I am always so weak. Fuck, I'm so tired."
"I know," Noah said quietly. "I know."
Birkoff looked at Noah with pain in his eyes. "You want to fuck me still?"
Yes. "We are right for each other," Noah said simply.
Birkoff fell heavily onto his chair. "Two stone-cold reptiles pretending to be human, like you always say."
His resignation often mirrored Noah's as the latter look in the mirror every morning. Now, Noah only said, "You say it as if it's such a bad thing." Funny, his own cold anguish felt trivial at this moment. Maybe not funny, as he knew long ago the key to his salvation. "Did you ever miss me all these years?"
"I tried to ruin you."
"I tried to kill you." Noah shrugged. "You should know more than most, Birkoff, that your betrayal means nothing to me. Not after what I did to you in payback."
Birkoff cursed and turned away. "Get out."
Noah only placed his hands at each side of the armrest and lowered his face until his lips were inches away from Birkoff's dry lips. "You sure?" he asked, and grazed his lips across Birkoff's, letting the tip of his tongue run slowly along the curves of Birkoff's lower lip, moistening it. He felt the man shiver despite himself, and let his tongue tease the man's lips, tracing the man's lips with his tongue, letting his fingers run along Birkoff's neck, tracing the gentle curve, and along the man's shoulder blades. "We can stop feeling like ghosts tonight."
"Damn you," Birkoff said again, choking in his weakness. But the lull of forgetfulness from the bleak cold loneliness and the perpetual fear of wide, open spaces and loss of safe shelter was a siren call. He found himself in Noah's arms, his own tongue sinuously rubbing and tasting Noah's, and his own hands found life of their own, running and touching until his senses burned at the contact with Noah's bare skin.
Tonight, just tonight.
Noah's triumph was reflected savagely in his grin and in the gleam of his dark brown eyes. Then he lowered his head and Birkoff felt the man's tongue on his nipple -- how did his shirt get opened? -- Birkoff closed his eyes as unwanted memories wash over him.
Noah, his savior, his one friend, who risked his own hide to stop Birkoff from being trashed by some bullies when they were in another life. Eight-year old Birkoff had thought the sixteen-year old boy a god, and even now, when he still resented deeply Noah's hold over him, he couldn't forget Noah's saving him, sheltering him, and -- fuck, Noah knew him too well and Birkoff never had to pretend in his presence.
Hence, resentment, anger, and hatred at this man whom he relied so much for strength warred with love, yes, love, fuck it, love for this man whom Birkoff knew was probably the only man in this world who could come close to loving him back. Yet, yet, now, as Noah's lips and tongue teased every inch of his skin, he didn't know where top ended and bottom began.
"Oh Noah, please..." Please what? Stop? Don't stop? He didn't know.
The pain of penetration was like a rude ripping shock through his being. He cried as Noah's cock forged through his anal passage, tearing him open in a way he hadn't felt in too long. And Noah was there, as always when Birkoff was in pain, his lips comforting him and his shaky tenor reassuring Birkoff that the world was safe, and everything was okay.
Something shattered in Birkoff at that moment. Warmth, unfamiliar bursts of warm heat suffused through every inch of his body and maybe soul too, and Birkoff thought this was paradise, this nexus of ephemeral sensations. And ironically -- or maybe not -- he burst into tears, broken harsh sobs that seemed to come from the very soul he never even knew he had.
THREE
Noah didn't fuck him. He couldn't. He looked at the weeping Birkoff helplessly, his fast wilting cock still embedded deep in Birkoff, as strange and frightening feelings wash over him. In the end, he just held the man, letting Birkoff's tears rain on his shirt like drops from a baptism.
"Don't cry," he said awkwardly, a stranger to tender moments and unable to pretend sympathy now. Not now when his nerves were raw. All lust had left him, to be supplanted by an even more terrifying emotion -- he didn't know what it was, but he suspected its nature.
"I'm not crying," Birkoff said in harsh heaves.
"Breathe steady," Noah said, finally lifting Birkoff into his arms. "I won't drop you," he said when Birkoff started to protest.
"I know, and I hated you for it."
"Do you still?" Noah asked gently.
"I don't know, fuck you!"
Noah grinned, this time a real grin. Trust Birkoff to understand that Noah was experiencing this strange confusion, and trust Birkoff to share the feeling with him. How could there be another man like Birkoff, who was Noah's other half. Together, they made a complete person where they were only a hollow shell alone. Noah knew that now, and he wasn't sure if he liked this implication of weakness on his part. But ah, Birkoff was in this with him. Could anyone blame him for grinning like this?
He looked around for Birkoff's bed, but saw only a worn mattress, and sighed. Birkoff, dear Birkoff, never threw anything away if he could help it, and Noah always had to be the one to throw away old junk when they lived together. Here, alone, Birkoff let everything from newspapers to magazines to old pizza boxes to pile up like a junkyard. The only sign that this hovel was being lived in was the (relatively) organized computer desktop and the remnants of dinner around the mattress.
"You need someone to take care of you," Noah said in a tenderness that surprised even he. Moisture on his cheeks staggered him -- he was actually crying. Not in grief though.
Birkoff only sighed softly, and Noah looked down, bemused when he found the man already asleep. Birkoff was thin and tightly muscled (had he kept up his running regime that Noah introduced him to?) but he was barely a burden in Noah's arms. Still, Noah gently placed Birkoff on that smelly, rotten mattress, and watched as Birkoff instinctively curled into a fetal huddle.
Birkoff against the world, wary, weak, and tired. Noah had seen him charm teachers that caught him cheating -- Matthew Ferguson looked so innocent, he couldn't cheat! -- and bedazzled bullies and laughing peers into tolerating him by playing the fool. While Noah preferred the solitude of his library and computer, Birkoff wanted to be accepted so desperately that he still bore scars from his failure. At fifteen and already a computer prodigy, Birkoff suffered one last public humiliation from his schoolmates, one he never recovered from, and retreated from the world in a haze of depression. It was Noah, who was halfway to seeing Birkoff as another lost soul like he, who proposed to Birkoff that they rule the world, starting with Courtetron. With their technical skills, they could be on top at last.
What went wrong that time? Noah watched Birkoff sleep and rubbed his own face wearily, cursing when his whiskers burned his palm. Weariness washed over him, forcing him to acknowledge that he hadn't slept in forty-one hours. Finally, he slept, but not before telling himself that this time, he would do things right.
Sunlight on his skin gently roused Noah from his sleep. A dreamless sleep, and a pleasant waking up -- he could swear his life was slowly turning into a schmaltzy greeting card moment. Shit, what was the time? He needed to be at his office. Where the fuck was he anyway -- Birkoff, oh yes, Birkoff. He looked around him -- Jesus, this hovel looked worse in daylight -- where the fuck was Birkoff?
As if he heard Noah's mental outcry, Birkoff emerged from a door half-hidden by a high stack of newspapers, showing signs of freshly coming out of a shower. He saw Noah, and froze.
"Hi," Noah said.
"Hi. Are you going to go?"
"Yeah, I have to be at the office. First I have to go home and clean up -- fuck, it's a long drive." Noah stretched and winced as his muscles protested.
"Okay." Birkoff tried to smile but failed. "Are you coming back?"
"That depends. You want me to come back?"
The brief moment of connecting with someone, no matter how brief, was an euphoric luxury, and the promise of another moment, impossible to turn down. "Okay," Birkoff said with deceptive nonchalance -- inside, he was feeling as if he had just jumped off a precipice with no parachutes. For a man who craved security and status quo to the point of mad obsession, this was a deviant behavior for him.
But for Noah, an insidious inner voice told him, maybe anything was worth it.
"Don't die." Marc Blucas looked at the comatose man lying on the bed. "You hear me, Brian? You can't die. I won't let you."
Noah stepped back from the doorway of the ward. Maybe he shouldn't eavesdrop, but he couldn't help it -- he was intrigued by Marc's seemingly passionate ties to the man at the brink of death in the bed. Even now, when the doctors were resigned, Marc was still reluctant to accept their pronunciation.
"If you die -- " Marc's voice began to break. He staggered, still weak from his own injuries, and placed his hands against the railings of the bed to steady himself. "If you die, I'll have to follow you. Because I have no idea how to live a life without you. Oh, I know, you'll tell me I'm being stupid, and I probably will move on after you're gone, but damn it, I don't want to. I don't think I can.
"Damn it, are you listening to me?" Marc's voice was breaking in his pitched emotional state. "Fuck you, Brian, for doing this to me. I love you, and I will definitely follow you if you leave me. I can't sleep last night, Brian, because I can't accept a life without you. Bleak, cold, and fucking lonely. I'll miss your smile, your laugh, and your crazy optimism." He ran his shaking hand along Brian's cheek. "Who will call me the last idiot Boy Scout of New York? Maybe I can find someone else, but he will be a pale shadow to you. I have loved you for eleven years, and I don't just stop loving after that long a period.
"So what say you, Brian? Shall we make a deal? You die, I will too, and I know how you hate seeing me hurt. So you better fucking live, you understand me? Live, damn it, live!"
Marc closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Noah released his and started to walk into the ward. But Marc's seeming calm was deceptive, for the man then lost control and broke down.
Noah walked away then without another look back. Love -- what a joke, he thought savagely as he tossed the bouquet of flowers he'd bought Brian into a wastebasket. Fuck love. He didn't want that.
Yet... yet he found himself willing to give his very soul for a taste of what Marc had with Brian.
"Marry me."
Birkoff looked up from his computer, startled. "Can't you knock?" he asked stupidly.
Noah had broken down his door with one mighty kick. Birkoff started; he had never seen Noah in such an agitated state, a genuine agitated state. Birkoff knew Noah well enough to know that Noah was not faking this emotion, as much as Noah would know if Birkoff was faking his.
"Marry me. Love me. Please." Noah got down on his knees at the doorway, his face revealing his bewilderment and urgency.
"But -- " Birkoff didn't know what to say. Love? He and Noah in love? A stupefying, if not impossible thought. "You're crazy."
"Yes I am, but I am feeling much, much, fucking better than I ever had in my life. Come on, Birkoff -- say yes. We'll move into my house, or I'll build you the house you want, and we'll do our fucking best to behave like old married queens." Noah looked at Birkoff with a stupid grin on his face. "Birkoff, trust me, this may be the best mistake of our lives."
"Oprah said a relationship without trust is useless," Birkoff said.
Noah stood up then and sighed as he dusted the knees of his pants. "Okay, let's do this. I know you are one fucking treacherous bastard when it comes to your enemies. Am I your enemy? Do you still hate me for your codependency?"
"I -- "
Noah pulled out a gun from the inside of his jacket.
"Noah!"
"The same gun I shot you with. Take it. Shoot me now. Or not. I don't care. I think -- I'm positively almost certain sure I love you. I don't mind dying now, because you know why? These few days, after seeing you, I am no longer a ghost. I feel! I'm human. I can die without regrets now."
Birkoff looked at Noah's radiant face, and oh, bitter envy ate him. He wanted what Noah was feeling.
"Take the gun," Noah said. A command now.
Birkoff took it, his hand shaking only slightly. He looked at it, and without thinking, pointed it at Noah. It would be so easy to pull the trigger, and he would be safe again. Back in the world so bleak and cold, it seemed perpetual night in his life.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Noah looked uncaring, only -- damn that man -- happy. How could such an overused adjective have so much meaning when it came to Noah?
Birkoff sighed and his fingers slacked, the gun falling onto the dirty carpet with a soft thud. "You're crazy. I can't do this. Shit, I can't think." He ran his hands over his face, an exact mirror to Noah's behavior when the latter was confused or exhausted. "You think we can do this?"
"Why not? We have done everything else."
Noah had a point. Birkoff didn't have to answer that, for Noah had already sensed his acceptance. He couldn't answer anyway, for Noah's lips were already over his, and he could only let Noah's tongue in.
Noah took him there and then. Birkoff could only push his pants off before Noah was on him, his erection pushing up Birkoff's anus even as they tore at each other's shirt. And this time they actually had an orgasm -- okay, three -- before Birkoff could finally say aloud, "Okay."
"Will he live?" Birkoff asked softly.
Noah looked at Brian, peaceful in his cursed repose, and Marc, as always, sitting beside Brian. Only in his exhaustion, Marc was asleep, with his upper body slumped forward to rest on Brian's bed. Poor Marc -- his lips were colorless and his boyishly earnest face was sunken in his grief. It seemed almost cruel to feel so high when someone else was dying inside from despair.
"I don't know," Noah answered back softly in a whisper. "The doctors aren't holding out for much. Brain hemorrhage -- Brian's in a really bad shape."
Birkoff looked at Marc and Brian, at the way Marc's fingers were entwined with Brian's unfeeling ones, as if Marc was so afraid to let Brian loose for fear that the latter would slip away out of his reach for good. When he placed his head on Noah's arm, Noah pressed his fingers around Birkoff's arm reassuringly.
"I envy them," Birkoff said.
"Yeah I know."
"You think we'll ever be like that?"
Noah looked at the other man's eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, yet all but hidden from him. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But it's not impossible."
"Yeah." Birkoff smiled his rare smile then.
Together they left the room in silence.