"I love you," he says. Those dark blue eyes I adore so much were glistening with tears he refused to shed in front of me. No. He never would. He was far too proud for that. He took a step towards me, slipping his hand under my chin and pulling my face to his. "And I know you love me too." He leaned in, I could feel those lips nearly brush against mine.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Those moments flashed before my eyes: my attempts to cook, his attempts to sweet talk me into bed, my attempts to make him less rigid, his attempts to control. I opened my eyes, and put my hand over his mouth, blocking them from kissing me. "I don't," I lied. I stared him right in the eyes. He would have never guessed I was such an amazing liar.

He backed away. In an instant, that pleading look in his eyes was gone. The warmth of his skin disappeared. That awkward smile on his lips became a straight line. His love died. "Get out," he said, not a trace of emotion in his voice.

I got up, holding my head up high. I walked past him. He grabbed my arm. For a moment, my heart nearly jumped. He would forgive me. He would forget what had happened. He'd pick me up and we would go to his bed. I'd do anything he said, forget every doubt I had, if he just said stay.

He slipped a ten dollar bill into my pocket. "Thanks for your time," he whispered. I ran.

Raywell "Raye" Mans. Heir to a fortune from his father, a deceased politician. A child prodigy, graduating high school at the tender age of 13. An artist, only 21 and painting things those stuffy art critics compared to Degas and Monet. A handsome young man, with straight black hair, steel blue eyes, strong nose, firm jaw line, impressive height and rather admirable physique. An eligible bachelor.

Basically, a bored human being.

Or maybe I'm just boring, he thought. He was repeatedly told by the few close acquaintances he had that he had a dry personality. He had a dull, though sometimes dark sense of humour. He was no-nonsense. He liked routine. Nothing wrong with a little order, right? As his usual morning went, he got up, showered, changed into his dress pants and white collared shirt, and read his morning paper while eating his plain cereal. He skipped straight to the Art section.

Interesting. His eyes were focused on the portrait prominently featured in the day's Newcomers of Interest column. The picture was simple enough. A tree. The tree was painted with what looked like spray paint. No clean lines, only curves and overlapping colours. It reminded him of graffiti in the alleys he sometimes went through to get to his studio. Except there's something so professional about it. It definitely isn't an amateur. Like his...

His mind floated away, and he looked over to his living room. He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he saw him: a tall, lanky boy curled up like a cat on his couch. His light brown hair was fine and soft, falling over the ivory skin and rosy cheeks of his face. He always had the irritating habit of wearing a pair of boxers and one of Raye's collared shirts to bed. The shirt was sliding off one of his shoulders, showing off more ivory skin.

Raye stared intensely. En queue, the boy sat up, unwinding his long ivory legs. He stared back at Raye, mischievousness dancing in his light brown eyes. With a hint of annoyance in his voice he said, "Stop staring at me."

"There's a bed, you know. Take a nap there," Raye replied, grumbling.

The boy got up, walking to him. "Are we grumpy, hmm?"

"No," Raye replied curtly.

The boy threw his arms over Raye's shoulders, around his neck. He leaned in, softly brushing his pale chapped lips over Raye's smooth ones. "Let's make you feel better," he said, his voice thick like honey.

Raye closed his eyes. He opened them again. The boy was gone. He stared at the blank space in front of him. His eyes darkened. He swiped the glass of juice and the bowl of dry cereal off the table; they smashed to bits onto the floor. As always, you make me do something I shouldn't do. He got up, dropping his paper to the floor. He grabbed his keys off the table and walked over to the door, digging his heel into the picture of the portrait of the tree. He left for his studio.

His studio was busy, which he resented. Nothing irritated Raye more than his rep having coffee in his place of refuge, yapping loudly on the phone. Behind his rep was a middle aged woman. She was much past her prime, but seemed to enjoy wearing unflattering short skirt, low cut blouses, too-tight blazers and rather hideous stilettos. She eyed Raye and the bored look in her eyes became flirtatious. She tried her best to seductively walk to him; Raye scrunched his nose. She pursed together her Pepto-pink lips and held out her hand. "Agatha Martins, pleased to meet you. You must be—"

"RAYE!" his rep hung up on whoever he was speaking to. The tiny man got up to his feet. Raye noted how the light bounced off the man's shiny bald head, and how it contrasted with the black fringe he still had. An idea for a new painting? Nah, only if I were really on the verge of suicide. Or if I was trying to convince someone I was crazy.

"I gave you the keys of my studio in case of emergencies, not so you could entertain," Raye said, motioning to Agatha. He knew his rep had a fondness for easy and cheap women. He didn't really mind, unless his rep brought those women to his studio. This is a place for creation, not a motel, he thought, fuming.

"Agatha here isn't entertainment. She's the owner of La Apprecie. And guess whose artwork she wants featured at her opening gala?" His rep's smile was wide, from ear to ear.

"How many paintings do you need?" Raye asked the woman.

"Preferably 7 or 8. I want yours to be featured alongside my newcomer's."

"Newcomer?"

"Yeah. Cute little puppy. Well, not so little, he's quite tall. But he's gorgeous." Agatha's eyes shone as she gushed on.

"Can I see some of his work?"

"Oh, you probably saw it in the paper. I really want to get his name out there."

"Ah, yes."

"If you're curious, I can set up a lunch. You, me and my newcomer."

Just what I always wanted, he thought. Politely, he said, "I really do have a busy schedule."

Agatha smiled sweetly. "Surely you need to eat."

"It's faster to cook."

"But it's fun to eat in groups."

"I prefer to eat alone."

She ground her teeth. "It's rude to turn down an invitation."

A glare from his rep told Raye he had no choice in the matter. "Ok. When and where?"

She grinned at Raye's defeat. "How about tomorrow, around 1 pm? How does Ristorante Villa sound?"

"Fine." Just fine, he thought a little bitterly.

Night came. Raye lay back in his bed, Maybe if I leave my hair soaked, I'll get sick. Then I won't go. He closed his eyes.

"You always think of plans that you never go through," came that thickly sweet voice.

He opened his eyes again. There he was, lying beside him, wearing Raye's bathrobe. He reached out to touch his hair. It felt soft, smelled rather nice. "Don't criticize me."

"Silly Raye, always getting mad. Can't you take a joke?"

"Shut up."

The boy moved closer to him, sliding his fingers along Raye's chest. He whispered softly in his ear, "You'll never be happy with an attitude like that."

"Shut up. I hate it when you talk."

"Because I tell you what you hate to hear."

Raye pulled the boy close, keeping his head against his chest. He kissed the boy's hair. "You never lie to me. I hate that. I hate that you tell me things I don't want to hear. I hate you." He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the boy was gone. He put a hand over his eyes, to hide his tears. I hate you, Sol. I wish you would die.

Raye sipped the tea he ordered while he waited for Agatha and her newcomer. He checked his watch. Late. Women must really be genetically programmed to always be late. He took another sip. He had a feeling this newcomer might be young. Maybe his suit was too formal? What should I care. If he's sloppy, maybe he'll take a hint.

Then he saw Agatha, walking towards him. That's the exact same outfit, except in purple. He got up to pull out her chair. "Oh my, such a gentleman, Raye." She bat her eyelids.

"You're welcome. And the newcomer?"

"Oh he'll be here shortly. Did you order?"

"Yes." He waved the waiter over.

"Espresso, please," Agatha ordered, waving the waiter away. She unfolded her napkin, accidentally dropping it on the floor. "Oh no," she cried. She leaned down, her cleavage overflowing out of her shirt.

No, that's not obvious at all. Raye looked away, focusing instead on the tomato vines hanging along the iron fence of the restaurant. That would make a nice painting, he thought.

"Sorry I'm late."

Raye quickly turned towards that honey-thick voice. Standing before him was a tall, lanky young man dressed in some loose fitting slacks, a t-shirt and a pair of leather-like suspenders. He had a page boy hat on, with tufts of soft light brown hair poking out. He had probably run there, as his cheeks were flushed brightly, contrasting against the ivory of his skin. His light brown eyes were opened wide as he stared at Raye, lips trembling.

Raye got up. His kept a piercing gaze on the young man, wanting to intimidate him. He held out his hand. "Raywell Mans. Pleased to meet you."

The young man held out a shaky hand. "S..Soleil." He shook Raye's hand, wincing at the crushing power of his handshake.

"Pleasure to meet you." Raye let go, taking a sit.

Agatha huffed; she was not amused at being ignored. "You're even later than I was, Sol."

"Ah, yeah. Sorry." Sol sat down. He looked down, clutching his hand. Good thing I don't bruise easy, he thought.

The waiter came over again. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

"Oh, um—" Sol began.

"Chocolate milk?" Raye suggested.

"Y-yeah," Sol looked to the waiter. "A glass of chocolate milk, please."

The waiter went off. Agatha turned to Raye. "So this is Sol, my newcomer. At the gala I want your work to highlight the others."

"I don't work in teams," Raye spat. He glanced at Sol. Little bastard. Look at him, all dressed up.

"Excuse me, I'm just going to the washroom." Sol got up and made a quick exit to the washrooms.

Raye followed him with his eyes. He waited. Just as Agatha was about to say something, he quickly excused himself and headed for the washrooms.

Sol threw some cold water onto his face. It's Raye. No way. It's him. He stared in the mirror. I felt happy. Until I remembered he hates me. He splashed more water on his face.

"Feeling uneasy?"

Sol looked up. Raye was standing by the washroom door, turning the lock on it. "What the Hell..."

"So how have you been all these years? Well? I see those ten dollars I gave you took you far."

Sol looked away. "I know you're upset, Raye. I—"

"Or maybe it took you to someone else's bed, hmm?" Raye slipped a hand under Sol's chin, forcing Sol to look at him. "You must be really pleasing him, he's treating you very well."

Sol smacked his hand away. "That's enough Raye."

"What nice clothes." He leaned in, sniffing Sol. "Expensive cologne. Is that an ear piercing? My, you're being pampered well. If you had just said in the first place that you wanted to be taken care of, I would have given you the same. You wouldn't have to be screwing around with some old bastard."

Sol swung his fist, connecting it with Raye's jaw. Raye moved back, lip bleeding. "I said enough." The hardened look in Raye's eyes softened. His eyes were glistening with tears. Immediately, Sol went to him. "Hey. I didn't hit you that hard, did I?" He touched Raye's bleeding lip.

Without warning, Raye grabbed Sol by the hair and pulled his face close. He pressed his lips against Sol's, kissing him almost violently. Sol struggled to pull away, but Raye wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping his body pressed close. Sol ceased to struggle. He closed his eyes and kissed Raye back.

Blood and tears. I should have known. It was a sign, of everything to come.

Raye, you hate me don't you?

Raye, you should hate me.

Raye, I lied.

Raye, I love you.