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“Are you quite finished, Basil?”
It had been some time since they had started. Though Dorian had at first insisted vehemently against further portraits of himself, he had seen something in the twist of Basil’s lip, the furrow of his brow, which had tugged at some hidden scrap of soul left within him. He’d hesitate to call it his conscience, though a brief thought of that wretched sneer of cruelty immortalised on his painted face had certainly had no small amount of influence on his decision.
He simply could not stand to be cruel to Basil.
And so he had dedicated an afternoon to Basil’s company, a small thing, perhaps, in the face of a youthful eternity, but that had not lessened Basil’s smile and kind thanks at hearing he might once again take Dorian as his subject. Nor indeed had it lessened the warmth that had blossomed in Dorian’s chest, blooming and unfurling like a flower in the sunshine of Basil’s smile.
And so Dorian had been sitting in Basil’s garden, watching his dear friend’s face, blushing to feel such intense focus on himself even after all this time, and tracing the slow but sure path of the sun as it meandered across the sky.
Basil seemed not to have noticed how the shadows had begun to lengthen and creep across the lawn, casting such odd shapes on the grass, like twisted and lifeless parodies of his garden’s stunning blossoms.
Basil also seemed not to have noticed Dorian’s question.
“I grow tired of sitting, Basil. Can we not finish now? The afternoon grows old and I am to meet with Lord Henry this evening.”
This succeeded in pulling Basil from his reverie, though his eyes did not quite focus, drifting vaguely from canvas to subject as if in awe.
“Forgive me Dorian, but you seemed so reluctant to sit for me again last time we spoke. Your letter surprised me, and indeed I had prepared myself to never paint your likeness again, at least not from any more than my own memory. I know you are weary and bored of my company, dull that it is, but I have only a little left to paint. The garden is not finished, but of course I have little fear of that ever becoming an unwilling subject of my art!”
“I do not find your company dull.” Basil started slightly at the admission, and indeed Dorian himself did not quite know why he had said it.
“Then you should have no quarrel with remaining here for a few minutes more.” The attempt at a joke sounded more like a plea, though a plea for what, exactly, Dorian could not have said.
“Fine, then. I shall sit for the remainder of my portrait, if that is what you want.”
“More than anything, my dear Dorian.”
Pink stained the cheeks of both men, and each quietly prayed that the other might not notice.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t simply take a rest for now and return to it some other time. Certainly you have taken no issue with that in the past, and the light grows dim. Surely we would be better suited to continue this at a later date. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Truthfully Dorian, I fear your fickle whims. You changed your mind so suddenly, what is to stop you from changing it again? No, I must cherish each moment with you as though it were my last, for each one is as precious – more precious, even – than a thousand years spent in the company of others. Truthfully, Dorian, I fear losing you. Is it selfish of me to ask you to stay?”
“Anything selfless is not worth doing, for what joy is there in that which does not delight you? There is a beauty in selfishness. Men are so afraid of their own desires, selfishness represents a freedom from fear that few can attain.”
Basil set his brush down harshly. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because those words are not your own. It pains me to hear you sound so much like Lord Henry.”
“Lord Henry is a good man-”
“A good man he may be, but he is his own man, as you should be. Do not allow others to feed you thoughts and feelings as though they were your own, no matter how sweet they may taste.”
The pair fell silent, neither feeling that the conversation had come to a satisfactory conclusion, yet neither daring to break the tentative silence between them.
Dorian considered the man in front of him. He had thought, once, that Basil might have saved him, might have kept him good and helped smooth the cruelty from the lip of that damned portrait. This man in front of him had so lovingly and carelessly changed Dorian’s life with each brushstroke, could he not change it again for the better? A painting cannot be unpainted, but perhaps it can be repainted, restored once again to a youthful glory.
Pretty thoughts, but Dorian had been afraid to confess, to reveal to Basil his corruption and shatter that perfect image of him that lived in Basil’s mind. He had had no such fears, it seemed, and Dorian was still reeling from Basil’s own confession, even days later. Basil deserved to know the truth, to know that his worship was unwarranted, undeserved.
But Dorian was a coward. He feared Basil’s reaction above all others. Concern, disappointment, disgust. These would not be flattering expressions on Basil’s handsome features, nor would they be flattering to Dorian’s own pride.
So he could not tell Basil his secret. But perhaps there was hope yet? Basil was kind, wonderfully so, and to speak so strongly against Lord Henry’s influence on him? Even without being privy to Dorian’s dark secret, Basil could still keep Dorian right, keep his portrait free from the scars of sin, keep it vulnerable only to the passage of time in a way that Dorian himself no longer was.
After all, had Dorian not held out hope – a spark of passion – that Sybil could save his soul? And yet his feelings for her had been different than those he had for Basil. He had loved her, fully and freely and fervently. How could his feelings for Basil compare to that?
His feelings for Basil… He loved Basil of course. He had never had any difficulty in giving his heart away; he threw love around like petals in the wind. Basil was most dear to him. Where his heart had so swiftly turned from Sybil though; he could not imagine turning from Basil in such a manner. It seemed that there was nothing Basil could do to lose Dorian’s favour.
And oh! How painfully it would ache if Basil should cast Dorian aside as Dorian had done so easily to poor Sybil.
Dorian tilted his head to one side, surveying the artist as he worked. Perhaps his feelings for Basil-
“Oh, you’ve moved your head.”
“Sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment.” He moved his head back to its original position.
“No, that’s not – the light is all wrong. Before, it fell on your curls just so,” he gestured with his paint brush, “and lit them up quite beautifully. If I were a poet I might liken it to fire, or a halo perhaps.”
Dorian shifted his head again, certain that he had gotten it right this time.
“No, that’s still not quite right.” He hesitated, then set his brush down and approached Dorian where he sat.
Soft fingertips brushed gently against Dorian’s chin, and he tilted his head back readily, easily, a willing subject under his artist’s touch. Through half-lidded eyes he watched a soft blush paint itself across Basil’s cheeks.
“Perhaps not a halo,” he murmured, not seeming to realise he was speaking. Dorian dared not interrupt, fearful that he might shatter this fragile moment. “An angel would not be so accepting of a human’s touch. An angel would not be so flawed as to need it.”
“I will accept your touch, Basil, if it is the only thing you will give me. If to need your touch is a flaw, then I could not be farther from perfect in this moment than the devil himself.”
Basil’s palm flattened itself tentatively against Dorian’s cheek, fingers brushing against the hair by his ear.
“Is it selfish to want if I am wanted in return?”
“I would not say so, though perhaps our opinions are biased, what with us being so overwhelmed with want for one another.”
“So you do want me, Dorian?”
“Did I not make myself clear when I begged for your touch?”
“You have made yourself clear before, dear, then changed your mind only moments later. Can you blame me for wanting you clearer?”
“No, Basil, I feel in this moment that I cannot blame you for anything.”
Dorian placed his hand over Basil’s on his cheek, carefully interlocking their fingers. For a moment, it was silent.
“Then you will not blame me for this.”
And Basil’s lips were on his, soft and gentle and warm. Dorian spared a thought for how this might twist the face of his hidden portrait, for surely something so beautiful must be the greatest of sins. Then he pushed forwards, slowly, careful that he might break the kiss, break the tender moment between them and push Basil away. He tangled fingers in his hair and for a moment it was blissfully, achingly flawed.
Then Basil pulled away, a small distance that damn near split Dorian’s heart in two, but he soon returned, resting their foreheads together and smoothing his hands up and down Dorian’s arms almost reverently. He breathed a quiet prayer into the space between them, breath hot on Dorian’s lips.
“Perhaps I do not mind being selfish if it tastes so sweet.”
Dorian chuckled and grabbed Basil’s restless hands, lacing their fingers together and pressing a kiss to each knuckle.
“Don’t be foolish, Basil. To love freely, and be loved in return? There is no more selfless an act of devotion in the world.”
He pressed another kiss to Basil’s lips, revelling in the simple act of worship.
“Though if I am wrong and this is a sin, then I gladly damn myself to hell so long as I might keep you beside me.”