Chapter Text
Basil Hallward is dead.
Or at least, he is dying—and he thinks, as the echoed spatter of blood shimmers behind his closed eyelids, that the pain lies not in the fall, but in the landing. He is dying, yes, but that is not the source of his pain.
He is dying, and Dorian holds the knife.
He wonders, vaguely, what would have happened had he done something else. Refused to enter the room with Dorian, or tried harder to make him see reason, or perhaps even run—but no, he could never run, not even if he tried. Not even if Dorian made no move to chase him.
Basil Hallward is dying.
He does not have time for any last thought, or at least not in the commonly accepted sense of it, unless one counts the image that flashes in his fading mind's eye—Dorian, sweet beautiful Dorian, with his golden hair and his sculpted features, his perfect lips parted slightly in a bashful smile. A smile that widens, to reveal the teeth of a rotting skull—the scarred and grayish skin of a corpse, the cruel eyes of a monster.
The two Dorians linger, and he feels the pain drain from him, the sensation of his own blood on his back trickle away.
Pause.
Breathe.
Flip backwards; repeat.
Basil Hallward is dead.
Or he thinks he is, until he wakes with a start to the warm press of fingers against his forehead, and the soft call of his name.
"Basil?" says the voice, only it can't be, it surely must be impossible, for it holds none of the fury, the spite, the weight of years accumulated behind a mask. "Basil, my friend, you are awake! Thank God; I feared I might never hear your voice again! Tell me, how do you feel?"
He blinks, and the face comes into view; perfect as always, with only a single lock of gold-spun hair astray, and pure concern in those glimmering eyes.
"Dorian?" he rasps.
The young man in question breaks out into a smile, and he cannot help the twist in his chest at the sight. Such a marker of innocence—but he knows Dorian's innocence is a farce, and now the haze of confusion is thick in his mind, unwieldy.
"Basil, my dear, can you stand? You were only out for a scant few minutes, but I fear you may be growing ill." There is no underlying current of malice, only concern.
He stumbles to his feet. Dorian braces his shoulder with one arm, and he flinches instinctively, reminded of the attic—Dorian, the painting, and the knife that had come out of nowhere—
But he is not in the attic. He looks around, and recognizes his own studio, in perfect replica of years before—many years before.
Just as Dorian is. Not a hollow mask, a desperate cling to physical youth; this, he realizes, is Dorian before his fall, Dorian before . . .
The painting. He whips around, nearly falls again on the sofa he'd collapsed against. There, across the room, is the painting, resting serenely on a wooden easel with his paints scattered around it; half-finished, but still encapsulating Dorian in all his glowing beauty, his curves and lines and angles.
"What . . . happened?" he manages.
Dorian shakes his head. A faint crease appears between his brows, but vanishes quickly. "You fainted, Basil. Mid-stroke, although your painting seems unharmed."
So much the worse, he thinks gravely, but does not voice the thought. "I am quite all right now," he says, unsteadily, but Dorian does not release his grip on him, as though afraid he might shatter to pieces like a fragile work of glass. Perhaps he will. "But I . . . I do not think I can bring myself to paint any longer today."
"I understand," Dorian assures him. "Another time. Shall we call Victor and have him prepare you some tea? I do hope you aren't ill."
"I only need rest, Dorian." The lie trips its way up his throat, and tastes heavy and bitter between his teeth.
Basil Hallward does not only need rest.
Basil Hallward is dead.
And he has, he realizes, glancing out the window at the softly swaying roses, the glimmer of the sun so familiar, and yet so foreign—he has, somehow, slipped backwards in time.