Work Text:
Sunlight peaked lazily through the windows; illuminating the room with bright spring sunrays and warming generously all two of its occupants. Dorian and Basil sat languidly in the warmth, sipping chilled tea and talking idly to each other on the leather chesterfield. An oak grandfather clock ticked quietly from the shadows, just out of reach of the ravening light that continued to swallow up the room the more morning that passed. The easel in the centre of the room basked proudly in the sun. It housed a canvas thick with opulent paints, placed with evident intention to replicate with perfection the golden-haired angel laying placid on the sofa; and it was doing a very fine job of it.
Dorian smirked. It was a very handsome painting if he was to say so himself. Like looking into a mirror of rich pigment and careful brushstrokes; it imitated his charm to a tee. The grandiose, sweeping sense of awe his appearance encompassed captured forever on the canvas drying lordly in the heart of the studio.
Beautiful.
Basil was a grand talent.
Speaking of Basil, Dorian turned his head towards the other side of the Chesterfield.
Basil caught Dorian’s saxe eyes with his own darker ones and immediately, with a deep flush pullulating rapidly across his face, he turned his head away to stare at the other Dorian across the room with a precipitous, potent absorption. The perturbation characterising his expression could be read easily. It did not go unnoticed by Dorian.
‘What’s the matter with you Basil?’
Basil’s face somehow reddened even further. He reached out for his tea on the coffee table -his hand trembling, Dorian noted silently- and took a long drawn out sip; then placing the cup down ever so carefully and clearing his throat with a cursory cough before replying. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Dorian dear, do you think I’m ill?’ He straightened his posture, but remained staring intently at the portrait. ‘I assure you I’m perfectly well.’
‘Really? But you’re so flushed! Are you sure you don’t have a temperature? I can feel the heat coming off you in waves! Tell me, Basil, has the sun been sitting for you lately?’ With the end of his quip Dorian sat up on the sofa and leaned towards Basil, a simper forming proudly on his face. Basil, who had now turned redder than red itself, and thought it necessary to cover this image with his pale hands, tilted away from Dorian, his back plastered against the arm of the chesterfield as he huddled in on himself in consternation.
‘You jest!’ he cried, the horror on his face poking through the gaps between his fingers.
Dorian guffawed at his friend’s acute reaction. Leaning back to his former position, he decided to show the painter some humanity, and waited patiently for him to calm down.
Basil took a moment for himself; breathing in the spring air, exhaling with an impassionate sigh and withdrawing his hands from his face, which was still bright with embarrassment. He wiped wet eyes with still quivering hands.
‘I assure you there have been no such meetings,’ Basil mumbled, voice quavering.
‘Hm, I can’t say I believe you’ Dorian sighed, feigning despondency.
‘Oh Dorian!’ Basil cried once more. ‘How you torment me!’ He flung himself back onto the sofa, hands returning to his face.
‘And how you worry me!’ Was the rejoinder he was met with. ‘You’ve just been so red and ever so panicked.’ Dorian paused for a moment, then began to slither across the chesterfield towards Basil; his eyes glowing with an ardent determination. Basil watched, frozen with trepidation, as Dorian pressed forward. He crawled up to him, grinning wolfishly until his lithe body was pressed against Basil’s. For a prodigious moment of time the two sat staring at each other. Dorian reached out and tucked a stray coal strand back into its usual place behind Basils ear. His hand came to rest on Basil’s pink cheek, drumming his fingers lightly on the soft skin.
‘What is the matter with you today?’ Dorian hummed quietly, still simpering.
‘You were right,’ Basil shuddered under Dorian’s touch. He placed his calloused hand atop of Dorian’s, whether to still his shaking self or Dorian’s playful touches he never decided. Basil swallowed thickly. ‘The sun has been sitting for me, Dorian dear-’
‘Oh, has it now?’
‘Yes, indeed. I’m afraid that, over the past few weeks, you -Dorian my love- have become an increasingly central part of all my artistic endeavours. Your presence distracts me deeply. I feel as if when you are near, my mind, my soul, is drawn to you by some force out of my control, and I am removed completely from my paints and my brushes to be entranced by your light and your warmth. Oh! what a distraction you have become that even in your absence I’m ruled by a fascination of you. Without you a biting cold permeates me, and a chilling pallor taints my figure. When you leave my studio after our sessions each day my paintings become cold and sombre; marred tragically by your departure until our next meeting, during which they then glow happily for you until you leave us once more. This cycle of day and night is commanded by you and only you, Dorian. Surely you must be conscious of your domination over me, tell me are you aware of how I depend on you to warm my days. You light my life Dorian. You are my sun.’
With the end of his confession, Basil leaned into Dorian boldly who, in return, swept towards his companion with an unmatched self-assurance that only Dorian Gray could possess in that moment. Their lips met in the middle, Dorian still cupping Basils cheek tenderly and they shared a short, but indulgent kiss. In the moments after the kiss the pair remained admiring each other; Foreheads pressed together, breathing in the same perfumed spring air, smiling in merriment.
‘Are you sure I’m the sun to solely your artistic endeavours?’ Dorian teased gently once more.
‘Perhaps not.’ Basil sighed.