Different Forms of Beauty

Few things in this world made Henry Wotton feel regretful; in fact, before today, there had been only two things that made him regretful, those being accidentally kicking a pet dog, and missing a particularly good play by getting roped into dinner with his Aunt Agatha.

However, today he could add another thing to that list, and that thing was the absolute anguish of one Dorian Gray. It gave him such a pang in his chest...even with the devious plans he had for dominating the young man's mind, Henry couldn't deny the fact that Dorian looked absolutely heartbreaking when he was upset.

"How sad it is!" Dorian was saying, tears brimming in his violet eyes. He was staring with intense unease at the portrait of himself that Basil had just finished, and it appeared to affect him quite physically. The painter, meanwhile, had momentarily shifted his focus from the painting to Henry himself.

"This is your doing, Harry," he groused, narrowing his eyes, his arms folded. Dorian had retired to the divan at this point, burying his face in his arms as muffled sniffles escaped him. "I did tell you not to be so forward with him."

"I only said what was already in the lad's mind," Henry protested casually, raising his hands in his own defense. "You're just being pedantic as usual, Basil." He knew that the upholding of the moral high ground was merely Basil's way and not to be taken seriously on any normal occasion.

"Perhaps so. But all the same, I rather think you ought to take your leave. You've unsettled the poor fellow quite enough for one day." Henry was taken aback. As much as he found Basil's stubborn nature amusing, he'd never seen him this passionate before. "Go on. Given enough time, I'm sure he'll recover from whatever nonsense you've put in his head," Basil continued, taking a couple of steps forward. The underlying sentiment was clear.

"Oh, fine, Basil, fine," Henry said. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of your good nature." Scooping up his hat and stick, he disappeared through the glowing rectangle of the open doorway and into the bright June afternoon. Basil sighed, shaking his head before turning his attention to his young friend, still stretched out on the divan.

"I must apologize for Harry, since it isn't in his nature to apologize for himself," he said, settling on the divan next to him. "I did warn you he'd try to fill your head with useless existential drivel." After a moment of deliberation, he reached out and rested a comforting hand on Dorian's back. The younger man's shoulders tensed briefly.

"You won't still like me when I've withered away, Basil. Not like that painting." Dorian's voice was broken, hoarse; it hurt Basil to hear him so upset. "That painting...it'll always be perfect. Never changing, never aging...the ravages of time will never take it into their cold, decaying fingers." Basil shook his head. Henry really had gotten to him badly.

"My dear Dorian," he began, before pausing, unsure of exactly what to say. At the very least he'd gotten the lad's attention, as a glance downward met one glimmering blue eye. He sighed, letting his hand run back and forth across Dorian's shoulderblades. "My dear Dorian," he began again. "I think you do me a disservice if you think your physical charms are your only virtue or value to me." Dorian turned his head even more, revealing more of his tear-streaked face. "Those eyes...that smile...I see all that is good in the world in that smile."

"I thought you hated poetry, Basil," Dorian mumbled, though his mouth quirked slightly.

"It has its uses." Basil squeezed his shoulder gently before brushing a strand of hair back from his face. "You still have that look of wonder about the world, dear boy. Don't let Harry's idiosyncrasies tarnish that." Dorian sat up, his eyes still shining with unshed tears.

"Basil..." He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly in an effort to stop crying before bringing a hand up to wipe his eyes. Basil stopped him, taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and brushing the tears away himself. That done, he cradled the young man's face in his hands, still slightly stained with paint.

"I do not think I shall ever have another person who has affected me so profoundly or inspired me so much as you have, my friend." Dorian's eyes crinkled slightly with smile lines, his hands wrapping around Basil's arms. "I'll always be fond of you, dear Dorian, no matter how many wrinkles you end up with." Basil was secretly very pleased with himself when Dorian giggled.

"You truly are an outstanding specimen, Basil. Now then, isn't it about tea-time?"