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“Sell this one, too”, Dorian says, throwing a thick necklace of silver and emeralds behind him. “The stones are real — but it’s a fake.”
“Milord— Hup!”
James immediately catches it in the air with both hands, pouting. “Be careful”, he mumbles to himself, sighing. But nevertheless, he felt satisfied, as he crossed off another check on the list of their latest heist.
Dorian lounged in one of his vintage velvet sofas, admiring the large collection of jewels he and Bonham had acquired the night before. All, according to their owners — a General and his wife — freshly and cheaply bought from Brazil, from a colleague who’d had them in his family since the 18th century, made of genuine Brazilian gemstones and gold.
But clearly , the colleague also happened to lump in whatever other gaudy, non-Baroque jewelry he could find just for the money — not that the General would be able to tell. Of course, Dorian felt uninterested in them, however much the jewels were worth, however much he was able to see his reflection in them — unlike both men, he seeked authenticity , rather than money exchanged.
Those types — military men — were Dorian’s favorite people to rob. The richer and more decorated, the better. He could waltz into their homes unnoticed, in his flashiest three-piece, and as long as he kept asking about the little brooches and stars on their uniforms, they’d allow him around until the evening was over.
( That scenario, unfortunately, didn’t apply to all military men. )
It truly helped that all of them were complete buffoons — they could have a random Simon Vouet in their homes that their grandfathers bought, and wouldn’t think about it for a second. Until, to the painting’s delight, Dorian stole it.
( This description, however, did. )
Dorian looks at his fingers, all ornate with rings of various shapes and sizes. He sighs.
“Why, yes, because Baroque jewelry always had rings coming in gemstones of this size…” He scowls, shaking the rings off his fingers on the table next to him, barely even bothering to take them off properly, from how incredulous he was.
“Hmph. These could not be more Edwardian if Edward himself made them. I don’t think the companies that made these even had contact with South America in the 1700s.” Another hmph. He straightened his back, sitting up, looking through the jewels again. Not many were left — the General and his wife should be thankful that he avoided this level of an embarrassment .
A chirpy sound came from James at his desk, happily typing away at two or four calculators that he had next to his side, plus the books, plus the growing pile of jewelry that Dorian had scrapped.
“You’re entirely right, milord”, he said. An annoying little beep came from one of the calculators, but Dorian had drowned them out long ago. “Jewelry companies preferred to just import the gold from Brazil, rather than send their jewelers there”, another beep, as he flipped a page in the accounting book. “It was more profitable that way.”
James spoke nonchalantly, but the Earl could not help but smile, as he looked at him. At least someone was happy, he thought to himself — He could always count on James to tell some obscure economic fact, no matter the country, year or even the century . It was that memory, that attention to detail, that made Dorian love him.
“Ow! Bloody—” A ring got in his finger the wrong way, somehow. He shook his hand.
“Are you alright?” James asks, lifting his head from the books. “Got your finger hair stuck in your jewelry again?”
Dorian furrows his eyebrows. “ No .”
Completely out of pocket, he thinks to himself. As usual. Hmph. But he looks at the ring in question, and discovers it was neither his hairs nor the way he put it on, but the ring itself. It was made of gold, and seemed to have a little bump sticking out, like the back of a mechanical pencil. The center piece, per se, was highly ornate, probably Art Nouveau — late 19th century, though that doesn’t surprise him.
He presses the small bump, and immediately it sticks back out, in the shape of a little key — before something falls on Dorian’s lap.
A few necklaces of pearls, golds and amethysts out of the way, and Dorian saw what it was; a microfilm.
“Ja, Geheimdienst?” Agent Z spoke, clearing his throat. The poor lad, Dorian thought. He probably hadn’t drank any water in hours.
“Hello, Mr. Z”, Dorian says softly, in the privacy of his bedroom, far from penny-pinching eyes looking to cut the international call. “How are you, darling? Is the Major there?”
A very brief pause. “I’m fine, Lord Gloria. He is. I’ll — I’ll pass him over to you.” He doesn’t even ask .
“Why, thank you…” Dorian mellows his voice even more at the stutter. He really was thankful — he could barely imagine it, having to tell the Major he was calling just before a weekend. “Tell me, Mr. Z, are you well? You do sound slightly dehydrated — I hope you’ve been drinking plenty of water, I hear the weather’s been quite dry over there…”
He hears a stutter, an apology, and then a click.
“Speak.”
“Oh, hello , Major!” Dorian’s voice was lively; none of the bashful, even if slightly, flirtatious tone from earlier. He was positively gay — in every way — and would make sure the Major heard it. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? The last time we met, you and I—”
“Speak”, the Major repeats. “I have things to do.”
Dorian smiles, sighing through his nose.
He didn’t sound that unhappy last time he heard his voice.
“I have a microfilm”, Dorian says. “I, ah , found it on a borrowed ring, from the wife of a General friend of a friend of mine — you know how it is.”
“Tell me where it’s from.”
“Seems to have been sold to them by some old family acquaintance.” Dorian looked at his free hand, his middle finger bearing the ring. He decided he’d keep it, as a memento to the General’s stupidity. “But, the man was more of a con man if you ask me — he sold them the ring claiming it was Baroque , but it’s clearly Art Nouveau.”
He hears the Major sigh. A pause, then another sigh; a drag of a cigarette, he assumed.
“. . . And would you know where it came from before that?”
“No idea”, Dorian replies. “He said this ‘ friend ‘ was half-Brazilian, half-Spanish, though — so you might want to look into that, especially that last part.”
The Major hums. “As you know, we always appreciate civilian cooperation.”
“I know you do”, Dorian says with a wink the Major would never be able to see — but he hoped he could feel it through the call, through his voice .
“Alright, that’s enough , you rotten little shit .” Dorian heard a thud — a hand slammed on a desk. “What is it this time? You’ll make me get on a plane just to get that damn thing?”
Dorian is silent, smiling, for five teasingly long seconds. He hears the Major’s breathing — a moment before a yell — before he interrupts. “Why, absolutely not”, he says, chuckling. “I’ll fly to Germany myself .
But, you’ll have to meet me in West Berlin, rather than Bonn. It’s easier for me.”
“That’s six hours away ”, the Major responds curtly. “And how is it easier for you? You know damn well Bonn is closer than that shithole .”
“You’ll know soon enough, trust me”, Dorian says with a chuckle. “And, I suppose you’ll have to make do, dear Major — you always do.”
“If you’re bullshitting me, I’ll tie you to the back of my car on the drive back.”
“ Very exciting”, Dorian says nonchalantly. “But do get a pen and paper while I tell you the address, darling — even if it’s just for a mission, it’s a good recommendation .”
The 5th Dimension — or Fünfte Dimension — was a lovely little discotheque in West Berlin, which the Earl of Gloria had recently become a very proud patron of. The name had been what drew him in the first place — after a band that made one of the favorite songs of his early teenage years — and just knowing it existed was enough to make him feel sympathy. A poor little discotheque in dreary West Berlin, a city split in half, tingling with young people looking for what to do.
Sympathy enough, that is, to make Dorian pour thousands of marks onto it — a decision that, at first, made James sleepless for nights, sure they would declare bankruptcy — but, as soon as the people, and more importantly the money started pouring in, James nearly made speeches about His Lordship’s genius every time the 5th Dimension was brought up. As you do.
And gone were the cold, black-painted concrete of the walls that had a few sprinkles of neon paint on them; an in were the mirrors Dorian had ordered to be as tall as the walls themselves, the two rotating Disco balls hung on the ceiling, the Greek pillars — both for those who needed to hold onto them, and those who wanted to be held on them — the classical frescos painted at the entrance, and the colorful red, yellow, and blue lights that Dorian had installed all across the building; all of this on the literal top of a conversation room that he had ordered be built from scratch — for the VIP guests, of course. But the pièce de résistance, in his opinion, was a life-sized replica of Michelangelo’s David, put up on a sturdy pedestal just before the entrance to the dance room itself, with, ah, a few changes to anatomy.
For obvious reasons, Dorian did not mention the place to the Major by name, only by address. A very smart move on his part, if he may say so — a cleverness, unfortunately, immediately ruined by a nearby Alphabet he heard over the phone, asking; “Die fünfte Dimension? Die Diskothek ?” — which was then followed by Dorian bidding his goodbyes, and then followed by a yell from the Major cut off before he could finish.
An hour and a half later, came a phone call — 23:30, in the lot behind the Fünfte, usually reserved for smokers.
( And lovers, Dorian thought to himself. )
He had kept almost all of the older staff still working in the discotheque, making it a very smooth, very popular transition; as the staff recognized him, James and Bonham anytime they went down there, showering all three of them in compliments — one of the bouncers, a two-meter-tall tank top wearing flirt , literally giving Dorian a rose.
Though he’d brought the two to West Berlin, Dorian went in alone that day, trustful enough of the staff as he was. When he arrived, already he saw a line forming at the front. When he stepped outside to smoke — he would not allow his frescos or statue to be ruined, as unpopular as the decision was — it almost circled the block. Ah, he was a genius, a Galilee, and he knew it — beloved, an architect, a Bernini, an entrepreneur, his popularity growing by the dozens.
Unable to keep up with the German conversations, yet too self-aware to ask any of the people in the VIP room to speak in English, Dorian roamed across the ground floors of the discotheque itself, wearing his brown Afghan coat with nothing underneath — easier to hide the microfilm in, and one layer less between himself and the Major.
He would probably get barred at the entrance, Dorian thought to himself, giggling as he sipped on a drink. The man somehow couldn't look more like a cop if he tried, while also not; blending in nicely with the men here as well as he didn’t — the longish sideburns, the even longer hair, all ruined by a military man’s walk and a tone of voice that was always a little too imperative — because, usually, it was.
Sitting at the bar, he hears a song starting to play over the speakers; a long one. He’d heard it a thousand times, five hundred in here already, and he would be able to hear it a thousand more. He was sure sometimes he'd play it back to back.
Oooh . . .
It’s so good, it’s so good,
it’s so good, it’s so good,
it’s so good . . .
The bartender in front of him has his duties briefly interrupted by one of security, a tall woman with a buzzed haircut — whispering into his ears as he raises his eyebrows suggestively, before leaving, giggling away along with the man.
“What was it?” Dorian asks.
“Oh!” The bartender chuckles. “Just workplace gossip, if you don’t mind me saying, nothing of note…”
Dorian pouts, looking away. It had already been five minutes past the time he and the Major had scheduled their meeting. Surely a man like him would have made some impression at the entrance.
“Really?” Dorian asks again. “Wasn’t there any trouble with the bouncers tonight? I saw there was quite the line…”
“Not at all”, the bartender responds. He then smiles. “The lines have just been like that, ever since you bought the establishment, Lord Gloria…”
Dorian smirks, charmed. He knew he was out to get a tip — but if there was one thing Dorian loved more than his workers, it was flattery. He somehow manages to get a few marks out of the tight pockets of his jeans, leaning forward — as did the bartender — to put the bills in his pocket.
“That was a good one”, Dorian says. The bartender nods.
“I aim to please.”
Oooh . . .
Heaven knows, heaven knows,
Heaven knows, heaven knows,
Heaven knows . . .
Dorian looked behind him, at the dancing crowd — flashes of red, yellow, blue; sparkles and sequins, tights and silks. Feverish, intoxicated dancing, no matter the speed nor the gender. The couple in the middle of the dancefloor, a woman spinning on a floor-length dress before clinging to the sweaty arms of her shirtless lover; the two men in shorts and knee-high socks who did nothing but stare, hungrily enough to almost jump each other on the spot — and an androgyne who slowly danced, their head thrown back in ecstasy, the sparkles on their jumpsuit nearly blinding under the lights of the disco ball.
Oooh . . .
I feel love, I feel love,
I feel love, I feel love,
I feel love . . .
There were a couple of wallflowers, dressed just as flashy, though many were occupied with their lover’s mouths on theirs too care, while others were already being dragged off, either to the exit or the bathroom. Two men, one flirting with the other, who clearly was not having it, as he stared off into the ground. A shy, but tall brunette, with longish sideburns and even longer hair, and —
Dorian finished his drink in one gulp, his throat burning as his gaze intensified on what clearly was, without a shadow of a doubt, Major Eberbach, inside of his nightclub, wearing disco clothes.
I feel love . . . I feel love . . . I feel love . . .
He deliberately took slow steps towards him, his mind and his heart lost in the thumping beat of the song, the instrumentals building and intensifying, the singer’s voice nearly blending in with the electronic sounds. As if the Major’s usual beauty was not enough, it was only intensified by the neon lights and the clothes that he, somehow , wore; leather pants that enhanced lines of his body Dorian didn’t even know he had, and an open button-up showing his naked chest in all of its’ hairy glory.
Dorian himself was sure he looked just as beautiful, if not more; as he brushed his hand through his locks, making them fall over his bare chest, their blonde color only enhanced by the colorful lights in the room. But as attracted as he felt to the Major, Dorian could not remember a time he stared at him more intensely, more eager — enough, it seemed, to finally make them lock eyes; before the Major quickly looked down, sighing, as if to say, ‘ let’s get this over with ‘.
But Dorian would not let his fantasy end for a second. He looked at the man beside him — pretty enough, shaggy hair down to his shoulders, a blouse tied around his waist — before lifting his eyebrows, which the man immediately understood, as he took Dorian’s hand.
He only hears a frustrated sound from the Major before he walked away, and into the dancefloor.
I feel love . . . I feel love . . . I feel love . . .
Dorian wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, just as the other held him by the waist, slowly swaying their hips along to the song. The man was pretty enough, just as he had thought; his eyes looking at him, his lips , with enough desire to almost make Dorian blush. As the song began to slow down, the lights dimmed, only a few flashes of white light making the man’s face discernible in the dark — and Dorian closed his eyes, leaning in for a kiss.
He wishes he’d been able to say he was not thinking about the Major at that moment, but if anything, thinking about him was what made him kiss the man better, what made him wrap his arms around him tighter and open his mouth for his tongue. As sweet as Klaus’ kisses had been last time, he wanted more; and he needed to know Klaus wanted more.
It’s at this moment, sighing into another man’s lips, the music at its’ lowest before it would gradually start to become louder again, that he hears the familiar sound of the Major’s footsteps — and Dorian parts away from the kiss, nearly spinning the man around the dancefloor, as he moved further away from the Major tailing him.
Oooh . . .
I got you, I got you,
I got you, I got you
I got you . . .
“My boyfriend”, Dorian giggles, looking from the Major to the other man, who thankfully seemed to understand him.
“Oh, ja", he chuckles. “Did you break up with him?”
“Rather he broke up with me, I fear…
I wanted to make him miss me a little bit." He smirks.
The man chuckles again. “Can I keep you, while he is not here, then?”
Dorian widens his eyes, surprised, before laughing. “Darling, if you keep talking like that, you may keep me all night.”
He could only hope the Major did not start a bit of a ruckus, pushing his clients around to get to him — but Dorian felt himself having too much fun, as the man he held in his arms laughed, and Dorian laughed with him, pressing his lips to the man’s neck; keeping him distracted as he followed the Major with his gaze. They were getting closer to the back door.
Oooh . . .
What to do, what you do,
what you do, what you do . . .
Thankfully, the Major had exhibited some decency — rather than pushing, he merely angrily excused himself around, though Dorian noticed a dark-haired woman that turned to him to glare. He and his part-time lover — a beautiful picture, holding each other tightly under the blue neon lights, the man’s head tipped back and his hands lightly pulling at Dorian’s locks — managed to move closer to the exit, before Dorian and the Major locked eyes again.
The Major’s expression was unreadable — be it the distance, or the flashing darkness. For the most part, the Major’s expression was unreadable in the flashing darkness. Dorian saw nothing but frustration, but he could not tell if it was from their usual cat-and-mouse play, or something more. And he wanted to know it.
Oooh . . .
I feel love, I feel love,
I feel love, I feel love
I feel love . . .
So Dorian cupped the man’s cheeks, and kissed him again, moving his hand through the man’s hair to the back of his head; a dream, a show for the Major — the man who clearly wanted him, at the same time that he said he didn’t, who savored Dorian’s kisses while denying him, saying they could never come close to a kiss again — all whilst stuttering with his words, his gaze still fixated on Dorian’s lips.
It was dirty, and it was teasing; but if there was anything the Major would love about him, it had to be that.
I feel love . . . I feel love . . . I feel love . . .
“Show’s over”, a gruff voice says. “Out.”
When Dorian opened his eyes again, the Major stood beside him, completely still, staring at him. He quickly glanced at the other man.
“ Raus .”
“I apologize, darling…” Dorian giggled, detangling himself from the other man. “My Liebhaber has come to pick me up.” He mispronounces the word, but looks graceful doing so — he blows a kiss at the other man, who returns the gesture.
“Good luck”, the man says. The second he turns away, the Major roughly pulls on his arm, until they are both outside the club.
“I will drag you from the back of my car, you …”
“You might as well watch what you call me, Major, after all that …” Dorian pulls his arm away and, without a struggle, he is freed. He leans against the wall, a hand on the hip peeking out from his pants; his eyes looking over every inch of the Major’s body, every line and curve — until their gazes meet.
The Major scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you still have the microfilm?”
“I can assure you that I do”, Dorian replies calmly. “If anything, that should have let you know I never let myself get caught — not unless I want to.”
He scoffs. “I don’t know why I’m not surprised.”
Dorian plays along, humming in mock agreement, though he is unsure if it is a compliment or a jab. Either way, he found it made him like the Major a little more. He reached inside of his pocket for the microfilm — before a light flashed over them, a black Benz in high speed passing over the dead quiet street. Before Dorian even has a chance to become startled, the Major throws himself in front of him, putting his hands on the wall behind them. Dorian gasps.
He can only stare at Klaus for a few seconds, at the alarmed, yet at the same time angry look in his eyes, so close to his, before they look down.
Dorian’s hands, on their own, had found themselves on the Major’s bare chest, more cold to the touch than he could have ever imagined. Dorian retrieves them immediately — probably too slow for the Major’s liking.
“Oh, my! I’m sor—”
But Dorian can only gasp as the Major grabs him by the fluffy collar of his coat, pulling some of his own hair in the process, forcing him to stare into his gaze, undeniably angry. Flustered, almost blushing.
“You little …” He sneers.
“ Ah-ah !” Dorian holds his hands up innocently. “It was an accident, I swear! I couldn’t have expected you’d throw yourself at me like that…!”
The Major scoffs, rolling his eyes as he lets him go; then looking back at the road. “Fucking weekend drivers”, he justifies himself. And it’s all he says about it. He turns back to Dorian, giving him a knowing look.
“It’s already in your pants’ pocket”, Dorian says with a smile, resting against the wall again.
The Major takes a step back, feeling his back pockets — nothing — before finding it in the front pockets. He sighs. There it was.
“I do love the little getup”, Dorian says, crossing his arms. “I’d never expected you to be a leather kind of man…”
For a second, he feels himself being ignored, as the Major takes quite the prolonged time to light a cigarette, reaching in his back pocket for his lighter — the sole reason Dorian didn’t put the microfilm there. Otherwise, a perfect opportunity.
“I own a motorcycle”, he says nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal thing for the Major to say. “These are easier to ride in.”
Dorian raises his eyebrows for a second, before looking at him with his usual half-lidded, casually flirty gaze. “My, you’re so butch .”
From his annoyed look, the Major probably didn’t know what that word meant. “But really”, Dorian continues, “where’d you find it? Did Agent G rummage through her old closet?”
“ All these clothes are mine”, the Major says, clearly displeased as the conversation’s focus kept changing to him. “I go to work in this shirt.”
And Dorian stares at it again, as he was a visual learner — open wide at his chest, showing pectorals the likes of which Dorian could only dream of seeing on this man.
He hums, giggling to himself.
The Major scowls at him again. “Asshole.” He sighs, blowing smoke through his nose.
With that word, that final insult, Dorian was able to tell his mission, and thus their little encounter, was over. He was simply smoking in silence, looking away from him, thinking about things he’d never share with another human. A moment of peace; like a thirty-minute sleep on spring grass.
But he would still try, Dorian thought to himself. They were standing so close, anyway.
“Major, your hand is quite shivery…”
The Major furrows his eyebrows, turning to him. “Hm?”
“Your hand”, Dorian repeats. “Holding the cigarette. It’s shivering slightly, no? And your chest, if you don’t mind me saying, felt so cold too…”
“It’s this fucking disguise ”, he Major rasps, crossing one arm over the other. “Unlike you, I’m not used to wearing… This . It’s throwing off my body temperature.”
Dorian smiles. There it was.
“You know, it’s altering my body temperature, too…” He lowers his head, batting his eyelashes. The Major doesn’t answer, merely looking at him — unwilling to be the first to look away.
Dorian's slender hands touch his own chest, craning his neck for the Major; an offer. “If you touched me”, he says, “You would know how warm I am.”
And Dorian moves his hands down his body, from his torso, to his hips, to his thighs, resting them there. The Major’s gaze, breaking their stare, followed them. Unwavering seconds of silence followed, but Dorian was not going to be the first to speak.
“You’re wearing lipstick”, the Major says, looking at Dorian’s lips.
“I always do.” Dorian put his hands back on the wall, as Klaus took a step closer, even if only for a second.
“It’s going to leave a mark.” He flicks his cigarette away.
“Yes, it will.” His hands run up Klaus' cheeks, partly covered by his hair.
Suddenly, he felt so much warmer when they kissed, when his hands touched that naked chest again — though his spine arched slightly as Klaus' hands, still cold to the touch, brought them closer.
It was more than butterflies in his stomach, it was more than anything; it was a bustle of English roses, intertwining with hard German iron wire — iron wire, that was, that nearly made him unable to think of ' romance ' as Klaus devoured his mouth and sighed into his kisses.
When they parted, Dorian breathed heavily, but he could not stop smiling, as he looked at Klaus' lips – really, the ' lipstick ' he wore was nothing more than chapstick with a little color to it, but it was enough color that it already showed on the other man's lips. "See?" Dorian sighs. "This is the warmth that you missed, my dear Major — the warmth that's been building inside of me for years…"
"Shut up", Klaus curtly interrupts, his nose nuzzling the faux fur of Dorian's coat before he buried his face on his neck.
And Dorian gasps; there it was again, the wire rope and the roses intertwined, the occasion as nonsensical as it was delicious, the tongue swiping over Dorian's Adam's apple, and his delicate fingers running over Klaus' rough scarred skin.
Dorian sighs, closing his eyes. "Come with me", he says. Words that otherwise would have felt empty, cheap words of seduction in a sultry tone, but not to him. "Come with me to my castle — you know it'll be wonderful, ah , darling…"
"Can't", Klaus mutters. "Work." And how dare he ever bring up work now , Dorian thinks, angrily pouting. His own mind could not have been farther away from work at that second, especially with those cold calloused hands roaming over his torso.
"Hmm… But — Klaus …" Dorian cradles his face by the jaw, making him look at him. They'd always been around the same height, but Dorian's platforms made him slightly taller.
"We can try, can we not…?"
Their foreheads touched. Dorian kissed the side of his face. "When you are on leave…"
"Not my —” Klaus sighed. His breathing was also heavier. He looks away. “We cannot, at my house.”
" I have a castle too, did you forget?"
Klaus was silent for a second. Thinking, Dorian is sure, of the gang of thieves that probably lived in his house — an assumption he'd be correct to make.
"I'd prefer a hotel."
Dorian snorts. He kisses each side of Klaus' face. "Of course", he says. "With a heart-shaped bathtub.. A water bed …"
"I'd prefer showering in a bucket and sleeping on the floor", Klaus says, but Dorian sees the little smile on his face — making him press a particularly hard kiss to his cheek.
“And it has to be right above a discotheque”, Dorian adds, seemingly having completely forgotten what he’d just done inside of one. As quickly as it appeared, the little smile was gone.
"That man..."
"... I'm sorry", Dorian says, an earnest, apologetic smile on his face. “It was nothing. I merely wanted to get a reaction out of you. I shouldn’t have.”
Klaus looked back at him again. “I’m…” He glanced away, then back at Dorian again. “I am sorry I called you names. And threatened you. I did not mean it.”
He sounded so formal, Dorian thought, but he could tell it was genuine. He could read people well, and he’d seen Klaus’ acting firsthand. He unwillingly lets out a little snort.
“ I — I apologize for snorting.” He smiles. “But you needn’t say sorry. I kind of like it”, he says, stroking the back of Klaus’ cheek with his fingers, to try and ease his slightly confused stare.
“I liked what you did, too.”
Dorian feels cold hands gingerly stroking his back. He shivers, but a jolt of warmth goes through his body.
“I guess it worked , then”, Dorian says, grinning wider, playing with a lock of Klaus’ hair.
"Shut up." For the first time, Klaus is the one to initiate a kiss. Dorian lets out a surprised hum, the fact very much not going unnoticed by him.
How much he adored him, Dorian thought to himself. The walking mass of iron of a man that screamed of nothing but duty and morals, but whose soft spots were the color of machines, and a dandy little Englishman. It was so sweetly ironic, it almost made Dorian cry.
But Dorian does not cry, he merely holds him instead, his Iron Klaus — cradling him by the jaw as they kiss, the man's arms wrapped around him like a lover's, behind an extravagant little discotheque, while the song that played inside talked about feeling love.
