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Chapter Text

Basil finished his most recent painting this morning, and so had absolutely no excuse not to attend Henry’s luncheon. It is a beautiful day outside—the heat is almost stifling, but aesthetically it’s pleasing—and so the food has been set outside. Basil is sure this would be an absolutely horrid affair, if it wasn’t for the fact that Dorian is also in attendance, and currently hovering next to him.

“How lovely this food looks!” Dorian says pleasantly. Basil has not noticed; he has been paying attention only to Dorian, and the way the sun makes his golden hair shine, his porcelain skin gleam. “I wonder if there is any particular reason for this gathering? I feel that Victoria is simply bored.”

The food is set up on various tables around the grass, and then there is a large table in the middle to sit and eat at, once one has chosen one’s dish. Dorian and Basil are currently milling about, looking at the offerings.

“Well, it’s a lovely day for it regardless,” Basil answers, following Dorian, who is choosing for himself asparagus dressed with butter, some cold meat and cheeses with bread. Basil gets something similar.

“Where is Harry?” Dorian wonders, turning to look around. He seems to spot him, and Basil notices as well that Henry is sat beside Lord Acton, talking on and on the way that he does, likely offending somebody. “Basil, let us join him.”

“If you wish, Dorian,” Basil answers. There is no novelty in Henry to him anymore; he has known the man for far too long. To him, now, Henry is simply his extremely bored friend, always looking for a way to enhance an afternoon with insincere words.

As they are walking over, and Basil is thinking about how charming the way that Dorian walks is, they are stopped by Lady Thornton; she is a sixty-something woman with grey hair and dull green eyes, and she, like many, is very fond of Dorian.

“Mr Gray! I wasn’t certain if you were attending,” Lady Thornton says with a delighted smile—in truth she has a rather brilliant smile—touching Dorian’s arm gently. She is sat beside her husband, however she is entirely ignoring him.

“Oh, I could never miss any party thrown by Harry, Lady Thornton. It is always sure to be interesting,” Dorian answers with his charming smile. He is in blue today, and the colour perfectly compliments his eyes, and makes the sunny day seem dull by comparison.

“Yes, he is a very thought-provoking man. I find myself in the most fascinating of conversations whenever I speak with him,” Lady Thornton agrees, and then notices Basil there, stood behind Dorian, not wishing to leave his side. “Mr Hallward, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Basil returns politely, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes (Lady Thornton is not somebody he mixes with particularly). He would really rather go and sit down to eat.

Dorian seems to notice Basil’s discomfort, and pats Lady Thornton’s hand gently, causing her to drop it from his arm. He takes it and kisses it.

“I will speak with you later, I’m sure. Basil and I are hoping to find a seat with Harry,” Dorian says, and she smiles but seems disappointed (Basil can hardly blame her). “Have a good lunch.”

They make their way around the table, walking side-by-side now, closer than they should (as per usual for them), until they reach Henry, and Dorian takes a seat next to him, on the other side to Lord Acton; Basil sits next to Dorian.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” Dorian says as they sit, touching Henry’s shoulder and smiling softly. His joy at seeing Henry is altogether so completely genuine that Basil feels the need to suppress jealousy.

“Good afternoon, Dorian. Good afternoon, Basil,” Henry says, as Basil smiles politely and removes his hat. He knows that Henry can sense his jealousy—Henry and Basil can always notice the subtleties in the other one’s emotions—and is annoyed by it.

“What luck you have had with the weather today! This is a most pleasant luncheon, Harry, most pleasant indeed,” Dorian says cheerfully, picking up his glass if sherry and having a little sip. “I am quite hungry as it so happens. I had a small breakfast, in bed. When I woke up, I simply didn’t feel like eating.”

“What a terrible shame, Dorian. You must indulge in all that we have in that case,” Henry answers. “There will be some delights in store in a little while—we have some candied violets and cakes, and the most exquisite handmade cigarettes from Europe.”

“Oh, candied violets!” Dorian says with delight, turning to Basil to share this great news, who is attempting to eat his dinner. “Won’t that be lovely, Basil?”

“Candied violets are certainly delicious,” Basil agrees, smiling at Dorian, who grins boyishly in return. “It has been a while since I’ve tasted any.”

“At any rate, Dorian, why were you having breakfast in bed?” Henry asks, turning the conversation to a different matter. “You are a gentleman; only ladies eat breakfast in bed. It is rather effeminate of you, not that I object too much to such a quality.”

“I feel that gentlemen are ridiculous for always feeling the need to go downstairs for breakfast,” Dorian answers with a little huff. “I am certain I must be having a more pleasant morning than them; sat in my bed, with a silver tray and croissants, wrapped up in my silk robe, while the rest of you march around your estate hoping to work up a big enough appetite for bacon and sausages and eggs and whatever else you eat.”

“Don’t play pretty, Dorian. You enjoy bacon just as much as the rest of us,” Henry says with an amused smile, eating his lunch. Dorian looks displeased about this, as though he would like everybody to believe that he sustains himself each morning on more aesthetically pleasing pastries. “I do, however, admire your dedication to aesthetics.”

Basil is amused by both of them. He has a simple English breakfast each morning, nothing massive or extravagant, and goes about his day. He doesn’t understand how these aristocrats eat so much every day—so many dinner courses! Such big breakfasts—nor how both Henry and Dorian’s waistlines survive it so well, given that Basil has never seen either of them break a sweat. It is because they smoke so many cigarettes, Basil is certain.

The afternoon goes by very pleasantly. There is some friendly debate between Henry and Basil, which engages multiple people around them, all desperate to express their opinion on the meaning of morality; at one point, Dorian, who had previously been listening quietly, states that he feels that if a husband is failing his wife, she should not be publicly shamed for looking elsewhere, and that instead the husband should be publicly shamed for dereliction. All the women act coy, claiming that they would never betray their husbands, while giggling and gazing at Dorian in ways that Basil can only relate to.

After that, some of the gentleman get upset with the debate, and move it along. Dorian thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

“How upset Lord Stanley looked!” Dorian laughs, as he and Basil walk arm-in-arm through London, back to Basil’s home. “I am sure it must be because he knows he is guilty of shortcomings. His poor young wife is far too pretty for him—his face appears like an open oyster, and his personality is in fact so incredibly dull that I would rather have a conversation with a lamppost.”

Dorian’s tendency to gossip about, and be cruel towards, people is something he has always had. It’s certainly gotten worse since Dorian was introduced to Henry, but nevertheless, Basil has always boiled it down to the cocky attitude of youth, and their love of tattle.

“Dorian, you needn’t be cruel,” Basil says, but he is amused, and it is impossible to be upset with Dorian, especially when they are standing so close to one another, their hips occasionally nudging each other as they walk.

“Isn’t it ridiculous that we are only just leaving the luncheon and I am already worried about dressing for dinner?” Dorian asks. It is only 5 o’clock, but Dorian takes extraordinarily great care in how he dresses. “I think that I shall go to the club for 9 o’clock if you would like to join me, Basil.”

Basil ponders that he might stay at home to dine, but after having such a lovely few hours in Dorian’s presence, he doesn’t much fancy turning down the opportunity to spend more time together. The concept of spending the rest of the day without Dorian bores him. He feels it would be a horrible evening of longing.

“I think I shall, Dorian,” Basil answers, and Dorian beams his beautiful grin, squeezing onto Basil’s arm tightly for a moment and making Basil feel as though he is the luckiest man in all of London.

Dorian’s favourite colours to wear are magenta and burgundy. He feels that they compliment him beautifully, contrasting perfectly with the gold of his hair, the blue of his eyes. He does still like to wear every colour he can pull off, which is most of them, as he thinks that all colours are beautiful; to-night he decides to wear a suit of purple velvet. He also applies his lip tint, as although his lips are perfectly ruby-coloured naturally, the concept fascinates him and he likes the feeling and the taste. The lip balm is homemade, but Dorian did not make it himself. It is sweet almond oil, beeswax, alkanet root, some other ingredients Dorian isn’t quite sure of. Nobody knows that he uses it, as it would be frowned upon in his social circles, and Dorian quite enjoys the secretness of it. He picks his lips, tastes it, and thinks of how nobody knows that he wears it, and what a small thrill it gives him! It makes him wish to experience larger thrills, so perhaps he will visit the opium den later.

He does not know if Henry will be joining them, unfortunately, but he knows for certain that Basil is coming by to pick him up. Dorian and Basil were together at Basil’s until gone six, and Dorian had forgotten what fun he had alone with Basil, what good friends they made—if one could call them friends. Dorian recognises that their tendency to walk arm-in-arm, to sit so close on a divan, to greet each other with a kiss on the cheek, is a little French of them, and goes beyond what is socially acceptable for two gentlemen to be doing with one another. They do not speak it into words, in case that ruins it. Dorian feels that if he were to say anything, it would scare Basil off, and so he doesn’t; he enjoys making Basil blush, and simultaneously enjoys making men and women of any status submit to him in bed. One could say he is getting the best of both worlds, but he would like to properly experience Basil.

Dorian is just buttoning up his boots when he notices Basil’s hansom pull up outside, and hurries to the door, calling to his valet not to expect him home until late, as he still intends on visiting the opium den. The driver opens the door for Dorian, who nods at him politely and cheerfully joins Basil in the hansom.

“My dear Basil! It has been forever,” Dorian teases, reaching over and kissing Basil’s cheek. It has been less than a mere three hours since he saw Basil last.

Basil blushes in that most endearing way that he does, that always makes Dorian feel powerful and wanted. “It certainly feels to me like it has been, Dorian,” he says in his typically serious way, as the hansom sets off. Dorian rests his head upon Basil’s shoulder as they drive, their hands almost touching between them. It is exciting and tantalising, the tension between them. Dorian really enjoys it too much to ruin it, that feeling of will-they-won't-they, Basil’s anticipation and hope that one day they will, while being certain that they surely will not. One day, Dorian will bring the matter up. It certainly will not be to-night. Dorian will likely talk to Henry about it first.

They don’t talk as they drive, enjoying the comfortable silence that only occurs when Henry is not with them to break it with his wonderful stories. Oh, Henry. Dorian quite fancies the idea of kissing him, too, but worries that Henry is a considerably less eager conquest. He certainly does not have the romance of feeling that Basil does.

When they arrive, Henry is not there anyway. Dorian is a little disappointed, but Basil is not. Basil and Henry are, to Dorian’s eye, very curious friends. Basil often doesn’t seem to like Henry, but Henry seems to like Basil very much. Dorian notices it frequently. Henry admires that Basil doesn’t listen to him. Basil is truly the only person Dorian has ever met who’s opinion on things seems to be completely unchangeable; it is something to admire.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have dined at my place, Dorian, I have had quite enough of these people to-day,” Basil says, making Dorian laugh. Basil is always a gentleman to people, but he is far too introverted to want to spend any extended time in anybody’s company, excluding Henry’s and Dorian’s himself.

“You haven’t had enough of me too?” Dorian answers, although he knows the answer, and he quite understands. He also occasionally gets tired of most of their social class—they must all be secretly sick of one another really—but rarely does he find himself feeling sick of Basil. It is the knowledge that one can be oneself that makes it easier to be around a person. He can always tell the truth to Basil, most of the time anyway, even if he knows Basil will not approve. He knows Basil would always take care of him. He also knows he can always tell anything to Henry, who will never under any circumstances judge him.

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to, Dorian,” Basil answers, making Dorian grin in delight, which makes Basil smile, however slightly. They sit and talk for another couple hours, never seeming to run out of things to say, things to tell each other. Under the table, they hold hands, and pretend not to understand what it means.

After leaving Dorian, at a little past midnight, Basil cannot sleep. What a wonderful day he has had! Yes, he would have changed a few things—in his ideal, they would have spent all day in the studio—but nevertheless, a day with Dorian, an evening with Dorian, is something of a blessing.

Basil can still feel Dorian’s hand in his as he lays in bed, gazing at the ceiling. He can still see Dorian’s cherry-red lips, and delicate glove-clad hands. The way he walks in his little heeled evening shoes.

Basil would like nothing more than to pass a day sketching Dorian; then to pass a few weeks painting, properly, each part of him. His feet, one gently placed above the other; his legs, one slightly bent; his hands, folded, or perhaps his hands would be in his golden hair, or clutched to his bare chest. Perhaps they would be placed elegantly between Dorian’s legs...

Basil cannot help his mind from moving; he can’t help his own hand, moving between his own legs, touching himself as he swallows and thinks again of Dorian. He imagines that it is Dorian’s fine hands touching him, that Dorian is lying next to him, his breath audible, his cheeks flushed. Basil imagines himself returning the favour, touching each other; he pictures leaning in to kiss Dorian’s soft, full lips, how sweet he would taste, what sounds he would make.

Basil cries out as his hand quickens it’s pace. Now, in his mind, Dorian is on top of him, Dorian is kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, Dorian is moaning, he is everything beautiful in the world. Rolling them over, Basil lays Dorian’s down, and listens to Dorian’s soft whimpers as Basil moves down the bed to part Dorian’s legs, leaning down and...

Basil finishes with a startled, intense cry, sweating and panting, and he’s lying in bed alone. There is no Dorian lying next to him, only an empty space. There are no soft whimpers, only his own breathless panting.

Basil comes to terms with this as his body calms down, trying not to feel as though he has somehow betrayed Dorian with his own imagination. As he lies on his side, now that he’s allowed himself a moment to fix his desperation, he finds himself falling asleep far more easily. He knows that loneliness will not serve him well. There is no use being upset that Dorian isn’t here; it is better for the boy to stay away from this sin.

Chapter Text

Lord Henry Wotton is lying across the divan in Basil Hallward’s studio, smoking an opium-tinted cigarette as Basil paces, speaking in rushed, panicked tones. Both Basil and Dorian have the unfortunate habit of oversharing their secrets with Henry, who is rarely of any help, but takes great delight in hinting at these secrets to the other; he would never, however, share them. It is far too interesting watching them live their lives in fear. Dorian is ruled by emotion, and Basil, once a host unto himself, is now ruled by Dorian. Henry stands above the pair of them, watching them dance around the heart of their issues.

“Harry, it is getting to be too much for me,” Basil says, as he paces. They are both so incredibly histrionic. “I did not leave Dorian yesterday until gone midnight! Midnight, I say, Harry. It was far too much time in his presence. I was spoiled, and now I am having a horrible day, for I haven’t yet seen him.”

“My dear Basil,” Henry says in his calm, cooling, lazy tone, his equanimity failing to conciliate Basil, “I am afraid you are making a fuss about nothing. You shall see Dorian again very soon, perhaps later this very day, and not having seen him this particular morning is nothing to get in such a state about. You are so incredibly peculiar! It has been less than twelve short hours since you saw him last.”

“I cannot stop thinking of him, Harry,” Basil answers, stopping from his pacing to turn and look at Henry. Henry pities Basil and the impossibility of his love for Dorian. Basil has never said so explicitly what he wants and how he feels, but the flowery, roundabout way he had told it to Henry nevertheless leads to the same conclusion. “It is tormenting me. All night, it tormented me! I have lost interest in any art that is not of him. My blood boils when I think of the fact that others might be spending time in his company, while I am here.”

“Perhaps you should invite him over to dinner,” Henry suggests, knowing that this will not help the larger problem, which is one that Henry can unfortunately not solve. Basil will never be able to be with Dorian; it is a fact of life. They would bring themselves to ruin attempting it, and would be sorry for having done so. They could enjoy some pleasure together, of course, but Henry knows that Basil longs for every morning, every day, and every night; that he longs to keep Dorian away from other contenders for his affection, and no such things are going to happen.

“Harry, I hope you aren’t finding entertainment in my sorrow. You know not of how painful this feeling is, of how upset I truly am!” Basil exclaims, tossing his head. “I feel that I will only be satisfied if Dorian and I were to die, and be buried side-by-side, but of course, I do not truly wish him dead.”

Henry is almost, but not quite, made speechless by this very extreme description of love and possessiveness. Basil’s ability to suppress these feelings and allow Dorian to live his life are quite admirable, although Henry is aware that Basil has a few times had fits of jealousy that have confused Dorian, and they have usually been over Henry himself.

Henry laughs. “My dear fellow! You ought to lie down with a cold cloth upon your head and pray that brings you to your senses. What a thing to say! There must be something else that would satisfy you.”

Basil is quiet, and goes to sit upon a stool, as his eyes close, his forehead lined with thought.

“You know that none of my wishes could ever be, Harry. I know you know,” Basil says softly, and Henry doesn’t answer, taking a drag on his cigarette and allowing them to sit in silence. He feels that Basil needs to have a good, long think about what practical thing he could do to cease this nonsense. Henry thinks that a proper conversation with Dorian is in order, but he knows that Basil would disagree. It is almost upsetting, however, for Henry to see Basil in a state of such great distress and heartbreak. Although he shouldn’t like to confess it out loud, he is worried about Basil. He wishes he could help.

Later that day, Henry is with Dorian, as both of them were invited to Lord Acton’s country estate for the afternoon, along with a few other gentlemen. Unfortunately, half an hour or so into their meeting, Lord Acton proposed they all do a little hunting, which upset Dorian greatly.

“Hunting!” Dorian mutters, as though he is above such things. There are sat at a table watching the other men all gather to attempt to eliminate the nearest poor pheasant. Henry wasn’t particularly interested in hunting either, but he is taking no moral high ground about it.

“You mustn’t frown like that, Dorian. You will get wrinkles,” Henry tells Dorian knowingly, passing Dorian a lit cigarette, which he takes a temperamental drag of.

“What does Acton take us for? Savages? It is not my job to shoot a pheasant! Who wants to see the poor thing die? It is enough to put one off eating a pheasant again,” Dorian is muttering, stamping his foot in quite a petulant manner. “Indeed, it almost makes one sympathise with vegetarians.”

“Now, let us not be dramatic, Dorian,” Henry says, watching the men. He will be surprised if they make a success of it. None of them appear as though they could shoot straight to save their lives.

“Harry, what are we still lingering about here for?” Dorian huffs, and Henry turns his head to gaze at Dorian. He attempts, for a moment, to think like Basil; to think that he could not survive happily for a moment if Dorian were to leave him. However, he simply cannot do it. If Dorian were to walk away, Henry would be disappointed, but would for be moved to follow him, as he is curious about the hunting skills of their confrères.

“I would like to see if they are successful, my dear boy,” Henry answers, turning away from Dorian’s fair, comely face. Dorian is certainly nubile, but still Henry cannot understand why Basil is quite as upset as he is. Dorian is present in his life, and is that not quite enough? Henry is perfectly happy with the pleasure of looking upon Dorian’s pretty face merely a few times a week (although he does see Dorian most days), and would not mind at all if Dorian were not even to speak to him. Dorian is not a creature made for thinking or expressing opinions, he is only an ornament, albeit a very fascinating one.

“Oh, I would not, Harry!” Dorian cries, sounding horrified by the very idea that he might have to bear witness to the assassination of a pheasant. “I would not like to see it at all! How ugly it must be!”

“Indeed, Dorian; you are quite right,” Henry agrees. It will surely be an absolutely hideous sight, enough to turn one’s stomach. “There is a possibility your constitution is far too delicate for this. I shouldn’t like to see your lovely features troubled by an unbecoming sight. Perhaps you should go to Basil’s; I am quite certain he said he was free to-day.”

Dorian nods a little, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Indeed, Harry, I shall go there. But I hope very much that you will join us later, for it is never quite the same without you.”

Henry smiles, turning again to Dorian as somebody shoots, the sound making Dorian jump about a foot and get to his feet.

“I am sure that I will see you, Dorian. Now go on ahead,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, and so Dorian hurries away without a good-bye to Lord Acton. Henry will make some excuse for him.

Basil is feeling inconsolable when his valet walks into the studio, and he is intending to immediately dismiss him, when words he did not at all expect are spoken.

“Mr Dorian Gray is here to see you, sir. Shall I send him in?” the valet asks, and Basil sits up a little straighter in front of his easel, swallowing.

“Oh, yes, certainly. Send him in immediately,” Basil answers, a feeling of joy coming over him. Dorian! He has come again to see Basil! What an absolute treat, Basil thinks to himself, mood improving greatly, but unfortunately Dorian does not seem to share this positive feeling as the sound of his button-up boots hitting the ground fills the room.

“Oh, Basil! You will not believe where I have just come from!” Dorian says, as soon as he enters the room, going to throw himself onto the divan. “It was most horrid, most horrid indeed! Lord Acton invited myself and a few other men, Harry included, to his country estate for the afternoon; however he neglected to mention that he expected us to hunt with him! Can you imagine, Basil! I have never held a gun in my life.”

Basil most certainly cannot imagine Dorian, sweet Dorian, getting a gun and shooting some poor bird. It would be entirely out of the question. He also cannot imagine Henry doing it, but only because Henry thinks that such things are medieval.

“Don’t upset yourself about it, Dorian. Just tell Lord Acton that you don’t hunt and not to invite you to do so again,” Basil answers.

Dorian huffs, rolling onto his back to turn his head to look at Basil. His golden curls are falling to the side elegantly, his hands fiddling with his tie pin.

“How has your day been, Basil?” Dorian asks, after a moment of simply watching Basil, who is trying his very best not to think again of his dream from last night.

“Quiet. I’ve been in my studio all day,” Basil answers. He glances back at the easel, and when he turns to see Dorian again, Dorian is making his way across the room to Basil, to stand right next to where Basil is sat.

“You really need to stop spending so much time holed up in here, Basil. You are in here even when not working!” Dorian says, touching Basil’s shoulder. “Don’t you recall what a wonderful day we had yesterday, out and about?”

Basil wants to tell Dorian that the day would have been improved if they were in the studio, if Dorian allowed Basil to paint him again, but says no such thing. He fears it would offend Dorian.

“Having your company all day was exquisite. I didn’t care whether we were out or not,” Basil answers, and Dorian tuts, rolling his eyes, as though Basil is being completely exasperating. “I am quite serious, Dorian.”

“Sometimes I feel as though I am the only thing that brings you any joy,” Dorian days, frowning. Basil wants to tell him that that is perfectly true; other things that once brought him joy now pale in comparison to Dorian. To Basil, Dorian is everything. Of course nobody understands.

“Dorian...” Basil begins, intending to say something that would make Dorian feel better, but they are interrupted by Basil’s valet walking in and announcing Henry’s arrival. Basil is a little crestfallen, but Dorian is not.

“Harry!” Dorian cries, delighted, as Henry strides into the room, dropping his hand from Basil’s shoulder. “Oh, you really have come to join us! I thought perhaps you only said you might to disappoint by not ever showing up.”

“No, I am indeed here, Dorian,” Henry confirms, looking at Basil, who glances down, feeling somehow exposed and ashamed. “What are we doing hiding in the studio? Let us go out into the garden. You know you have the most wonderful garden, Basil; what is your man called? You shall have to give me his name.”

“I will do so later, Harry,” Basil says, standing up, abandoning his painting for a moment to go into the garden with the other two. “Tell us, did Lord Acton succeed in acquiring dinner?”

“Oh, I see Dorian told you about that,” Henry chuckles. “No, I’m afraid he didn’t; Thomas Keppel managed it, though. You know him, with the absolutely dreadful receding hairline? Yes, him. Well, he managed to shoot the bird, and upon confirming it was definitely dead, I made my leave.”

“Oh, how horrible, Harry!” Dorian says, going to sit in the grass amongst the daisies, looking up at Henry with a most distressed look upon his face. Basil sits on the bench instead, and Henry joins him. “How glad I am that I left! I simply could not have bared to look! I suppose they all now think I’m rather sensitive.”

Dorian is sensitive, but Basil wouldn’t like to insult him by saying so. He certainly feels that there is nothing wrong with not wanting to see one’s dinner in any other state than cooked and on the plate.

“Ah, you mustn’t worry about their opinions, Dorian. They cannot take anything from you,” Henry says. “You are adored in our society, as of right now at least, and gaining a reputation for being a little sensitive isn’t going to harm you.”

Dorian sighs, tipping his head back to turn his face to the sun, and Basil watches him. How he shines under the light! How beautiful he is! Henry is correct that Basil should consider himself lucky for seeing Dorian regularly at all; but it is still true that Basil cannot settle on days where he doesn’t see Dorian. Days like that always seem a little dull, they make him wonder what the point is, really, of being alive.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Basil,” Henry murmurs, when Basil’s been staring a bit too long. Henry doesn’t understand, he knows. Basil can’t help being hurt by being unable to ever be with Dorian, or by the fact that Dorian often seems to prefer Henry. It is natural human emotion, impossible to ignore. But Henry would disagree; Henry would say, as he does, that Basil needs to rule his emotions, and to change them. It isn’t that easy.

Chapter Text

Henry stays behind at Basil’s when Dorian leaves, which rather worries Basil. He doesn’t want one of Henry’s long lectures about emotions and hedonism and loving one’s life; it is too difficult. Henry has never known love this deep and unattainable, Basil is certain. Henry seems to have never known real love at all.

“Don’t you need to get home, Harry?” Basil asks, sat on the divan, as Henry joins him after bidding Dorian farewell.

“Certainly, but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to, Basil,” Henry answers. Basil has never painted Henry, which strikes him as odd suddenly; he cannot imagine having to stare at Henry for an extended amount of time, drawing his freckles and slicked-back hair, his wicked smirk and long legs. It would make Basil feel rather ill without a doubt. He is inferior to Henry, visually. He knows that.

“Do you have something to say to me, Harry?” Basil asks, feeling agitated by the way that Henry is watching him, a calculating look in his eye.

“I do, Basil. What I have to say is this,” Henry says, sitting up a little straighter as he moves to say whatever it is he feels he needs to. “If you will not confess your feelings to Dorian, then somebody else will beat you to it, Basil. Don’t be a coward. Don’t live with regrets.”

Henry pats Basil on the back as Basil swallows, frightened by Henry so explicitly mentioning it out loud, by feeling backed into the corner of doing something, saying something. He knows that he could never make a move on Dorian; he could perhaps confess, bit would never feel right about dragging Dorian down with him.

Basil gets no chance to respond as Henry stands up to leave, just as Dorian did, and walks away, leaving Basil to his paintings and to the shiver down his spine. Henry might be right. These feelings cannot go on.

“Must you always abandon me at these things?” Dorian cries, after seeking Henry out, after Henry left him to the tiresome chatter of Lady Goodbury some forty-five minutes before. “You know what Lady Goodbury is like, Harry. She speaks for so long! All of these people can never have a simple ten minute conversation. They insist on holding one captive for at least a half hour!”

They are at the birthday party of Lord Radley, an extravagant affair that seems to entirely lack in any scandal or excitement. Dorian cannot help but wonder why he bothered to go.

“Rather a lot of them only do so because it is you, Dorian. They are charmed by your nature,” Henry answers indifferently, utterly unapologetic. He never apologises for anything on principle, but Dorian finds it irritating. “I must admit Lady Goodbury has never kept me for over forty minutes.”

Dorian huffs, glancing around the party. He is bored. Terribly, terribly bored, and he can see that Henry isn’t having a particularly fun time either.

“Harry, have you seen Basil since the pheasant hunting day?” Dorian asks, which is what he has begun to refer to that day as; although the only truly relevant thing about that day is that it was the last time Dorian saw Basil, just over two weeks ago. “It is so odd that I haven’t seen him, Harry. Usually he likes to see me, yet he hasn’t sought out my company even once.”

“Basil does like to disappear mysteriously now and then,” Henry answers, sipping his glass of champagne. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, my dear boy. If it is pestering you, perhaps you should send him a note.”

Dorian nods in agreement. That would be a sensible thing to do. He watches Henry look at the party, and feels a strange aching in his chest. How much Henry has changed his life! Dorian sees him practically every day, and he is bored when Henry isn’t around. He is, other than Basil, Dorian’s best friend; Dorian can tell Henry anything, as long as he doesn’t expect Henry to be sympathetic.

“Harry,” Dorian says, as Henry starts to guide them away from the drinks table where they were standing, out into the hall where there are only a few people around; they stand in the doorway next to the foot of the staircase. “Might I ask you something?”

“You may always ask me anything, Dorian,” Henry answers, looking intrigued. “In fact, I pray that you do. What is it?”

“How do you feel about me?” Dorian asks, tilting his head. The curiosity had suddenly come over him, without any build-up. It is not a question that has tormented him. But now he has thought of it, he longs to know.

Henry seems amused, laughing and taking a drag on his cigarette. “Why, Dorian! I am sure you know how I feel. I think that you are both exquisite and deeply interesting. You are my perfect accessory, ever complimenting my outfit with your extraordinary good looks.”

Dorian smiles a little, glancing down. “I know that you think I am beautiful, Harry. You have told me. What do you mean by interesting?”

Henry looks more intrigued than ever. Dorian feels a little embarrassed and exposed, his cheeks flushing. If Henry understands him now, at least he is not angry, at least he isn’t running away; but Dorian knew that Henry would understand.

“What I mean by interesting, Dorian, is that I couldn’t easily explain my feelings in a sentence or two. You are far too complex for that,” Henry answers. Dorian feels a little warm, but perhaps it is the alcohol. It is certainly a different feeling than the one he experiences around Basil, but it is strong, nevertheless.

“I hope you will never leave me, Harry. I need you,” Dorian says. He feels as though Basil has abandoned him. He doesn’t want to be abandoned by them both.

“You must learn never to need anyone,” Henry answers, turning away to exhale his cigarette.

“But I do, Harry,” Dorian answers. He cannot help that he needs people. Dorian feels that as long as he has one constant person in his life, he will be fine, and he thinks that it could be Henry. He thought—he hoped—for a while that it would be Basil. He wishes it could be both. He hopes to see Basil again soon.

“Kelso ruined you. He made you this sensitive,” Henry answers, with a sigh, and Dorian frowns, feeling a little rejected. Then Henry turns to him with an unexpected grin. “But of course, Dorian, I will not abandon you.”

Dorian grins back, delighted, wanting to hug him but knowing that Henry doesn’t appreciate hugs, and the people surrounding them would likely find it strange. Henry seems to sense this desire in him and pats Dorian’s arm consolingly, and they go back to involving themselves in the party.

Basil is startled to receive a note from Dorian, who he has been avoiding, in an attempt to quell his feelings. Unfortunately it hasn’t been working—he thinks of Dorian more than ever, he dreams of his touch, and wakes up red and sweating—but he feels ashamed to see Dorian again after hiding for so long. He opens the note.

Dearest Basil,

I have not seen you for over two weeks! I cannot remember the last time we went so long without speaking. I suspect we never have, not since we met. I have been missing you.

Harry and I had the most wonderful time at Lord Radley’s birthday. Of course the party was boring, the people tiresome, but Harry was so charming to me. We spent the whole night together, other than an unfortunate forty-five minutes during which I was accosted by Lady Goodbury. After that, however, we were absolutely inseparable. You should have come! Hiding away is absolutely no good for you. I hope you are not ill? I pray you at least have the good manners to answer this note.

Yours, Dorian

Basil swallows, looking at the note, the affectionate way that Dorian signed it off. Then he thinks of how he raved about Henry, and knows that Dorian was attempting, successfully, to make him jealous. Basil could be so close to Dorian, if his pride would only allow him go. Instead Henry is the one spending all his time with the boy.

Basil burns with jealousy. He knows that Dorian would take some pleasure in bringing him such pain—Dorian always delighted in his ability to make Basil feel, whether the emotions were good or bad. If Dorian is upset with Basil for not speaking to him, then his sadistic edge is likely present as of the moment.

If only Henry had never met Dorian! Basil feels that that would somehow solve everything. Those days in the studio might have lasted. They might have been happy. A third person in the picture always ruins things, for at least one is bound to occasionally be left out. Of course, this particular time, it is all Basil’s own doing.

He sits down to write a returning note to Dorian, not wanting to leave him feeling ignored. That would certainly upset Dorian very much.

Dear Dorian,

I am sorry to have not seen you recently. I have, in truth, been a little ill, but you know how I like to keep things to myself. I didn’t mean to worry you. I have missed you also.

I will cease to lock myself away, and will come to see you again soon. Perhaps I will see if you are around tomorrow morning? We used to visit each other exceptionally early to have breakfast together. I wonder if you can recall that now?

Please expect me, Dorian. I am sorry to have stayed away. Again—I cannot describe how much I have missed your presence.

Yours eternally, Basil

Basil sends his valet out with the note, and tries not to think on it too hard. He couldn’t have ignored Dorian forever, stayed away forever. It hasn’t been a helpful tactic anyway. It is certainly not a mature one.

He is excited, nevertheless, that he might see Dorian this next morning, that perhaps they might pass a few hours talking. It will revitalise his life, and his art, to see Dorian again. That is a certainty.

Dorian is in the drawing room, reading the book given to him by Henry, when Basil arrives. Dorian woke up early this morning especially, as usually he likes to sleep in until late, but it has been so long since he has seen Basil. It is not even nine o’clock, but they used to get together even earlier, sometimes as early as six o’clock in the morning—Dorian would whine, complain, and sleep on Basil’s shoulder in the hansom they were taking to wherever they were going, but it was pleasant to watch the sun rise together.

He puts the book away before Basil comes in, and gets up to meet him in the hall. After dismissing his valet, he walks over and kisses Basil’s cheek, just as he used to.

“Basil! I am delighted to see you. I was beginning to think that you were avoiding me,” Dorian says, taking Basil’s hands, who smiles weakly.

“Of course not, Dorian. I could never avoid you,” Basil answers, kissing Dorian’s cheek briefly in return. Dorian feels Basil’s stubble against his own, perfectly clean-shaven jaw.

“Where are we going? Are we going anywhere at all?” Dorian asks, and links his arm with Basil’s, who starts to lead them outside, where his hansom is still waiting.

“We are going to that sunflower field we used to visit. It is a beautiful day,” Basil says, as the driver opens the door for them to get into the hansom. Dorian allows Basil to get in first, and follows him, sitting close.

“How long will we be there? Are you bringing food?” Dorian asks, and Basil nods at a picnic basket on the seat next to him. “Oh, I see, how charming! A picnic. How I used to love it when we had those; I know I complained an awful lot, but I did. I haven’t had a picnic in what seems like an eternity. I am always dining somewhere with somebody.”

“Usually Harry,” Basil says sadly. Dorian arches his brow elegantly, but he is pleased to see that his note had the desired effect. Basil is easily made to be jealous, and it is easy to use such feelings against him.

“Harry is my best friend, Basil,” Dorian answers, and says nothing more. Nothing to comfort Basil into believing he is equally appreciated; Dorian still wants to punish Basil a little for ignoring him for so long. It is a thrill to notice how much one’s words and actions effect those around one. Dorian loves nothing more.

“I am certain that he is, Dorian,” Basil says, whatever emotion he may be feeling about it failing to show.

“You must come to opera with us some night, Basil. I miss when we would all be together. The pair of you are always so entertaining,” Dorian says, nudging Basil playfully and shifting to lean against him.

“We’ll see, Dorian,” Basil answers, and the tenseness in his body disappears as he relaxes against Dorian. They cease to speak of Henry again for the morning; and what was an early morning trip turns into the late afternoon.

Away from the crowds, away from their peers, Dorian finds it easy to be affectionate with Basil, resting his cheek on Basil’s shoulder as they pick at grapes and figs and sandwiches, their hands intertwined. As Dorian is wishing he could stay in this moment forever, he wonders if this is what it’s like to truly be in love. Then he realises that this moment would turn grey if he thought he would never see Henry again. Perhaps, Dorian considers, just perhaps—he loves them both.

Dorian leaves Basil at around 5 o'clock, and by midnight, he and Henry are leaving the club in a hansom, and Dorian is a little bit drunk. The day has felt very long, very full of realisation. It has been a good day for Dorian really.

He listens to Henry’s slightly drunken philosophising as they return to Grosvenor Square, asking the occasional question; he is always interested in what Henry has to say, and Henry has such a pleasant voice to hear when one is drunk and tired.

“Basil and I went to the sunflower field, a while away, before nine o’clock in the morning,” Dorian murmurs to Henry, smoking one of Henry’s cigarettes absently. “We were together until five... Harry, I cannot tell you enough about how it felt, or the realisations I had...”

Henry holds his finger to his lips, nodding at the driver. As they pull up to Grosvenor Square, Henry pays the driver a little extra, and goes inside with Dorian.

“Continue,” Henry says, when the door is closed, the valet isn’t around, and they are perfectly alone in the hall.

“I felt so much care for him, Harry. It was though my heart was aching with it,” Dorian explains, walking up to his bedroom and allowing Henry to follow him, despite the impropriety of it. “I wanted to stay in the moment forever.”

“That’s very interesting, Dorian,” Henry says as they walk into Dorian’s room, and Dorian closes the door. “Perhaps you missed him more than you knew.”

“I suspect so, Harry. But what is more—” Dorian begins, and goes over to Henry, gently gripping Henry’s collar, who looks a little startled, but very on board with it. “What is more is that I realised the moment couldn’t he perfect unless it was the three of us. I couldn’t be truly happy unless you were there, also, to contrast Basil. Of course you would have entirely ruined our delightful conversation with your stories, but your stories are wonderful. Your voice is wonderful. Harry, I think that you... I think that you are wonderful.”

There is a silence as Dorian gazes, desperately, worriedly, up into Henry’s eyes, as Henry levels his dancing, amused eyes back at Dorian. Dorian knows his life would feel perfectly empty without Henry in it, and so he leans forward, recklessly, to kiss him.

Henry doesn’t hesitate in returning the gesture, having of course expected it from the lead-up in Dorian’s eyes, from their closeness. Henry is a marvellous kisser, and he rests his hands on Dorian’s waist to hold him still as Dorian clings to Henry’s collar, wanting and yearning.

“Harry,” Dorian breathes, after a minute or two of kissing him, face flushed, “Harry, Harry, you must stay. You must stay with me to-night. Please.”

“The way you beg is charming, but you needn’t,” Henry answers, rubbing Dorian’s waist in a gentle, comforting way. “You are far too delectable for me to leave without exploring you properly. I have always wondered how you would look in the throes of ecstatic passion.”

“You must make sure to find out,” Dorian answers, and his back presses against the wall as Henry pins him to it, holding Dorian’s wrists above his head and kissing him once more.

This is right, Dorian thinks to himself, as Henry’s tall body presses up against his own. This is the right thing, this is where I am meant to be.

He thinks of Basil throughout the night, and he is sure that Henry must, too. But neither of them speak his name, neither wish to acknowledge their betrayal. Basil’s friendship is far too important to them both.

Chapter Text

Henry wakes up in Dorian’s bed, a feeling of satisfaction within him that he has managed to satisfy one of his questions about the boy. Dorian is, indeed, excellent in bed, curious and exploring, and Henry had a marvellous time teaching secrets to Dorian that he was unaware of. They were kept busy for hours.

Of course, there is a certain guilt about it. Henry likes to think that Victoria would not be bothered, although he would never confess to caring out loud. He doesn’t like to think of Basil at all, who most definitely would be bothered, whether he would admit it or not. Within Henry, though, is a strange, terrible desire to tell Basil everything about the experience, to see how Basil would respond, if it would shock him out of cowardice.

“Thank you for staying with me, Harry,” Dorian murmurs, and it is only then that Henry becomes conscious of the boy lying on his side, gazing at Henry, who has been staring at the ceiling. “I... I had a most wonderful night with you. I have never experienced anything quite like it.”

“You have many more things to experience in your life, Dorian. But I am pleased that this experience is one you’ve enjoyed,” Henry answers, and wraps his arm around Dorian when Dorian shifts and nods for Henry to do so. Henry is intrigued by him, and so is willing to abide by what Dorian wants. He also, now, feels affection for Dorian beyond what he has felt before. Dorian is now, whether for one time or many, Henry’s lover, and he seems so vulnerable all of a sudden.

“I would like our relationship to... not change. I so enjoy our friendship, Harry,” Dorian says, watching his fingers trace across Henry’s chest. “However I do hope this isn’t a one-off occurrence, because I did really have fun, Harry, I just don’t want you to think differently of me. Or to stop talking to me.”

“Dorian, I will always talk to you. I hope you don’t mean that you’re frightened that I’ll start to dismiss you as nothing more than my whore?” Henry cries, almost offended that Dorian would think he would do such a thing. “I am far too objective for that. You are as fascinating as ever, and remain as good a listener as you are a fuck. So I will continue to talk to you, Dorian, and we will dine together regularly and go to the opera together as usual.”

Dorian grins, reaching over to kiss Henry’s shoulder. “Oh, good, Harry! I truly do like you very much, I... yes. I like you.”

Henry doesn’t answer, not wanting to prompt Dorian into saying anything unnecessary, and takes Dorian’s hand to kiss. They are traitors, Henry knows. Traitors to Basil. Although what for, exactly, Henry doesn’t know—have they betrayed Basil by committing this act, or by not inviting him to join in? Which part would be more upsetting? Basil was scared of this all along, and now it has happened, and they all must deal with the possible fallout.

When Dorian goes over for tea at Basil’s, a few days later, Basil notices that Dorian is in an absolutely vibrant mood and on top form. Basil is delighted to see him. He knows that this hour or two they spend together will brighten his whole day, and he woke up looking forward to it.

“You are quite wonderful to-day, Dorian; quite wonderful indeed,” Basil says, as they are drinking tea in the studio, the windows and doors all open so that the perfume of the flowers comes into the room, and makes it feel so much more alive than usual. But then perhaps it is Dorian creating that effect. “Would I be vain to think you are just happy to see me?”

“I am always delighted to see you, Basil; I should hope that you know that,” Dorian answers, sipping his floral tea. He rests his cheek on Basil’s shoulder the way he always does, and Basil can almost feel happiness radiating off of him, and it makes Basil feel warm.

“I feel quite the same way,” Basil answers, and imagines for a moment running his fingers through Dorian’s blonde curls, kissing his temple. He dismisses that line of thought before it goes somewhere he doesn’t want to, while he isn’t alone. His dreams of Dorian should remain private; the way he wakes up always feeling as though he could fly, hand between his legs to release himself, false memories of his lips on Dorian’s inner thighs running through his mind, of himself inside Dorian, making love to Dorian, slow and gentle, as though Dorian is made of glass, while they moan and sigh.

No, he mustn’t think of it, not now, with Dorian right beside him. He mustn’t imagine that he lay Dorian down upon the divan at this moment to do it, that it would be so easy. He couldn’t do that to Dorian; involve him in his criminal thoughts.

“You should come to the opera with Harry and I tonight,” Dorian says, looking up at Basil. “You told me you would think about coming one of these days, remember?”

Basil isn’t sure whether he wants to go or not, but he knows how badly Dorian wishes for him to, and it flatters him. Not to mention, he doesn’t like to deny Dorian. Basil takes joy in giving him whatever he pleases.

“Alright, Dorian. I will go,” Basil says, and Dorian grins, clapping his hands with excitement and kissing Basil’s cheek. Basil blushes softly, tries to imagine that he will have a good evening, with his two best friends. Even he doesn’t understand why it sounds, to him, to be so completely dreadful.

Later that evening, as he is on his way to the opera, Dorian is feeling quite excited. What a marvellous night it will be! The three of them together once more, just as it should be! He is perfectly delighted. He was worried that Basil didn’t like to go out with them anymore.

Of course, he is a little concerned that Basil might discover he and Henry’s secret. Of course they haven’t really wronged Basil technically—Dorian and Basil aren’t dating, after all—but Dorian feels somehow like is punishing Basil for never acting on his feelings. For treating Dorian as though he is too pure for such things. Dorian likes sex, he likes having fun, and he doesn’t want to be in a glass box upon a pedestal. He wishes Basil would understand that, and simply ravish him, but alas Basil will not—Henry will, though. And Henry does so very well.

Dorian enjoys the romance of the sneaking around, the privacy, the just-between-us attitude of it all. It makes him feel closer to Henry. Henry isn’t one for affectionate, though. He will hold Dorian only if Dorian somehow asks for it, and he always does, because he likes being held by Henry. It makes him feel safe. Nobody but Basil and Henry have ever made him feel safe. It is a wonderful feeling.

“Good evening, Dorian,” Henry says, when Dorian arrives and approaches him, noticing him immediately amongst all the people. Henry is so handsome. “You’re here before Basil.”

“And you were here before me,” Dorian answers, laughing. Henry is usually late, but the fact that he isn’t late tonight really mixes things up, preventing him from becoming too consistent. Being late every time would become dull and predictable.

“I am pleased Basil has agreed to join us tonight. I’ve rather missed his company,” Henry says, and Dorian nods in agreement, touching Henry’s arm absently, who is watching Dorian with a curious eye. “You are looking absolutely radiant tonight, Dorian. It fascinates me how you never seem to lower your standards for yourself.”

“If I would like to look like this forever, and I would very much like that, then I need to put in my best effort,” Dorian answers, and Henry laughs, as if such a thing is ridiculous. Dorian longs to share the secret of his painting with Henry, but he knows he would sooner share it with Basil. “Don’t laugh, Harry. You mustn’t mock me.”

“Mock you? Never, my dear fellow! I am only delighted by your optimism; simply delighted,” Henry answers, with his lazy grin.

It is around then that Basil shows up, and Dorian drops his hand from Henry’s arm to go over and kiss Basil’s cheek, as usual, while Henry stays leaning against the wall, observing the exchange.

“Dorian, you look ravishing,” Basil says with great meaning. “Absolutely exquisite. The light flatters you excellently. Hello, Harry.” He turns to acknowledge Henry as well.

“Basil! I was so glad you agreed to come,” Henry says, walking over and clapping Basil gently on the back. “How long it’s been! I wonder if you’ve just been very busy with work? That would be tiresome, but good news for you, I suppose.”

“You needn’t worry about why I haven’t been coming out with you, Harry. Nor you, Dorian. I assure you, it isn’t interesting,” Basil says, and Dorian notices Henry’s eyes flash with what seems to be understanding, as though he caught some hidden meaning. Dorian is jealous of how Basil and Henry understand each other, how long they have known each other. He tries not to think on it too hard.

Dorian is typically affectionate with Basil throughout the night, which is sweet, Basil knows. As they sit in their box, Dorian holds Basil’s hand, and Basil feels as though he is on the inside of a most beautiful secret.

It is halfway through the opera by the time Basil notices that Dorian is holding Henry’s hand, too. That beyond Dorian’s usual plain focus on the opera, or looking at Basil occasionally with batting eyes, he also keeps stealing glances at Henry, his cheeks a little flushed, and that Henry keeps glancing back.

Henry, unsurprisingly, notices Basil noticing, and they share a look as Dorian is trying to pay attention to the opera. Henry looks almost guilty, and in that moment Basil has a terrible thought. Quite the worst thought he has had in a while.

“Will you excuse me just a moment?” Basil asks, and hurries out of the box into the hall, dropping Dorian’s hand. He tries to collect his thoughts. He must surely have it wrong, it can’t be true. Henry wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Basil collapses against the wall, crouching down with his back to it.

It has been a few minutes, maybe longer, when Henry follows Basil, and stands staring down at Basil for a moment. He must think that Basil is so deeply pathetic.

“Out in the hallway all by yourself, Basil?” Henry asks after a moment, the knowledge of what Basil has realised weighing heavily on his words. “Please share.”

Basil swallows, and doesn’t know what to say, which makes Henry walk closer, and crouch down in front of him. He looks sympathetic to some degree, but also fascinated, like Basil’s heartbreak is a matter of scientific curiosity.

“Harry, if I’m imagining things, you must tell me. If I am not, you must tell me that, too,” Basil answers after a quiet moment. “You must promise to tell me the truth.”

“I’ll try my best, my dear Basil,” Henry answers, and Basil glances down, almost ashamed to ask. What if he’s wrong? He’d seem ridiculous.

“Are you... you and Dorian...” Basil begins, voice catching a bit. He tries not to imagine it, but can’t help it. Henry kissing Dorian, holding Dorian. Pinning Dorian down and ruining him, oh God! “Harry, are you sleeping with Dorian?”

Henry stares at Basil. He narrows his eyes a little, and dismissively waves his hand, in that so particular way that he does. For a moment, Basil sees what Dorian might. Henry is perfectly handsome. Not stunning, not like Dorian; Henry is no work of art, but certainly- beddable.

“You’re paranoid, Basil,” Henry says. His eyes betray the truth, and Basil can tell that Henry knows he’s lying. The knowledge sits between them. “Now, Basil. You mustn’t just sit out here sulking about this. God knows where you got such an idea! Let us re-join Dorian.”

“Harry—” Basil begins, tearfully, but then Dorian appears, having come to search for them, no doubt. He must be awfully curious about what on earth they are doing in the hallway.

“Basil, Harry!” Dorian cries, upon noticing them, crouched on the floor. Henry stands up. “Why are you both hiding back here looking depressed? The point was for us all to be together, yet I am being left out.”

“Dorian, believe me, that is the last thing that’s happening,” Basil says, rising heavily to his feet as well. He feels sick with jealousy. Is Dorian in love with Henry? Is it simply a physical relationship? Henry promised to try his best not to lie, yet Basil’s sure he did. Why couldn’t Henry tell the truth? Surely he knows Basil would never turn them in to the authorities?

“Basil, is there something wrong?” Dorian answers, walking over and taking Basil’s hands in his own gloved ones. Basil looks at Dorian’s face, his beautiful scarlet lips, and imagines them on Henry, all over Henry. Imagines how Henry would take it for granted and murmur grandiose compliments of Dorian’s beauty without any true feeling in them.

“I’m feeling a little ill, Dorian,” Basil explains. It makes Dorian frown, and Henry touches Basil’s shoulder.

“Try to go back into our box, see if you feel any better with a distraction,” Henry suggests. “Come on, old friend.”

Nothing could distract Basil from the visions in his mind, from his pain, from his lust. He has never wanted Dorian as badly as he does now, and it physically hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. Henry has beat him to it. Henry has won. Henry is the superior man, and Dorian’s clear favourite.

“I can’t. I can’t,” Basil answers, and turns and walks away, as fast as he can. He hears Dorian call out his name, hurt evident in his voice, but he doesn’t turn back, he just stumbles blindly out of the opera and into the night.

Chapter Text

The night sky is dark, and tonight Dorian can’t see any stars no matter how long he looks. Stood against his balcony doorframe, he gazes out, dressed in only his deep blue and emerald silk robe. Lying on his bed behind him is Lord Henry Wotton, smoking as ever.

Dorian is far more attracted to Henry than he ever expected to be. It has only gotten worse since he discovered how good Henry is in bed, and there is something of the feeling of a couple about them. But Dorian is sad, and he knows that Henry is, too—he must be, beneath the indifferent front he so carefully puts on.

“Harry,” Dorian says, into the silence. They’ve had sex twice, and Dorian would like to go again, but perhaps in a moment. After they’ve spoken first. “Basil knows, doesn’t he? That’s why he ran out tonight, claiming to be sick.”

“I told him it wasn’t true, but we both knew I was lying,” Henry answers, sighing, and Dorian looks away from the starless night, and back to the elegant man lying on his bed.

“We are missing something without him. I am missing something,” Dorian says, and Henry hums softly with sympathy. “I know you feel it, Harry. That it would be nice, if he were here too.”

Henry laughs, the sound seeming harsh in the quiet room. He sounds genuinely amused by Dorian’s words.

“Of course you would like him here, in your bedroom with you. He would kiss your feet, suck your cock, and make you feel like nothing less than a God. I say, Dorian! You know you use Basil to stroke your ego,” Henry answers, somewhat cruelly. “Even he knows that.”

Dorian tosses his hair, irritated, but doesn’t deny it. Of course he would like to be worshipped. To an extent, Henry does, but not to the lengths that Basil would if he were here. Dorian has such exceptional power over Basil, and he’s more aware of it than ever.

“He would treat me as though I am made of fine China. You always leave me sore, with bruised lips and neck and thighs, and I like that just fine,” Dorian answers, a little sulkily. He might be understating his enjoyment just a little. He turns and walks back to the bed, climbing on top of Henry and crossing his arms on Henry’s chest, looking down at him. “I would like him here, but you mustn’t talk about me as though I am sadistic, Harry. I only miss him.”

“You are sadistic, Dorian. You like to hurt him,” Henry answers, with his sad smile. “Don’t think that I’m telling you off, though, Dorian. Far from it. I enjoy your kinks. I would be amused, and I’m sure perfectly turned on, to see whatever you would do with whoever might be in your bed.”

Dorian narrows his eyes at Henry, snatching his cigarette off of him and taking a drag. What a complete prat Henry can be! Of course Dorian has long known that, and it doesn’t diminish his interest in the man, but nevertheless, he is a little injured by Henry’s words. Perhaps because there is some true to them, and Dorian can be sadistic; his portrait certainly seems to think so, but it’s cruel expression getting crueller by the day.

“I am throwing a party on Saturday evening, Harry. It is to be a complete smash. You must come,” Dorian says. He longs for a reputation for throwing the wildest of parties, although he’s sure it won’t be good for his public image.

“I will certainly consider it, Dorian,” Henry answers, with his amused smirk. “Now you must shush and kiss me again. Make me forget all but your astounding beauty.”

Dorian kisses Henry obediently, wondering if Henry is thinking about Basil. He is a almost a physical person between then, because Dorian knows that Henry feels guilty. It makes Dorian weirdly, unfairly jealous, considering he was just wishing Basil was there himself. How complicated human emotions are!

Basil feels as though he has been cheated on, which is ridiculous, as he and Dorian weren’t technically involved at all, outside of Basil’s dreams. Basil knows that Dorian and Henry knew that it would hurt him, that it was a backstab; but were they really supposed to hold themselves back on account of Basil? Would that be selfish?

Basil supposes they went home together after the opera, and did all the things that Basil has dreamed of doing with Dorian. This morning, he has woken to find a note from Henry, scrawled a little more messily than usual. It seems that he is suddenly ready to confess the truth, after sleeping on it.

My dearest Basil,

I know that you must feel betrayed. Truly, I know, and so does Dorian. To hurt you was never my intent. You know I would never go out of my way to elicit such an emotion in you! What is happening between Dorian and I happened quickly and unexpectedly, but it doesn’t leave you out.

You know how it pains me to apologise, Basil. I never do. It pains me, in fact, that I am implying any wrongdoing has been done at all. Do not mistake me; I don’t regret, Basil, but I do wish we could have somehow avoided hurting you. You must get back to me, old friend. I am sorry for laying my hands upon what you considered to be yours.

I am a terrible friend, but I plead that you forgive me. I cannot imagine my life without you in it, Basil. Dorian is always talking about you, longing for your company. I need you to know that, Basil. He has referred to his love for more than once. I do not lie, Basil. I quite mean it.

Your friend, Harry

Basil puts the letter down, and his blood burns. The audacity! So soon after Basil had been confiding his feelings for Dorian to Henry, Henry made a move on Dorian himself! When he told Basil to make a move before somebody else did, it wasn’t a warning at all, but a threat!

Basil buries his face in his hands, breaking down into sobs. Has he lost his two closest friends at once? Can he bear to face their pity? Is he willing to forgive them?

There is no letter from Dorian, which only makes Basil all the more inconsolable. Does Henry care about his feelings more than Dorian? Dorian, the inspiration for his art, his muse, the love of his life! He remembers the feeling of Dorian’s hand in his, only yesterday. All the hours they have spent together. Dorian has been corrupted, he isn’t the same as he was when he met Basil—but deep down, somewhere, is the same Dorian. He always did have a cruel streak. Basil has been willing to forgive it in the past, but now he feels that he is being punished.

Dorian, Dorian! Can Basil go on without him? In theory, the question is ridiculous. Of course he can. In practice, however, Basil is sure it would be quite difficult. How dull his life would seem without Dorian! Can he cast aside his pride, just to spend the occasional afternoon with Dorian once more? He considers it, and gets out a piece of paper, to quickly write a note to Dorian.

Dear Dorian,

I am going to keep this brief. I would like to speak to you very much. I assure you, it’s not to tell you off. It is more of s proposition.

Yours eternally, Basil

Basil didn’t mention what time or what day he would like to speak with Dorian in his note, and so Dorian is left to assume that Basil will simply be waiting permanently in his studio. He goes by at four that afternoon, dressed in turquoise and gold, with his short fur coat in the crook of his elbows.

Dorian previously was wracked by guilt and worry, but upon receiving Basil’s letter, he has been filled with a curious calm. He is still wanted. Basil is not dismissing him as a hideous sinner, a traitor.

“Basil, I am here,” Dorian says, rushing into the studio before the valet can announce him. Basil nods that the man can take his leave, before looking at Dorian. “You wanted to speak with me? Basil, I am so pleased! I thought you might be upset with me. I should have known you could never betray me.”

Dorian goes over and tries to give Basil a hug and an affectionate kiss on the cheek, but Basil pushes Dorian away unexpectedly. Surprised, Dorian frowns.

“Basil, nothing has changed between us! You must allow me to greet you as usual,” Dorian says, a little annoyed to be rejected. Nobody rejects Dorian, not ever! “I am sorry that you’re upset about Harry and I, Basil; he explained the problem to me. I would like to make it up to you. Harry doesn’t quite understand why you feel so cheated, but I do, because I know our relationship felt a little bit like—”

“Hush, Dorian,” Basil says, suddenly, cutting Dorian off. His face is flushed with what might be anger. “It’s true that I feel cheated. I must say, I’m pleased to hear that you’ll validate these feelings. I know you know how I feel about you. Harry certainly knows.”

Dorian tilts his head, although of course he knows. The roses are red, and the sun is bright, the lilies beautiful, and Basil Hallward loves Dorian Gray; it is simply fact. Dorian has known for a long time.

“And how is that, Basil?” Dorian asks, wanting Basil to re-examine his feelings, that he might remember why they are there, and forgive Dorian all trespasses. Basil, the painter of his portrait! He is almost God to Dorian, his creator!

“Don’t mock me, Dorian, I beg of you. You know how I feel,” Basil continues to insist. Dorian sits down on the divan with a petulant air, tossing his curls and arching his brow.

“Quite,” Dorian answers, with a little smile, and Basil doesn’t say anything for a moment. Dorian feels power in the knowledge that he hasn’t truly done anything wrong, and Basil loves him. “What was it you wanted to say to me?”

“Let me paint you,” Basil answers, and Dorian gasps softly, surprised. “If you allow me to paint you once more, Dorian, I will forgive you. You know that I am upset, and you understand why. I am offering you redemption.”

“You feel that I have been untrue to some emotional deal we’ve made wordlessly, by sleeping with Harry,” Dorian says. Basil flinches at him saying it so blatantly, but Dorian doesn’t wish to beat around the bush. Basil has made this quite serious now, bringing a new portrait into the matter. “Perhaps because you thought, if I were to ever sleep with a man, it should be you. Or else, perhaps you are only upset because it happens to be Harry. It is no matter either way. You were never confident enough to ask for anything, Basil. That is no fault of mine, and no fault of Harry’s.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Basil argues, slightly red from what Dorian said. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you wanted me to make a move, Dorian, why didn’t you ever make it known? I made my feelings known. However, I know the answer, Dorian. You never made a move, because you thought it would be amusing to watch me attempt to chase you.”

Dorian doesn’t answer for a moment, mulling this over. It is quite true. He wanted to discover whether Basil would ever dare to make the first move, what he would say if he did. Dorian was, and is, supposed to be the one Basil chases; Basil should have gotten on with it. He should have stopped being so frightened.

“It was because you are very conservative, Basil, I thought perhaps I would offend—” Dorian begins, in defence of himself, fine brows knitting together.

“You knew you wouldn’t offend me, Dorian. Don’t pretend like you don’t know how much I love you.”

There’s a silence after Basil says it. Basil looks both stressed and relieved to have finally gotten it out in the open, and Dorian studies him evenly. Basil has chosen his opinion and is clearly, quite upsettingly, sticking to it. Basil would like to paint Dorian again.

“You hurt me, Basil, assuming that I do all these things just to be hideous to you, just to leave you wanting,” Dorian answers, with more passion in his voice. “You know not how much you hurt me! I love you, too. You know that I do. We were meant to know each other, don’t you recall what I said? It was on sight, for me.”

Basil eyes widen with some sort of revelation, and he turns away, which wasn’t what Dorian was hoping he’d do. Dorian rises to his feet and walks over, touching Basil’s shoulder. He smells a little of paint, a little of gin.

“I was scared, Basil, and Harry was there, Harry is always there. You know very well how charming he is,” Dorian says, laughing a little, incredulously. “You know how I admire him. I wish you wouldn’t treat it as a betrayal to you, I still love you. I still wish it could be. You are the one who... you’re upset with me. You needn’t be.”

Basil turns to Dorian again, and they meet eyes. They’re so close to each other. Dorian can see every one of the little imperfections in Basil’s face, and somehow the sight of the blemishes doesn’t bother him.

“Let me paint you again, Dorian. I beg of you. I will never inquire, not to you at least, about your relationship with Harry again if you do this for me,” Basil answers. His voice is heavy with meaning, and Dorian believes him. Basil’s art is an awfully big deal to Basil. All sins would be forgiven in the name of it.

The last time Basil painted Dorian, it inspired so much trouble. Dorian could never explain the extent of the trouble to Basil. But what really could happen, this second time? What else could possibly go wrong? Perhaps this one will be fine. It will be on display. Dorian might even allow Henry to have this one.

“Alright,” Dorian answers, after considering it. Basil looks suddenly so bright, so delighted, at such news. “Since you would like it so much, Basil, I will sit for you. I wonder how you would like me this time? Last time was so simple.”

“There are a million different ways I would like to paint you,” Basil answers, voice sounding awed. Dorian can hardly believe what a gift this second painting seems to be to Basil. “Perhaps one day you will come over and have tea with me, or we will go to the meadow, and I will do a few sketches and think on it. You must come over tomorrow.”

Dorian smiles, and kisses Basil’s cheek just like he had wanted to before. Perhaps the relationships between the three of them can now go, somewhat, back to normal.

Basil’s desire to see Henry remains very low, but Henry comes to visit anyway, the following morning at ten o’clock. Basil is annoyed about it, but looking forward to tea with Dorian later.

“I hear Dorian has charmed his way back into your good graces,” Henry says, finding Basil sat on the seat in his garden, doing some sketches of Dorian’s hands from memory; one hand pressed to his lips, the other buried in his hair. It would be a beautiful portrait, but Basil would likely be unable to show it in polite society without being accused of gross indecency.

“Indeed,” Basil answers, in his deep voice, not looking up from his sketchpad as Henry sits down next to him. He is thinking of Dorian’s lips, imagining that Dorian’s finger might be slightly between his parted lips.

“I like to think that all is well between us, then, Basil?” Henry asks, although Basil still refuses to look at him, and doesn’t answer. “My good man, it is perfectly unfair to only be upset with me, not to mention completely self-serving. I am not stopping you from going after Dorian. If fact, I encourage you!”

“Harry, you have betrayed me. I had only just recently been telling you my feelings about Dorian, and then you go and- and—!” Basil begins, unable to finish his sentence as he blushes furiously and tries not to picture it.

“Got to know him, in the Biblical sense?” Henry suggests, and Basil glares at him. “I didn’t realise you felt so much that you possessed him.”

“You lie, Harry! I told you!” Basil cries. It was the very first thing he really said about Dorian, how possessive, how jealous he felt. He trusted Henry with these feelings, and he went and stomped all over them! “I told you very well how I felt. He is all that matters to me, you know that. Tell me, Harry, what is it like? Are you in love with him? Do you treat him well?”

“I’m afraid he rather likes to be treated badly, so to speak, Basil,” Henry answers. Basil didn’t want to know that at all. “I am not in love with him—not in the traditional sense, at any rate. My feelings about Dorian are reasonably strong, but I shouldn’t like to marry him, and I feel no sense of possession over him. It would be no trouble to me if he tired of sleeping with me, and moved on to somebody else. It would only seem to me to be another one of his charming whims, and we would go back to how we were previously.”

“I am in love with him, Harry,” Basil whispers, as though the trees might overhear, the birds may eavesdrop. “I am more in love with him than I ever have been with anything.”

“I know, Basil, but—” Henry begins, but Basil wishes to hear his thoughts on the matter no longer.

“Get out, Harry! Get out! I know you know, you traitor! You have broken my heart,” Basil yells, standing up. Henry looks quite startled. “Broken it in two. I don’t wish to see you. Don’t come back for now, until I have cooled down. Until I, or until Dorian, has reasoned me out of blaming you for my hurt.”

Henry stands after a moment, clearing his throat. “I do hope we can get past this, Basil. You are my longest, and dearest, friend.” He pats Basil’s shoulder and walks away, back into the studio to make his way off the property. Basil sighs and sits down again, putting the sketchpad down to bury his face in his hands.

Chapter Text

Dorian lays his head in Basil’s lap as they sit in the meadow together, his lips bruised from the night before with Henry. It has been almost a week since Dorian agreed to let Basil paint him, and Dorian has visited Basil every day in some form, so that Basil may properly sketch him. Dorian still longs to have both Henry and Basil in one place at the same time again, but they are unfortunately on the outs. Basil says that Henry “knowingly hurt him and didn’t care”, and Henry claims that Basil is being “being completely melodramatic—after all you were under no contract of monogamy and Basil never said I couldn’t, did he?”

Dorian has tried to reason with both of them to, unfortunately, no avail. Basil will not forgive Henry, and Henry will not apologise and beg for forgiveness, just in case begging works. Dorian admires Henry’s respect for himself, but he is getting tired of their little feud now.

“My apologies that my lips are bruised, Basil. You best sketch something else this morning,” Dorian says, drawing attention to the issue on purpose. He wants it to be normalised between them.

“You should be more fastidious about what you allow your lovers to do with you, Dorian. You mustn’t be mistreated,” Basil says with an even, indifferent tone, although Dorian can hear him holding back some level of emotion. Dorian can’t help but wonder if he and Basil will ever, finally, be lovers. If Basil truly will be irritatingly gentle, and if perhaps that would be nice. He runs his tongue over his lips and tastes the memory of blood, a shiver of pleasure running through him as he does.

“You are only upset because it ruins your sketching, my beloved,” Dorian teases. Now that they’ve confessed their love to each other, Dorian quite openly treats Basil as though they might be dating. He finds it to be harmless fun. Self-indulgent, if you will. But it is an entirely, and unfortunately, sexless love affair. Dorian was hoping that something would change, after Basil learned about Henry, but evidently not.

“Don’t tease, Dorian,” Basil murmurs, so Dorian shifts to an upright position to lean in and see what might be on Basil’s sketchpad. It is a sketch of Dorian’s feet, which are bare; Dorian didn’t even notice Basil looking at them.

“Oh, you like my feet!” Dorian says, stretching his legs out in front of himself and wiggling his toes. He’s only barefoot because he quite enjoys the feeling of the grass against his skin. If it were socially acceptable, he would quite happily lay naked in a field, but then of course one must worry about insects.

“I am focusing on them this morning, yes,” Basil answers, a faint blush covering his cheeks. Dorian recalls Henry teasing Basil about a foot fetish in the past; at the time Dorian wasn’t paying too much attention, but hid heart hurts remembering what fun it was when they were all together.

“Basil?” Dorian asks, resting his cheek on Basil’s shoulder, watching Basil sketch his feet, seeing contours and lines in them that Dorian would never be bothered to notice. Basil is certainly taking an awful lot of care for a sketch.

“Mmm, yes, Dorian?” Basil answers, focusing intently on his sketch. It is awfully boring sitting with an artist while he sketches or paints, especially Basil who is so silent as he does, but Dorian promised, and quality time is rather important.

“Let’s go to Cornwall,” Dorian says, spontaneously. “For a short weekend. Three nights? Then we will be away from any distractions, such as the ball I am going to tonight.” Dorian is always at some party or another.

“You want to go to Cornwall with me for three nights?” Basil asks, lifting his brows in what, assumingly, is surprise.

“Indeed, Basil. There is a house there I can get us a few days in,” Dorian answers, gently patting Basil’s knee, which makes Basil suddenly jump, and Dorian laugh in amusement.

“Yes, alright. That sounds lovely; a getaway,” Basil answers, with a little smile, and Dorian grins as well, kissing his cheek. Part one of the mission accomplished.

“Yes, because that’ll work, Dorian,” Henry sighs, sat with Dorian in the drawing room of Henry’s house in Curzon Street. “A few days in Cornwall and I’ll be forgiven for fucking you. To Basil, it is a cardinal sin that I touched you, he thinks that I have done something evil.”

Dorian seems to find this whole thing flippant, easy. He clearly has absolutely no idea of how much Basil feels that Henry unscrupulously slept with his boyfriend. Of course, Henry would never have done such a thing. They weren’t, and aren’t, dating. It is all down to Basil’s cowardice.

“Basil and I will be alone for a night, then you arrive the next morning,” Dorian suggests, sitting on Henry’s lap. The door to the room is closed, so that any judgemental staff might be kept out. “He will forgive you, Harry, he must. You are old friends. I feel terrible to have separated you.”

“You feel very special to have done so, and you know it,” Henry answers, slightly amused by Dorian’s insistence that he feels guilty. “But I am sure it must have become awfully boring for you. Yes, all this fighting us tedious. Perhaps it will soon be time for me to talk again to Basil and make him understand that no crime has been committed.”

“Exactly,” Dorian answers, deft fingers fiddling absently at Henry’s cravat. Dorian is absolutely incorrigible. Henry rather enjoys it, he feels like some old, powerful king with Adonis pressing loving kisses to his jawline.

“You are most wonderful, Dorian,” Henry murmurs, running his hand through Dorian’s golden locks. “You are, in fact, perfect. You must never stop spoiling me with kisses like this; unless, of course, you lose the desire, in which case you must, in pursuit of honesty and newer sensations.”

“No sensation could ever feel as divine as you, Harry,” Dorian answers, and kisses him, deeply. Dorian has always been devoted to, and fascinated by, Henry; it has never gone unnoticed by the man. It is why Dorian so sweetly sits at his knee, listens to every tale, and commits every act of sin that Henry claims is a good idea. He is perfect for Henry, perfect! He never thinks, he only feels, and he looks beautiful while he does it, which he knows is all Henry ever wants from him. Dorian is the beau idéal.

Dorian is going to make a success of it all. They shall all be friends again, and it will be back to normal, other than the fact that at least two of them will be sleeping together (Dorian does not intend to stop—Henry is far too gifted to let go). Keeping them in close quarters for two nights might help matters. Basil will come to understand that all his rage is absolutely nonsense. He is being jealous and possessive about nothing; it’s only a bit of sex after all.

“It’s such a shame you’re going to Cornwall that weekend, Dorian,” Lady Goodbury says to Dorian, as they sit together drinking tea at a charity event at Lord Babbage’s country estate. Dorian continues to attend them, despite Henry’s protests, he just doesn’t get overly involved. “I was hoping to have a dinner party, but I should like you to be there. I will rearrange the date.”

“How thoughtful of you, Lady Goodbury; I would like that. Your dinner parties are exquisite,” Dorian says, although they are nothing special and the food is always a little boring. Dorian enjoys French cuisine, but not everybody serves it when he has dinner with them.

Lady Goodbury giggles, blushing and looking away modestly. Dorian has the absurd, unprompted thought that he should sleep with her. What he does with women is nobody’s business, certainly not Basil’s, and he would like to see how Lady Goodbury would react to being thoroughly eaten out. Dorian’s eyes darken as he thinks about it, not out of lust for her, only for excitement over the concept. He is sure that Henry would love to hear about it.

“Shall we take a turn about the grounds?” Dorian suggests, gesturing outside, where the day is perfectly warm and sunny. He stands and holds his hand out to her when she agrees, leading her outside.

“I hope my husband doesn’t begin to wonder where I am,” Lady Goodbury says, glancing worriedly back as they walk inside, but Dorian touches just under her chin, immediately getting her attention again.

“He needn’t know your every move. You are your own woman, after all. But alas, I can hardly blame him for being possessive of you, my Lady,” Dorian answers. “You are absolutely divine.”

Lady Goodbury laughs nervously, but leans into his touch and holds onto his arm, taking a right.

Not even an hour later, they have found themselves some way into the maze on the grounds, and Dorian is holding Lady Goodbury—Isabel, as she insists he call her—by the hair, kissing her neck, body pressed up against hers. Dorian knows that he may garner a bad reputation, taking women away from parties for extended amounts of time, but he finds he doesn’t care. Basil will be upset with him if he hears of it, certainly—out of “concern”.

“Isabel, I must take you to bed. Or somewhere with some sort of platform you could lie down upon,” Dorian murmurs, as he kisses her properly again, voice a little muffled. She moans softly in agreement.

A couple hours later, Dorian leaves Lady Goodbury in the billiards room, licking his lips, only to find that the event is over. He hails a hansom and makes his way down to Henry’s place, hoping that he might be home. He wants to check that Henry is planning for the weekend, and tell him all about his afternoon.

“Harry?” Dorian asks, finding him in his smoking room alone, with a cigarette. Usually this room is only used for guests, so Dorian cannot imagine why he’s using it now.

“My dear Dorian. What a joy it is to see you on this fine day,” Henry says, shifting and gesturing for Dorian to come over and sit upon his lap. He does so, pressing his lips softly to Henry’s cheek in greeting. “I hope you have been misbehaving.”

“Oh, I have, Harry. I ate out Lady Goodbury on Lord Babbage’s billiard table,” Dorian answers with a delighted smile. Henry chokes out a rather shocked laugh at Dorian’s complete indecency, and looks very proud of him.

“I hope that brought you some manner of enjoyment, although why you seem out so many older people when you are so lovely and full of youth is a mystery to me,” Henry says, and kisses Dorian deeply, resting his fingers under Dorian’s chin. After a minute or so, he pulls away. “I certainly hope you washed your mouth out, but I can only assume you did, as you taste most wonderfully of champagne and strawberries. I suppose you have come to pester me about our weekend away once more?”

“I hope you are packing, Harry. I am looking forward to it,” Dorian says, playing absently with Henry’s collar, tilting his head at the man. He knows that Henry will pack; he always does whatever Dorian wishes. He says that Dorian is far too beautiful to be denied anything he should want.

“I am packing, dear boy, I promise you,” Henry answers, gazing over Dorian’s body with desire in in his eyes. “How much I would like to do to you.”

“You will do it in Cornwall,” Dorian promises, although in truth he will probably also do it in about half an hour or so. “I will bring all my things along with me, and you must bring your sadistic spirit.”

“As must you, Dorian, but I have no doubt you will with Basil there to encourage it,” Henry answers. Dorian frowns but doesn’t argue, although on this weekend, upsetting Basil or making him jealous is not on the cards. No, that would only make matters worse. The point is to include him. The point is to finally, after all this time, perhaps kiss him. Perhaps fuck him.

They are going to have a wonderful time. They will leaving feeling as though not one of them could live without the others.

Chapter Text

By their first evening in Cornwall, Basil has forgotten all about Dorian and Henry. Dorian has that absolutely extraordinary ability to make one live in the moment. As they sit in the grass on the property they are renting, Dorian’s head in Basil’s lap as Basil reads to him, it feels to Basil almost like heaven.

“The sky is getting too dark for me to keep reading tonight, Dorian,” Basil says, marking the page and closing the book, putting it down beside them. Dorian’s hand ceases to pull the petals from the marigold he is holding, which he found on the floor having fallen from it’s plant, and he frowns.

“Oh, what a shame. I wanted to know what would happen next,” Dorian says, looking up at Basil. His eyes are so lovely, the colour of the sky. This is exactly like how it was when they met, Basil thinks to himself. This is perfect.
“We will find out to-morrow, Dorian, I am sure,” Basil says, smiling, and stops himself from playing with Dorian’s golden curls. Why does he restrain even now, when he knows he no longer has to? Even Basil isn’t certain. Perhaps he is afraid that something will break, if they lie together, touch each other.

“I told you this was a good idea,” Dorian says softly, reaching up to touch Basil’s jawline, his soft fingers running along Basil’s stubble. Dorian makes Basil feel stocky and ungraceful, but he doesn’t care.

“And of course you were right,” Basil says, and Dorian grins brightly; it feels as though he lights up the whole night. He is divine. Basil’s desire for physical closeness grows suddenly, his desire to possess Dorian.

But he cannot. No, it would ruin things. It is all too wonderful to be spoiled.

“I think it is time we go inside, Dorian,” Basil says, making Dorian pout in his petulant way, but he sits up to do so, combing his fingers through his messy hair.

“If we must, Basil, but I do so love it out here. I will check later, when it is darker still, for stars,” Dorian says, standing up. Basil follows suit, and then begin to walk inside. “It should be far easier to see them here than in London. All the lampposts rather ruin it, but I am glad of them, else we would not be able to see three feet in front of our face.”

“Indeed, Dorian,” Basil says, taking his coat off. The valet who is attending to them during their stay has been sent to the guest house to sleep. They no longer felt in need of him.

“We will have a splendid day to-morrow, Basil,” Dorian says, hanging up his own coat as well. His eyes, when they look at Basil, are quite serious, almost pleasing. “Promise me that it will be splendid.”

“Of course, Dorian,” Basil says as comfortingly as he can. He does not know why Dorian looks so worried that it might be otherwise.

They pass a couple more hours together, and then Basil retires to bed around 11pm, wishing that he had the nerve to take Dorian with him. Instead he lies in bed and hears the front door click. Dorian has left, at this hour! Basil tries not to think about what he might be doing. He thinks instead of how sweet he was, picking the petals off of a marigold, only a few hours previously.

The next morning Dorian rises at 10am when the valet comes in and opens his curtains, still tired as he only arrived back around 4am. He knows that Henry will arrive sometime soon, and that he better get up so he may greet him. Dorian sips his rose tea and goes to dress, but while he is being indecisive about what tie pin to wear, he hears voices downstairs, rather louder than they would be if it were simply Basil and the valet.

Dorian picks a tie pin, and goes to stand at the top of the staircase, attempting to eavesdrop. Immature, he knows, but he would like to know how his two friends are together, when he isn’t present.

“Make this clear to me, Harry. This trip was all a plan, concocted by Dorian, to make me give you my forgiveness?” Basil is saying, from the drawing room, where they must both be stood.

“The boy would just like us all to be friends again, Basil; there is nothing so terrible about that. You must get over yourself,” Henry responds quite reasonably, in Dorian’s opinion. “I assure you that I did not sleep with Dorian simply because I like to see him sin. Indeed, it was Dorian who came onto me. It is not as if I jumped on him days after you had told me of your torment. I merely acted as he pleased.”

“You knew how I would feel and you didn’t care, Harry!” Basil cries, and then, a moment later, sighs in exasperation. “I will let it go for Dorian’s sake. But I am still not happy with you, Harry; not happy at all.”

“Oh, old friend. I am delighted to hear it,” Henry says. It is once that has been said that Dorian heads down the stairs with a smile on his face, hoping to keep everybody in a pleasant mood.

“Harry, you have arrived!” Dorian says with a bright grin, going over to give him a hug, which Henry returns, before gently pushing Dorian off. “How pleased I am to see you. Basil, I invited Harry. We shall all be together. What would you two like for breakfast? I rather fancy croissants and a pot of hot chocolate. I should inform the chef.”

“Oh, come now, Dorian. You must eat more than that,” Henry insists, lighting a cigarette, and passing one to Dorian. Basil smokes cigars, although Henry has been trying hid best to convert him.

“Perhaps I will have some fruit as well, then, and some bread and cheese. I should like to eat like the French,” Dorian declares. He would like to visit Paris soon, for a month or so. It is much less stifling there.

“We will have that, then, Dorian,” Basil says agreeable, sitting down upon the armchair just behind himself. Dorian can see that he is still not best pleased about Henry, and his stubbornness is most irritating.

“I’ll let the chef know,” Henry offers, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I would like to meet him. It is always best to know who is handling your food.”

Henry marches off to do so, and Dorian goes to kneel beside Basil’s armchair, leaning in, so that they might talk in soft voices. He crosses his arms on the armrest, gazing up at Basil.

“You mustn’t be upset with me, Basil. This feud is becoming tiresome. You know I care about you greatly and so you must let go of this meaningless jealousy,” Dorian whispers. Basil’s face is as unreadable as ever. He comes off to many as though he has no emotions at all.

“I do wish you had warned me, Dorian, but I see why you didn’t,” Basil answers. “I understand that you are not mine. I understand that Harry has been my friend for a long time, and I mustn’t end it over this. I will move past it, I assure you.”

“Oh, Basil!” Dorian says, grinning widely, delighted, taking Basil’s hand in both of his own. “You are so kind. You have no idea how happy this makes me. We can all go back to normal once more.”

“Of course,” Basil agrees, with a smile that Dorian can tell is strained. Dorian must remind Basil of what is on offer, to cheer him up.

“Later you will read to me once more,” Dorian says. “Outside, just us, as Harry doesn’t know the story. We will pass a wonderful afternoon but first, we will all eat breakfast together, and lunch together. Perhaps we will play cards or some such silly thing. It will be fun.”

Basil nods, swallowing, and tries harder to smile genuinely than before, Dorian can tell. “I am looking forward to it, Dorian. This was a good idea.”

It is just after lunch when Dorian comes to find Henry in the library, where he is scrutinising what is on offer. Of course there is nothing all that interesting to Henry. It is all nonsense, as he predicted.

“Harry,” Dorian says, coming up behind him, rubbing his hand on Henry’s shoulder. With Dorian comes the scent of bergamot and vanilla, hints of rose. He smells very sweet, of course.

“Hello, Dorian, my dear boy,” Henry says, paging through a random, dull book, quickly realising it was not worth the trouble of picking it up.

“Basil is going to read to me outside. You must leave us be until dinner. I feel this alone time is crucial to him,” Dorian says, resting both his hands, quite needily, on Henry’s shoulder. He is a very curious person, Henry thinks. It is impossible to tell whether he loves Basil or not. “I will miss you, but I am quite enjoying the book. There is a chance Basil may also want to continue some of the sketches he is doing of me. Perhaps he will do it after dinner, when we are all together.”

“Perhaps he will, Dorian. But you are quite correct. It is important I allow him to be alone with you so that he doesn’t feel intruded upon, or that I have ruined everything,” Henry answers. He puts the book back on the shelf to give Dorian the attention he so desperately craves, gently grabbing Dorian by the jaw. “I am sure you and I will have some time together later. You needn’t worry about my feeling left out.”

“Will you at least kiss me now, before I go outside?” Dorian whispers, his eyes starry as he looks at Henry in most pleasing way. “I know you want to kiss me.”

Henry always wants to kiss Dorian. Those soft, red, sweet-tasting lips; always eager and wanting. Basil really should find the courage to explore it himself. There is nothing lovelier than Dorian’s kiss.

They come together quickly after Dorian speaks, and Dorian is, as Henry predicted, eager; he kisses like his experience is plentiful, which Henry knows it is. When they met, he was clueless, but he certainly wasted no time in catching up.

Dorian grasps Henry’s cravat, and Henry’s hand finds it’s way to Dorian’s arse, before they have to part, so that they may not be caught by Basil. Henry would hate to hurt the man even more. After all, Basil is so sensitive! Both he and Dorian need to learn that not everything requires an apocalyptic reaction.

“I will see you at dinner, Harry,” Dorian says softly, and turns to leave, to head outside where he will be admired and read to, where the sun will make his hair shine. His life is so exquisite, it is enough to offend a man. But Henry’s envy dies before it can begin. He is simply glad to watch it all play out.

The few hours in the garden with Dorian are marvellous. Dorian is charming as ever, and Basil can tell that he is being so exceptionally pleasant so that Basil will forgive Henry, so that the tenseness between them may fade. It is an effective method. Basil can hardly be in a bad mood after spending hours laying in the grass reading, Dorian’s head on his chest, gasping in delight and horror at the twists and turns in the book.

Dorian’s dark side, as some people call it, is something that is impossible for Basil to fathom. He is far too delightful. But where was Dorian last night, for hours? Basil is not a stupid man.

“This reminds me of when we first met,” Basil tells Dorian as they lie there, the book having been put down for a moment. “When everything was quiet. Before you had even sipped gin before.”

“I am sure I had sipped it before, Basil!” Dorian says indignantly, although Basil is certain he hadn’t, at least not more than once or twice. “We can never go back to that. The world changes. People grow.”

“You haven’t aged a day. You look just the same.”

“It has not been that long, Basil! You expect my hair to be greying?” Dorian’s defensiveness is startling. Not aging is exactly what he said he wanted, that day that first portrait was painted.

“I cannot wait to paint you once more, Dorian,” Basil says. He means it more than he has ever meant anything; he is hoping to get started as soon as they return to London. “I must make my final decisions about how to pose you.”

“How about this, lying on the grass?” Dorian asks playfully, lightly patting Basil’s chest. “It would be an absolute delight to sit for you if all I had to do was lie down.”

Basil laughs softly; he is sure that would make an absolutely charming painting, but he feels that he would be questioned on why he felt the need to paint his beautiful friend lounging in the grass.

“Now that is quite lazy of you, Dorian,” Basil says. Dorian laughs as well, a most delightful laugh, like ringing bells. How Basil loves him! If only, if only. Why must the Lord disagree with such love? Why must they be locked up for expressing it?

“I am perfectly pleased to be decreed lazy, Basil,” Dorian murmurs, his fingers fiddling with Basil’s buttons in a way that makes Basil want to blush. Dorian doesn’t undo them; he just toys with them. A perfect metaphor for how he treats Basil’s heart.

“Do you love Harry?” Basil whispers. He could no longer contain the question, he must know how Dorian feels. He must understand why Dorian looks at Henry with such awe. Is it love? Could one love a man such as Henry?

“Perhaps,” Dorian answers. Basil’s breath catches. He feels a lump in his throat he tries desperately to swallow. Dorian crosses his arms on Basil’s chest to prop himself up and look down at the painter with what appear, to Basil, to be calculating eyes. “I feel I love you both. Is that so wrong? To love more than one at once?”

Basil feels more confused by his emotions than ever. He is sad, jealous, that Dorian loves Henry. But the idea that Dorian loves him, too—that Dorian loves Basil? It is the most beautiful, impossible thing Basil has ever heard.

Basil doesn’t know what to say. Dorian’s bubbliness has faded into something quieter. Bedroom eyes and thoughtfulness as he watches Basil. It is equally intoxicating.

“It’s not—” Basil begins, and stops to clear his throat. He is flustered by Dorian’s expression. “It is not wrong, Dorian. You are simply very loving.”

“And you are very generous to me. But you knew I loved you. I am that I have told you before,” Dorian says. Dorian has said he loved Basil before, but never like this. Basil thought Dorian said it in the heat of the moment, or to manipulate. He reaches down and kisses Basil softly on the corner of his lips, and Basil can’t breathe. “It is getting late, Basil. We must go inside and join Henry for dinner.”

Basil watches Dorian get up, and sits up properly to watch Dorian walking inside. Basil could have what he wanted if only he found a little courage, Henry was right about that all along. Perhaps he will find it.

Over dinner, there is laughter and conversation, and Basil and Henry debate philosophy as they always did, while Dorian sits and listens, picking at his duck, sipping his wine. He has nothing to contribute; nowadays he tends to simply agree with Henry. There was a time he took the moral high ground. He feels there is no point in riding around on a high horse anymore.

“I feel we should try more Mexican food,” Dorian says spontaneously, as a conversation about the ethics of prostitution is making Basil get a little heated. There is nothing wrong with prostitution. Those women are simply trying to make money. Dorian has had many a conversation with such ladies.

“What a curious thing to say,” Henry says, turning to look at Dorian with his typically amused expression. “Why on earth would we do that? I am sure the food from there is far too spicy.”

“Well, I would like to try it, Harry,” Dorian answers. They always eat French, it seems, or of course, British. Dorian would like to branch out.

“Well, good look acquiring some, Dorian,” Basil says, seeming disinterested by the idea. He has probably had Mexican before, and is neglecting to mention it. He is always travelling randomly.

“For dessert tonight, we are sampling English trifle,” Henry says, abruptly turning the conversation away from Mexican food. Dorian sighs. “I hope that the chef has kept to the appropriate amount of sherry and brandy. I have tasted some with rather too much, and some with too little. It never fails to ruin the whole thing.”

“Oh, I love trifle,” Dorian says. He imagines that Henry discussed this dinner plan with the chef when he arrived. Dorian is pleased—he often neglects to do as much. He is so used to eating out.

Basil smiles a bit at them both, putting his cutlery down as he finishes his food. He is sat opposite, whereas the other two are sat beside each other.

“It amazes me how you two can go from important ethics discussions to a meaningless conversation about Mexican and trifle within five minutes,” Basil says, in that way he does when he appears pleasant, but is actually quite sick of them (or of Henry at least).

“Oh, I was never discussing ethics in the first place,” Dorian reminds Basil. Indeed, he had been waiting for a appropriate moment to talk about Mexican instead.

“As you shouldn’t, Dorian. You will get lines of thought on your forehead,” Henry says. Dorian frowns, and sips his wine. He will not. The portrait will stop such things.

“Don’t tell him not to think, Harry,” Basil says. Dorian reaches over and kisses Henry’s cheek to showcase that he doesn’t mind. Basil looks stony-faced as he watches this show of affection.

“I do think, I just didn’t want any part of your conversation,” Dorian says. He is quite stuffed from the duck but he very much wants trifle. “Let us pause and drink tea before our trifle.”

“Not to mention the salads and cheese and cigarettes,” Henry adds cheerfully. There are so many courses in their meals Dorian doesn’t know how they manage to fit it all in. Where will he find the time to fuck Henry and Basil? They will have to stay up late.

“We are going to bed,” Dorian says to Basil, later. Henry has already gone upstairs, and Basil is packing up their game of cards.

“Alright, Dorian. Goodnight,” Basil says. It is clear that Basil doesn’t see the unspoken invitation, and so Dorian walks closer, leaning down and touching Basil’s shoulder, who is still sat upon his armchair.

“Might you join us?” Dorian inquires softly, in his most seductive voice. Basil flushes, looking up at him. “I see no reason to leave you out. There is room for three.”

“Dorian, I...” Basil begins, and Dorian presses his finger to Basil’s lips to prevent any objection, shushing him quietly. They are both a little drunk on wine.

“It would be more fun if you came, too,” Dorian says, biting his own lip as he keeps glancing at Basil’s. “We’ll miss you. You could simply watch, don’t you want to watch?”

“Dorian,” Basil whispers, his eyes wide. Dorian holds out his hand, and Basil takes it, allowing Dorian to lead him, out the drawing room, and towards the elegantly carpeted stairs. They walk towards the room Dorian was staying in, which Henry joined him in, and where he is currently lying against the many decorative pillows on the bed, smoking a cigarette in only his sapphire-coloured robe.

“Basil,” Henry says, with his wide, charming smirk that Dorian remains so enchanted by, “I can hardly believe Dorian convinced you.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Dorian whispers, dropping Basil’s hand and crawling over the bed to kiss Henry, deeply. Dorian hears Basil’s soft gasp, and the knowledge that Basil is jealous turns him on. “I will undress. Watch me.”

“You can be sure we will,” Henry answers, grinning. Dorian gets off the bed, nodding for Basil to lie beside Henry as though they are preparing to watch a show. Basil does so obediently, his eyes trained on Dorian, who goes over to the door and shuts I gently, to keep out any possible watchful eyes.

Chapter Text

Having the both of them there is unlike anything Dorian has ever experienced.

Dorian tries new things as frequently as he can, especially when it comes to what he is doing in bed. There is nothing he leaves untried, no pleasures undiscovered. But here, in this room, with Henry on one side and Basil on the other, he has achieved a level of ecstasy he never thought possible.

It has been two hours. Two breathless, wonderful hours. At first Basil was hesitant to touch, even when Dorian climbed upon the bed and straddled his lap; he gazed in awe, but seemed to view Dorian as a mere exhibit he was unable to touch. It was Harry who turned the tables, breaking their eye contact to take Dorian by the chin as he always does, and kiss him deeply. When he pulled away, there was a bead of red blood upon Dorian’s soft lips from Henry’s teeth.

“Harry, you are much too harsh,” Basil breathed. He was gazing at it nevertheless, Dorian could see his eyes on the small wound, and so leaned down until their faces were near touching.

“Kiss it better,” Dorian whispered. And so Basil did. He kissed Dorian as though he had been walking through a desert for years, and had finally come upon true water, rather than a mirage. It was soft and passionate all at once, and Basil moaned, ever so softly, when Dorian returned it. When he pulled away, his lips were stained with Dorian’s blood, and his face was flushed.

Then the games began.

What Dorian enjoyed most about the whole thing was how much he was the focal point, the one receiving the attention from both of the others. A peculiar pattern started to emerge. Henry would be harsh, and then Basil would be gentle. Henry would strike him, and then Basil would kiss him and stroke his cheek as Henry set about applying hickeys to Dorian’s thighs. It was delightful. Nothing tastes better than something so soft beside something so harsh. Like taking a bite of a marshmallow alongside hardened chocolate. The contrast. Constant, never-ending. Dorian ended up with Henry inside him while Basil buried his head between Dorian’s thighs; Henry hard and unforgiving, while Basil softly hummed and stroked Dorian’s waist, trying to comfort him as he cried out in pleasure and pain.

Dorian now lies with his back pressed to Henry’s side, who is sat up smoking a cigarette, his bare, bruised and twitching legs thrown over Basil’s lap, who is stroking his thighs ever so gently, causing Dorian to shiver with pleasure. He feels so sensitive, now. More than anything, he would like to do it all again, despite his exhaustion. Despite his body crying out to him that it is time to be calm and peaceful and linger in the aftercare.

“You’re shaking, Dorian,” Basil observes. His eyes are on Dorian’s legs. They are looking between Dorian’s legs. Dorian wonders whether Basil’s fingers are itching to grab his sketchbook, but of course it is downstairs.

“It will pass,” Dorian murmurs. Henry gently runs his hands through Dorian’s curls, which are wet with sweat, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. Dorian turns his head a little to look at Henry, so handsome in the dim light.

“I have taken care of Dorian before, old chap, don’t you worry. And I think you’ll find he’s taken care of himself after sessions far worse,” Henry murmurs. It is quite true, of course. There has been far more blood involved in the past. Henry is always the perfect amount of sadistic, while still remaining sensual and seductive, while still making Dorian feel safe as can be.

“Yes, you mustn’t fuss, Basil,” Dorian agrees. He can see that Basil is conflicted, just from the look in his eyes. He hates to see that Basil is feeling another other than… well, grateful. Was it not marvellous? Dorian knows that it was. He wonders if he should offer Basil a hand job. “Basil, would you like-“

“I am going for a walk,” Basil answers, before Dorian can finish his generous benefaction. Tonight was the first fruits, that is how Dorian sees it, but perhaps Basil sees it differently. Something nonsensical, Dorian is sure. “I have immolated you, Dorian. After all the talk I gave to you, Harry.”

“Oh, Basil,” Dorian sighs. He sees Basil’s eyes looking elsewhere; directly into Henry’s, it seems. Dorian doesn’t like it when they are looking at each other and not at him, but what is there to do about it? Forbid them from doing so? Henry would laugh and Basil would scoff. Still, Dorian hates the understanding that they share.

“I will see you both in the morning,” Basil announces, standing up, going to find where his clothes have been discarded as Dorian watches. When he leaves, Dorian rolls over, onto his stomach, half on top of Henry.

“Well, I found that very exciting,” Dorian says. Henry laughs in amusement. “I am all recovered now. Again? Since he is going to be boring.”

“Whatever you please, Dorian, I shall give you,” Henry answers, properly stretching out his legs as Dorian crawls on top of him and kisses him, hard, tasting smoke, opening Dorian’s cut so that it starts to bleed once again. Their hands intertwine, guided by Dorian. He hopes that Basil will join them again to-morrow.

Basil dresses and takes a walk out in the cool night air, in an attempt to clear his racing thoughts. He made a rash decision based on lust and jealously – two of the seven deadly sins! He will be punished for this in the afterlife, punished greatly.

As he feels the breeze again his skin, he can think only of how soft Dorian’s lips were. How easily they bled. It tasted so sweet, Dorian’s blood – as though it is made of honey and not of iron. Basil cannot get the images out of his mind. Dorian so close, Dorian completely undressed, his legs twitching, his lips quivering, his breath shaky and wanting. He had never been more vulnerable. Never been more lovely. Basil feels himself start to harden again as he remembers the moment when Dorian pressed his hand to Basil’s manhood, when he whispered, “I can feel your longing in my hands tonight, the way I could always feel it in my heart”. Oh God! Basil gets on his knees, alone in the street in the middle of the night, to pray for forgiveness. He could say it was in the name of love, but with Henry there… that was pure sin.

Basil hasn’t even forgiven him yet. He has merely put it aside. He noticed tonight the ease that Dorian and Henry have with each other in bed, as though they always know what the other’s next move will be. How well they know each other, and the love in Dorian’s eyes when he looks upon Henry. It is too much to fathom.

This trip could only ever have led to iniquity, Basil sees now. To wickedness, to blasphemy. They have committed sacrilege, and for that they will all pay, one day, even Dorian. Basil wonders how his face is so clean, so beautiful, when he is committing these acts. Perhaps it isn’t really in his heart to be this way.

But it is in Basil’s.

He sighs, burying his face in his hands, still kneeling on the concrete. They will each be forgiven if they apologise before God. Basil will attend confession as soon as he returns to London.

“My goodness, listen to this note that Lord Acton has sent to me! Apparently Lady Cheslyn started to scream at her husband in the middle of a party last night. Isn’t it just typical that we would miss out on that?”

Henry is sat with Dorian in the parlour of the home they are staying in, both drinking a glass of gin. Dorian is sat barefoot, curled up on his armchair. He long lost any sense of propriety, Henry has noticed, when they are together. It is quite charming.

“One could have guessed that Lady Cheslyn would snap eventually,” Dorian responds, nodding in complete acceptance of this story. “Her husband is such a terrible bore. I wonder what is to become of her?”

“If not a mental hospital, then I imagine simple social ostracization,” Henry answers, although privately, he thinks that if it is serious enough for Lord Acton to have sent a note all the way to Cornwall about it, then it must be at least a night of two in a mental hospital. How sad, Henry thinks. She was hardly insane. She could debate with him over tea quite well, so she must have been mentally present.

“She will live through it,” Dorian answers, reaching his hand over his armchair to brush his fingers against Henry’s wrist, needily, making Henry lower his hand to his armrest so that Dorian may reach it and be at peace. He has sent so many women to fates such as this, Henry knows, that he has become emotionally disconnected from it so that the guilt will not overwhelm him. “I do wish we had seen it, though, Harry. How I would have loved to see the look on Cheslyn’s face, that old goat! How rude he has been to me in the past!”

“Merely jealous, Dorian,” Henry assures him, although in truth he had very little idea of Cheslyn’s dislike for Dorian, although he’s sure Dorian must have mentioned it at some point, as he tells Henry absolutely every occurrence in his life. If Henry is especially tired, he occasionally tunes it out; not that Dorian is boring, but Henry is not so young that he doesn’t get tired every now and then.

“Gentleman,” Basil announces, walking into the room. They both look over at him, Dorian with his cheek pressed to his armrest as he stretches his arm to hold Henry’s hand, and Henry rereading some of the finer details of the note which he is still holding in his right hand.

“Basil, my good man. Good morning. There has been some incredibly colourful events going on in London while we have been here. Lord Acton has sent me a note, blethering about it, but I say, Basil, it’s actually quite scandalous,” Henry explains, not ready to hear Basil’s announcement about his great regret of the night before, which Henry and Dorian agree was quite riveting.

“We all must go to confession,” Basil continues, completing ignoring Henry. Dorian makes some kind of sound clearly intended to mean “absolutely not, that sounds tedious” and Henry quite agrees. “You mustn’t scoff at me. Our souls are in danger. We have committed acts related to the seven deadly sins. We have not lived in accordance with the Lord and his virtues: chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, kindness, patience, and humility. Do not look at me like that, either of you. This is very serious. It matters a great deal to me that we all change our lifestyles to focus instead on-“ Basil was going to continue, and Henry was quite interested to see where it was going to go, if it was ever going to end, and if it did, if it would end on bended knee in prayer. Dorian clearly does not share this fascination.

“Basil, we had fun last night. Sex is fun. We enjoyed ourselves, how evil can that possibly be?” Dorian answers tiredly. “Please do not speak to me about my soul.”

“Basil, we are the men that we are. We focus on our lives, not on our deaths,” Henry says. He believes strongly that no man should live constantly worried about what would happen to him in the afterlife. It ruins the simple pleasure of being alive.

“We will spend eternity being tortured! We will be damned by the Devil himself!” Basil cries, as though they aren’t hearing him, and sometimes Henry can hardly believe that Basil not only pays attention to such trollop but has internalised it hard enough to let it change his day-to-day behaviour.

“Basil, I love you. We lay together, and Henry was there. I love Henry. We lay together, too. There is nothing so wicked or wrong about it,” Dorian says, getting up off his chair. Henry knows, and he is sure that Basil does too, deep down, that Dorian has laid with many people he does not love; but today it doesn’t help his argument. “You love me, don’t you, Basil?”

Henry is fascinated, watching as Dorian gazes at Basil almost as though he is mesmerising him. The way he takes Basil’s hand and holds it. Dorian has become an expert manipulator. It is admirable what a quick study he can be when he wants to.

“I love you very much, Dorian,” Basil whispers, as though hoping Henry cannot hear, but of course he can. “But you mustn’t behave this way.”

Dorian turns on a dime, dropping Basil’s hand, walking back to petulantly throw himself back in his armchair. “I so hate it when you tell me how to behave! I will do what I want. You telling me not to do things only makes me want to do them all the more. In fact, I may buy those rollerskate things that I heard about once because… well, I told you about them, and you said they sounded dangerous. I have decided now that I want a pair very badly.”

“Dorian, don’t be that way, please. I am only trying to help you, and you are acting like a child,” Basil says, with a frown. He seems to have calmed down from his moral panic, distracted by Dorian’s ability to change the subject to something deeply trivial.

“Basil, I think we have heard enough for now,” Henry suggests, as this meaningless back and forth will get them nowhere. Basil will only continue to offend Dorian accidentally, who will lash out ridiculously.

“Yes, we have! We are done hearing. In fact, henceforth, we shall never hear anything ever again!” Dorian declares, ever dramatic, throwing his arms in random directions and getting out a cigarette.

“Yes, Dorian, alright, thank you,” Henry says. Basil now looks confused more than anything, about whether Dorian’s anger is genuine or just some put on front intended to achieve a goal. Henry suspects it is mostly the latter. “You see, Basil, what we live by, which you cannot seem to understand, is the desire to enjoy ourselves. What if there is no afterlife, Basil? You ruined all your time worrying about being tormented when in fact there is only an empty eternity ahead for us all. Is it truly worth spending the one life you have, I ask you Basil, worrying about nothing, when instead you could be engaging the senses that God gave you? Do you not ever think that you might be wasting your life and your time? You have had the good luck to find love, real love, and you run away from it, afraid, preoccupied with death! You are ridiculous and you know it.”

“Yes! You are wasting me! Quite wasting me, Basil!” Dorian agrees. “Come here and be with us. What else can truly matter but love? It is love. Not vices.”

“No, Dorian. Last night… I acted that way out of envy and lust. Not love,” Basil answers. Dorian sighs in exasperation, and Henry quite understands how he feels. “The truth is, I wish I were to you what Harry is. I am not, and I never will be.”

Basil turns and walks out before either Dorian or Henry can respond, and Dorian is clearly annoyed, standing up to stomp his foot and pace, before eventually finding his way into Henry’s lap, who puts his note aside. His two friends are dramatic indeed. No feeling can be unaccounted for. Henry doesn’t wish to spend too long pondering how much genuine pain he has caused his dear friend. He doesn’t want to feel guilt. He and Dorian are quite happy, and why shouldn’t they be? It is not as big of a deal as Basil makes it out to be. Life is life. To be enjoyed. Henry will not put it all aside now just because his poor friend is heartbroken. It is Basil’s own fault for indulging his own pain.

“He will come down from it again, Dorian. He always does,” Henry says, as though he is completely certain. They have one more night all together. Dorian huffs, exhaling out a puff of smoke and pressing soft kisses to Henry’s beard.

Dorian is hurt.

All this time and planning so that they could all be friends again! He was so generous to invite Basil into their bed, and they had such a good time! And yet it is ruined once again by Basil having another one of his moral crises. How many can he possibly have before he comes to terms with the facts of life, Dorian wonders? Rather too many.

That afternoon, he lies in the grass where Basil usually reads to him at this time of the day. He is hoping that Basil will either happen upon him, or hear about what Dorian is doing from Henry, and be wracked with guilt that his let this silly eternal damnation nonsense get in the way of their reading time. Dorian would quite like to know how the book finishes.

It is just about to turn to evening, and Dorian is near napping, when Basil gets home from his latest walk. He is holding his sketchbook and charcoal, and walks over, looking upon Dorian down in the grass. Dorian hopes that he feels wretched.

“I cannot believe that you have hung me out to dry! You have ditched me, Basil. Made of fool of me. Stood me up,” Dorian rattles off with a scowl. His ego is injured, and he is genuinely disappointed not to be finishing the book. “Our final afternoon. Now I will never know how the book ends. I hope you are pleased with yourself. I will have to read it all alone.”

“Dorian. Don’t pout and don’t guilt-trip,” Basil says. His face is of its usual, unbiased nature, and Dorian wishes that he would break out into a display of emotion like before.

“Basil, I ask you, what do you want from me? I try to give it to you, and you only get upset. But then you were jealous, about Harry. I have tried to please you and you have been completely unpredictable, messing with my emotions,” Dorian declares, getting to his feet. Basil just watches him quietly, and oh! How Dorian wishes he could tell what he was thinking. He is enraged by the fact that he cannot, that Basil is a mere mystery stood before him. “Will you not respond to me, Basil! You torture me, and it is unfair that one such as you should torture one such as me. You are inferior, and yet I love you anyway. Don’t flinch; but I am glad to finally see a response from you. You would not return to our bed again tonight to kiss away my pain, as you did last night? What a perfect experience it was! You are so good to me in bed, Basil, and yet when it comes to our emotions, you play me. You have said that I am cruel, before, but it isn’t fair. You are cruel. Cruel to me and cruel to Harry. We care about you. We want you with us. You tell us we are sinners, and to go to confession… to never be with each other again. You want to take our happiness away?”

Basil just stares at Dorian, at the end of his spiel, and Dorian can see the wheels turning in his head as he contemplates how to respond to all the accusations that Dorian has thrown at him.

“I enjoyed last night very much, Dorian. Deep down, what I want is to be with you the way that… a husband is with his wife,” Basil explains, clearly struggling to find the words. Dorian crosses his arms and listens, unimpressed. “I would never want to play with your emotions. I got lost in mine. I only don’t want damnation for us all. You are letting Harry teach you blasphemy. It will not go unpunished.”

“The only one punishing me is you. I did nothing to betray you, Basil. Neither did Harry. You will lose us both soon, I warn you,” Dorian says, and storms off, back inside. He knows that Basil wants to be with him in that way, and he also knows that Basil thinks it is morally wrong to do so. Which one would make Basil happy? He is constantly displeased either way. Henry would say that constant unhappiness is the natural consequence of religion.

When he goes back inside, he finds Henry sat upon the divan, in the front room, and goes to lie across it, kicking his feet in Henry’s lap, who gently rests his hand upon Dorian’s shin. Henry is rarely so quiet. It is almost unnerving, Dorian thinks, but he doesn’t say anything to disturb it. Eventually, when the melancholy is starting to overtake him, he looks at Henry, who is softly smirking as he looks down upon Dorian, pouting.

“Have you just been sat there laughing silently at my mood?” Dorian huffs. He should have known that Henry was not guilt-stricken, in emotional pain, but merely thinking about all the little things that amuse him.

“I am thinking of how lovely you are; and yes, laughing at you. You look absolutely put out. It will all turn out alright when we are burning in Hell together, Dorian,” Henry assures him, a tinge of humour in his voice. Dorian allows himself to smile just a little. It couldn’t truly be Hell if they were there together. Dorian would rather watch Henry be permanently tortured than never see him again, that much he will confess, and he’s sure if he said as much out loud, Henry would start an ode to how charming Dorian would look while in lots of pain. In this way, they are the same.

The next morning, Henry leaves Dorian curled up in bed, and heads downstairs in his pyjamas and robe to find Basil drinking tea, fully dressed to go, his case beside him. Henry smiles sadly.

“Without saying goodbye, old friend? Dorian will be crushed. He planned this trip hoping we would all learn to get on again,” Henry says. He knew that it could never be the same between them, of course. He doesn’t regret the other night, though, not at all. Being in bed with Basil was a pleasure, even if he was distracted by Dorian the entire time, who looked like an angel, as he always does, as they brought him to ruin together.

“I cannot take my guilt, Harry,” Basil answers, matter-of-factly. Henry pities Basil for his conscience. It must be a shame to constantly feel as though you must consider the feelings of others. More than that, though, he pities Basil his religion. “You may have Dorian. The pair of you can spend your time… committing atrocities as you please. I realise now that all the stories I’ve heard about Dorian must be true.”

“This feels quite dangerously like a goodbye,” Henry says with his usual humour, but in truth, he does feel quite unnerved. “Are you going on another trip, my friend? We shall miss you if you disappear for six months again.”

“Perhaps six months, perhaps a week. I never plan these things, Harry,” Basil says, such is the mind of an artist. Constantly running in search of inspiration, following where their “art” leads them. Henry thinks that Basil is simply being a coward.

“Not saying goodbye to Dorian is wrong of you. He will be injured, and he may never forgive you, and I know how you would regret that,” Henry answers. Perhaps Basil will get over Dorian on his trip, but Henry rather doubts it, knowing Basil as well as he does. Basil doesn’t tend to feel emotions as strong as the ones he feels for Dorian. How could he ever forget it?

“I have written him a note. I wrote you one, too, but clearly there is no point,” Basil sighs. “I have concluded that the two of you deserve each other. You clearly care a great deal about each other. I will never understand you.”

“You are needed, Basil,” Henry insists. “More than that, you are wanted. Life will be tiresome without you, the one friend I can never influence to change. You are a great fascination of mine. Take your trip if you must, but return to us. You know how I hate to say things of this type, so that just goes to show you how very serious I am.”

Basil smiles softly. “I will indeed be back in a month or two, Harry. I will see how I feel then. I hope more than anything that Dorian doesn’t grow to hate me. He is still something so close to me. I would love to spend more time with him, lying in the sunshine… but I must muse on what I feel and what I have done. I must give myself time. I can’t brush off my actions the way that you can.”

Henry understands, of course. He lets Basil go with no argument, seeing the two folded pieces of paper lying on the table. He picks up the one which is addressed to Dorian, interested to read where Basil intends to leave this affair, the impression it will leave on Dorian.

Dear Dorian,

Since the day I met you, you have been my everything. My muse, my very art itself, and the love of my life. I have thought about you constantly for so long now that I can hardly remember a time without you. What a dull life it was back then. How empty I was.

I am going to miss you greatly, Dorian. I am going on a trip, I don’t know to where, or for how long, but please don’t hate me for leaving. I need time to consider what I want for myself, and how to deal with the desires I possess for you.

Kissing you, lying with you, will always remain one of the great moments of my life. I will always look upon it as an evening when I was blessed by God, and by the angels, and given something truly holy; but just because you are holy does not mean that my feelings are. I am the problem, Dorian. Me and my wicked intentions, my wild possessiveness. You are not mine to own and you never were.

I hope that until I see you next, you experience nothing but joy. I know that Henry will be with you, looking after you. He cares about you so much; I hope you realise that. I hope that you feel as loved as you are.

Now, my darling, I am afraid it is time for me to end this letter and say goodbye. Never forget how much you mean to me, and how beautiful you are, even if you scar, even if you age. I will love you despite. Do not think my love shallow. I would so hate that.

Goodbye, my darling; it is not forever,

Yours eternally,

Basil Hallward.

Harry puts the letter down, folding it up once more, and feels quite sobered. He looks at the letter Basil sent to him, but cannot bear to open it. He leaves it where it is, to return upstairs to Dorian, still in his slumber, peaceful and silent. He hopes that Basil finds whatever he is looking for.