Work Text:
„You should paint me next.“
The lord lingers a few steps behind the artist, a glass in hand. Basil does not turn his head, nor do his eyes tear away from the painted cufflings that he shades so meticulously, lest he miss the last few minutes of natural light pouring in. The elderly man who had commissioned the painting has gone some time ago already, but when Henry got here, he found the painter still hard at work, trying to capture the way the light bounces off of the now-absent cufflings. Still, feeling the weight of the other’s gaze, Basil knows better than to ignore his friend entirely, so he does not; „— Don’t be ridiculous.“
Lord Henry scoffs, but the twitch of his lips gives away the slight bit of amusement he feels whenever Basil tries to speak back to him. This mostly happens when he intrudes him while he is working, which is why Henry cannot help himself pushing further. „You are being ridiculous. We’ve known each other for years now, and I have admired your work for just as long. Am I not worthy of your brush? Is the toad-looking lawyer dearer to your palette than an old friend? Basil, paint me next. I should love to have a piece from you to hang in my own home.“
„I can’t, Harry.“
„Why not?“
This gives the painter a pause. He draws a short inhale and exhale, the only signs of frustration, before returning to work, and speaking as quietly and as patiently as one would to a child. „The lawyer here, he wants a portrait to hang over his desk at the firm. The dame last week, her portrait was to hang in the foyer, welcoming the visitors. The man before, he wanted a portrait done for his study, immortalising him amongst the books he loves so dearly.“ He steps back, to look at the cufflings from a distance, and after he does, he does not rush to return to the canvas, but rather turns to face his friend, inquisitive. “Wherever would you display yours, Harry?“
„Well, I have a desk, and a foyer, and a study, and many other rooms filled with paintings of people I scarcely respect, how could I ever feel any joy looking at them? In fact, I think I shall feel tremendous joy taking them down and putting another in their place.“ While he speaks, the Lord gestures with the glass in hand, almost threatening to spill but never doing so.
„I doubt you’d feel any joy at all.“
„You always suspect me of the worst, Basil.“ He does not sound hurt by the assumption, quite the contrary, as he steps closer to the other, observing his brush as it insistently moves across the small area of the canvas.
„I don’t suspect, Harry. I know you too well.“ Through exasperation, he returns back to his canvas, finding it easier to speak to it rather than to the other directly. The words come out on their own, then. The painting, same as, in a way, Basil himself, a silent witness. „That is why I cannot paint you. I cannot paint a picture for your study because I know the books you have read and the books you just say you did. I cannot paint a picture for your foyer, because I know you’ve never welcome a person in your life, if not to insult them. I cannot paint a picture to hang over your desk because I know you despise work.“
„How wrong you are, I adore work!“ There it is again, the tinge of something that is not quite a smile upon Henry’s lips. Satisfaction over being able to argue with Basil.
The artist, on the other hand, feels little satisfaction, barely turning his head so the other may hear him; „You adore being able to watch others working whilst you do not.“ Henry understands. He gives an amused exhale, puts down his glass wherever it is least convenient, and at last leaves Basil’s side to lounge on the sofa, on the side still warm from the quickly departing sun. He stays quiet for a while, lost in his own thoughts, seemingly exploring an idea, and enjoying the act enough to leave the artist alone. Not for too long, however. „You are quite right, Basil.“ He waits until the other looks his way, albeit briefly, to show that he is listening. „I have always loved watching over as others toil away; and that is exactly why I ought to have my portrait over my desk — so it may be there while I am not. Perhaps it might confuse some of the patrons that come to bother me. To it they shall relay their aches and sorrows and when we meet again at the Opera, I shall nod and pretend to know all about it; I have gotten so good at that—“
„Pretense. You have gotten so good at pretense.“ He steps away from the easel now to wash his brush, and seems to let some of his frustration seep through in his grip. Now, that interests Henry. At last, a true show of emotion. Now, he is back upon his feet, circling about, pausing now in the empty space before the painting.
„Everybody pretends, my dear Basil. You are not exempt.“
„Not in my art. Not to the canvas. Not through the language of pigment and oil.“
There is something cruel that comes in his eye now, in the face of such perceived naïvety. „Oh, Basil, my holy Basil, what are you doing now but helping this man,“ he points to the canvas with his glass, „pretend to have a spine, a work ethic, any ethic at all? Have you never met a lawyer?“
It is now Basil standing a few steps behind the other, looking over the picture of the man, and seeing more of the picture than the man himself. He sees a handful of places that still need work before the sitter comes back in tomorrow, but he sees little missing in terms of temper that he has managed to capture over their last few meetings. „I don’t know him, Harry. I shall have to take his word for it.“ A pause, as he walks over to pour himself a drink as well. „You I know myself, however, and I would never take your word for anything. — Perhaps you ought to have a photograph taken. The camera might not see past just your face.“
He raises his glass in a toast, before he ventures through the door cracked open into the garden at dusk. His silhouette dissipates into shadow before he steps out of sight. Henry doesn't follow him there.