Work Text:
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses and paint, and a warm wind blew in from the east, ruffling the lace curtains and the hair of the two young men sitting on the divan by the window, smoking.
Though they seemed comfortable in each other’s company, at first glance they looked so different that it was almost a shock to see them side by side.
One had golden hair and skin of a perfect ivory pallor, flushed rose-pink upon his cheeks. His whole aspect was reminiscent of one of Raphael’s angels, and he was of such exquisite beauty that the very flowers in the garden outside hung their heads in shame.
The other man was plainer, dark of hair and pale of face: a complexion suited to the reclusive artist, and one which oddly became him. His features were not so symmetrical as those of his companion, nor half so finely made, and yet he was in possession of a pair of extraordinarily beautiful dark eyes, which always seemed mocking and tragic in equal part. His gaze was fixed meditatively on a bouquet of green carnations in a china vase on the desk, and he started when the other spoke.
“Basil,” cried the beautiful young man in a high, impatient voice, flinging his cigarette down onto the floor, “you must come with Henry and me to his aunt’s soiree tonight. I know she’s dying to see you there - you always were a favourite of hers - and so am I. These days you spend all your time cooped up in this little hole of a studio, and you’re no fun at all. Why, this must be the first time I’ve seen you all month.”
Basil bent down to pick up the discarded cigarette, and dropped it into the ashtray on the table between them. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear boy, but you know I can’t," he said. “I’ve a painting due for the Grosvenor in less than two weeks, and it’s not nearly finished.”
The blonde turned away from him, pouting. He stood up and walked with quick, measured steps to the door leading out into the garden. Basil watched him as he turned his head slightly, exposing his perfect Greek profile, and called over his shoulder: “Come out to the garden, Basil, do. It’s ever so much nicer than your stuffy old room.”
There was a petulant edge to his voice; he was displeased at how quickly his invitation had been refused, and tossed his golden head as Basil stepped onto the path behind him.
“Dorian,” said the artist softly. “Come here.”
Without looking at him, Dorian plucked a rose from a bed at his side, and rolled the stem between his slender fingers. Although he would not have admitted it for worlds, he really was hurt. In the old days, before the painting of him had been finished, Basil had been a splendid sport, always taking him out and doing exactly what he wanted - he had seemed happy to submit to his whims and fancies in any way that pleased him. Now, his portrait was completed, and the artist seemed almost to be avoiding him. Certainly he had refused a great many invitations, and it was only after a concerted effort that Dorian had persuaded him to let him here today.
He picked at the rose in his hands, and turned.
Basil was standing a little way behind him, cigarette still in hand. As Dorian turned to face him, he looked away, then glanced quickly back again: it was evident from the uncharacteristic flush on his brow that he was upset.
“Dorian,” he said again, helplessly. “Forgive me - I don’t mean to be rude. If I had a little less work, I would be pleased to come. But -”
Dorian interrupted him, sharply: “Oh, yes, your work. It always was more important to you than your friends. But what’s the point, now? Your great work is finished. And I should have known that you would abandon me as soon as it was. Harry warned me of as much.”
“Harry,” said Basil, “is a fool.”
He looked at Dorian with a quiet passion. “Don’t go out with him tonight”, he said, with a strange and pleading fervour. “Don’t. Stay here with me, like you used to - before Harry”.
Dorian laughed, trying to brush off the hurt he’d felt: a high, melodic sound, it seemed unbearably cruel to the artist’s ears.
“How funny you are, Basil. Why, it was you who introduced me to Harry, and now you try to keep me from him. I expect you think he’s influencing me - you always were getting annoyed with him about that. You needn’t worry - after all, only the truly independent can ever be influenced.”
Basil’s face hardened. “Another clever speech of Harry’s, I suppose?”
“Perhaps. Anyhow, he says he has taught me nothing that I did not know already.”
“I suppose you like him so much because he flatters you”.
“No more than you do”.
At last Basil’s gaze dropped. He looked at the fallen rose-petals littering the ground around Dorian’s feet, and blushed scarlet with shame.
Dorian continued: “Harry doesn’t really flatter me, anyway. Some of the things he says about me aren’t complimentary in the least - and half the time I’m not quite sure whether he’s joking or not. His expression never changes.”
“My - compliments - aren’t all flattery”, said Basil, still red.
“Of course they are: and a very clever flattery too, all designed to persuade me to come and sit for you! I don’t mind it really - but nowadays I prefer to engage in more intellectually stimulating conversation.”
Each word fell from his lips like bullets, unintentionally hitting their mark every time. Basil’s face grew redder, and his eyes grew very bright - still, he clenched his jaw and did not speak.
Dorian glanced at his watch, a rather obvious gold-and-jewels affair, which Basil bitterly suspected had been given to him by Harry.
“Why, I really must go!", he exclaimed. "I’ll be late for the soiree - are you sure you won’t come?”
Basil shook his head; he did not trust himself to plead or protest any more.
“Go”, he murmured.
Dorian let the stem of the rose, bereft of all except its thorns, fall from his fingers. It landed at Basil’s feet. As he walked away, the painter dropped to his knees, let his head fall into his hands, and began to weep.