Work Text:
The emerald drapes in Alfred’s sickroom hang limp, their usual brilliance muted by the thick London air. Outside, the sky churns like a vessel weathering a storm—gray, restless, oppressive. Oscar Wilde presses a damp cloth to Alfred’s fevered brow, the boy’s golden curls clinging to his temples with sweat. At twenty-three, Alfred Douglas is all sharp angles and spoiled petulance, even in illness, his lips parted in a shallow pant. Oscar’s own hands—soft from years of literary indolence—tremble as he wrings out the cloth over a porcelain basin. Cyril and Vyvyan are at home with their mother, blissfully ignorant. The Marquess of Queensberry, Alfred’s father, would sooner see Oscar’s guts spilled on the cobblestones than permit this… this nursing.
Yet here Oscar is, scrubbing Alfred’s half-empty teacups, sweeping up the crushed petals of violets Alfred had tossed in a fit of boredom yesterday. The domesticity of it gnaws at him. He pauses mid-task, staring at the emerald ring on his finger—a gift from Alfred, of course—and suddenly his vision blurs.
Tears slip silently down his cheeks, dripping onto the kitchen table where he’s just set a fresh pot of broth. The wood is scarred from Alfred’s careless habit of dragging his signet ring across the surface. Oscar’s breath hitches. He could bend that beautiful, wretched boy over this very table, ruin him properly, make him feel something beyond his own entitlement. The fantasy is so vivid he can almost taste the salt of Alfred’s skin, hear the way he’d gasp...
A sharp ting shatters the silence. The bell. Alfred’s insistent summons. Oscar swipes at his face, but the tears are stubborn. He finds Alfred propped against lace pillows, his nightshirt slipping off one pale shoulder. The boy’s eyes—bright with fever and mischief—flick over Oscar’s face.
“You’ve been crying,” Alfred accuses in a voice rough as gravel, as though it’s a personal affront.
Oscar exhales, the weight of the world settling in his bones. “I do most earnestly entreat you, darling lad, to refrain from bestowing a kiss upon me at this present moment; for I have been weeping with such vigour that my countenance is quite discomposed and, I fear, most unbecoming.” His voice cracks. “Pray do not misconstrue my meaning, for I harbour a sincere desire to share such an affectionate token with you, though assuredly not under these lamentable circumstances.”
Alfred’s smirk falters. For a heartbeat, he looks almost… tender. Then he rasps, “Don’t be tedious, Oscar. Come here.” He tugs at Oscar’s sleeve, his fingers hot. “Even with the smallest cuts,” he murmurs, “you can still lose so much blood.”
Oscar doesn’t ask what he means. He knows. This boy will bleed him dry. And yet. He leans down.