Please

Please

Petition for a theatre production of The Picture of Dorian Gray where Dorian wears a booty shorts with "psychoanalyze me" printed on its back .

Seems interesting 👁👁

Send a character’s name to receive four different headcanons

Headcanon A:  realistic

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Created from the post seen here

Some time ago, I wrote out an outline for a role swap au (I would give you the link, but tumblr doesn't like when I do that), and over the last few days I have written a chapter of this au (I don't have a name for it yet, so suggestions are appreciated!). Thank you to everyone who interacted with my first post, and please, let me know what you guys think, I loved hearing your feedback!

DISCLAIMER: I am not a professional writer by any means, and admittedly it has been a while since I've read the book in depth. Some characterizations may be a tad off, but I've tried my best to keep canon in mind, while also changing them to reflect the new context. Additionally, I am not from, nor have I ever been to England or anywhere near the UK. Though I have put in a lot of research of the time, I have only a base understanding of the period, so things may be somewhat inaccurate.

In the golden afternoon of a warm August day, Dorian Gray sat across from Lord Henry Wotton, engaging in light banter. The two men would be involved in a scandal and crime in the coming years, but on this day, they discussed their friend, Basil Hallward.

Some months ago, Basil had been accused of unseemly behavior. Everyone involved in high society might have turned a blind eye, but when evidence from that night was presented, most turned away from the painter. Fortunately, the courts didn't find Basil worth the time or resources to jail; instead, they took away his wealth and the rumors took away his clientele. His name was only spoken in warnings or vicious gossip.

Dorian and Henry were left to watch as it all happened in a whirlwind of speculation and accusations. Though they offered help, the artist declined, fearful of what might have befallen his closest friends should they try and intervene on his behalf. In truth, his concerns were for Dorian; he had known Lord Henry would somehow be unaffected as usual.

What the artist did not know was that the lord was far from unaffected.

“He refuses to speak with me,” Henry grumbled as he smoked, “Does he think I would mock him over this?”

Dorian smiled politely, still unused to such a sight. In the time he had known the man, Henry had seldom shown any emotion besides amusement and glee. The recent event had not only revealed that the lord was capable of more than that, but that he was particular to worry.

“We've known each other for years, surely he knows that I would never make light of a situation like this!” he puffed his cigarette—his fourteenth one in the hour and a half Dorian had been there, “Especially because it's him!”

“Perhaps he's embarrassed,” Dorian offered halfheartedly. He understood Henry's worry; he himself had been concerned ever since the night after the trial. Until that night, Dorian had thought himself as the one person Basil could never turn away. After a panicked cry and slammed door, he revised his outlook on his perceived favoritism.

“Embarrassed? By what? Some daft rumor?”

“It was more than a rumor, Harry. He lost everything. People refuse to even say his name!”

“Because they are all hypocrites! They've done much worse than our dear Basil, yet they act as if he murdered someone!”

“They've done more for less.”

“Yes! They have! It is infuriating to see all of this happen and then to have Basil turn me away, to avoid me! I don't understand any of it,” the lord ended his rant with a scowl.

“I invited him to tea today.”

Henry perked up, “Did he say he'd come?”

“No, but I'm sure he will.”

“Why's that?”

“Because I'm leaving.”

Basil Hallward followed the servant into Henry's study. This was the first time he had ventured out of his home since the trial and the first time he would see Dorian and Henry after that night. He wrung his hands nervously as the servant notified the lord and Dorian as well. The servant motioned him in and then closed the door behind him.

In a blur of blonde, Dorian tossed himself into Basil's arms, tightly hugging him.

“Dorian!”

“Basil, I knew you'd come!” he grinned and guided the man to sit nearby Lord Henry, who had hurriedly stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. He attempted to look composed, but relief could be clearly seen in his eyes.

“Basil, it's good to see you're alive,” the lord tried to say smoothly, “I knew you'd come out eventually.”

“Liar,” Dorian hissed, “Basil he was worried sick! I can't get the smell of smoke out of my hair because of him!”

The lord cleared his throat, “Dorian, don't pout, it mars your face.”

Dorian stuck his tongue out, then turned to Basil, “Please stay for a while? I can't stand Henry when he's worried.”

“Oh, I'm sure it wasn't so bad,” Basil fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, “Are you really leaving Dorian?”

The young man froze and looked at Basil and then to Henry for help. Eventually he solemnly nodded, “In about a week.”

“How long will you be in France?”

“I'm not sure,” the young man said, “Apparently my songs are quite famous there and an unexpected number of orchestras have asked me to play with them.”

“It could be anywhere from a year to ten,” Henry supplied, “It might become a lifetime.”

“Nonsense!” the blonde cried, “I will return. I would never leave the two of you behind.”

“Don't limit your experience because of us, Dorian,” the lord smiled sardonically, “France is known for its many delights, someone with your beauty can easily experience them all.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “I had to deal with this for weeks, Basil. You're the only one who can temper Henry's philosophical ramblings. I'll die if I have to listen to another!”

“Well, you have nothing to worry about, you're leaving for France in a week,” Henry chuckled, but his smile fell when he looked towards Basil, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Basil said unconvincingly, “I'm happy for you Dorian, truly I am. But I will miss you greatly.”

The young man smothered the other man in another embrace, “Basil, I'm going to miss you the most! I'll write to you, I promise!”

“Calm down, Dorian,” Basil focused on the divan past Dorian, “I don't think you'll have the time to do so.”

“I'll make the time,” he insisted, “Always for you.”

“What about Henry?”

The lord scoffed good naturedly.

“Harry doesn't appreciate my letters. He says he adores my romantic notions of friendship, then throws them away in front of me!” Dorian glared at the man in question, “And I'm not a boy, I'm twenty-four!”

“You do act like a child,” Basil admitted.

“Basil!” Dorian gasped dramatically and threw himself onto the nearby divan, “I have never been so betrayed! I shall never recover!”

Basil smiled. Henry motioned for him to sit next to him, then gently grasped the other man's hand, “I am happy to see you again.”

The trio found themselves locked in easy conversation about everything and anything but Basil's situation or the events leading up to it. Easy laughter and general pleasantries were shared all around, but the knowledge of the limited time they had pressed heavily against them.

“It's getting rather late,” the painter stood up, “I should leave.”

“Stay for the night, Basil,” Henry said.

“No,” he said far too quickly to be reassuring, “No, I couldn't possibly do such a thing.”

The reason went unsaid.

“You'll come by tomorrow, won't you?” Dorian fluttered his lashes at the man, “And every day, until I leave?”

“I can try,” Basil said, uncomfortable with the intensity, “But I'm not sure I'll be very entertaining to be around.”

“We can keep our meetings in our respective houses,” Henry offered.

“Please, Basil,” Dorian clasped his hand together as if he were praying.

“Alright, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“And the day after?”

“Yes, every day until you leave.”

Dorian grinned triumphantly, “Oh, before you leave—!”

The blonde fished through the inner pockets of his coat and pulled out a small wooden box with a crumpled bow.

“Oh, it looked nicer before,” he muttered. He handed it to Basil.

It was a brown ornate box with a golden key on the side of it. The top of the box had an intricate carving of what was assumedly a floral scene. Dorian winded the key, then opened the box and turned it towards Basil. On the inside, it had three miniature orchids, one red, one purple, and one white, each with a basil leaf adorning the sides.

Then a gentle melody filled the room. It was beautiful, delicate, and filled with a sense of longing. The orchids slowly turned, like they were dancing.

“Is this one of your songs?” Basil asked.

“Yes.”

“I haven't heard this one,” Henry leaned forwards.

“That's because I finished it a few weeks ago. It's for you Basil.”

“The box or the song?” the lord looked at the artist who appeared shocked.

“Both!”

“Both?”

“I wrote the song for Basil,” Dorian beamed, “Then I had the box commissioned. You two are the first people to ever hear it, besides me of course.”

“You wrote this song for me?” Basil murmured, “Why?”

“Because you're his favorite,” Henry joked.

“Because you mean a lot to me, Basil. No one can do what you can with your paintings. I have never met someone so intelligent, yet so careful and caring. I wrote that song to express the beauty of your soul,” Dorian confessed. Henry opened his mouth to speak, and the young man threw a pillow from the divan at him, “What do you think?”

Basil looked at the man in earnest, “I think I'm going to cry.”

“Oh!”

“I was going to tell you,” Henry said. He patted the seat next to him, “Bring him here, Dorian.”

Tentatively, the blonde led the crying man to sit, then frantically said, “If you don't like it, I can take it back. I didn't want to hurt you.”

“You haven't,” Basil sobbed, “I promise, I'm not hurt.”

“No, really, Basil, if you dislike it at all, I'll take it back and throw it away or burn it or whatever you like. Just tell me and it will be gone.”

“And throw away your work?! I'd rather die!”

Lord Henry shook his head, “Why are you crying then, Basil?”

“It's just,” Basil wiped his eyes and took a shaky breath, “It's just moving, that's all. Do you really believe that about me, Dorian?”

“Yes. Every word. If you'd let me, I would like to name the song after you. I want you to be known for centuries after today.”

A sob escaped the painter, “Oh, how I wish I could capture beauty as you do! To be able to do such a thing, I'd do anything! I would befriend the devil himself!”

“Basil,” Henry laughed, “That is quite unlike you!”

Dorian giggled behind a pale hand, “Besides, Harry is right there, Basil.”

Henry threw the pillow at Dorian. Basil genuinely laughed for the first time in a while.

At his home, Basil laid in his bed, still awake despite his many attempts.

He couldn't stop thinking about the end of the week. While he was happy for Dorian, he was worried too. Dorian wasn't the most responsible and he was often too willful for his own good. A week from today, he would be all alone in a completely different country. Basil hoped that the young man at least knew someone there and wasn't rushing into this as he normally did.

He got up from his bed and searched for something to busy himself with. Eventually his eyes landed on the small music box Dorian had given him. He picked it up and clutched it to his chest, then, feeling childish, shyly placed it back down.

Basil sighed as he absentmindedly turned the key. When he had it far enough, he let it play as he sat at a desk to sketch. He drew flowers, houses, and then Dorian. Surrounded by flowers, the young man smiled in the sketch and Basil felt a sense of sadness flood him. He tore the page and returned to bed, falling asleep to the music box's gentle song.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, again let me know what you think! The song in the music box can be whatever you want, but I personally think it's Million Miles Away from "Belle" because the lyrics that play in the only music box version will be painfully ironic in a few chapters. Also, Sam Yung has a beautiful extended piano and string arrangement that would totally be Dorian's composed version.

Next chapter we'll meet the capitalist!

Bought these cool water soluble graphite pencils and I love them I am obsessed with them

I agree ☝️

How the Daisy-coming-to-tea scene should’ve gone

Okay so, I was thinking about the post I made some time ago last month about how it’d be a game changer if Dorian told Basil about his decaying portrait and how it mentally affects him, and how they’d work on fixing the issue. I felt like writing a short fic just for fun to practice some writing and expand on a small idea I had. I wanted to pair a doodle with it that relates to the whole idea but for some reason I just couldn’t ✨art ✨and I don’t feel like frustrating myself further 😐. So now a small fic will ensue:

(Reminder: most of this isn’t accurate to the original novel. It just spans off from a little idea I had and is mostly consisted of little tidbits from my head canons for these two 💖)

🫐🍑

“We will try something else, Dorian,” said the disgruntled painter as he retired a brush to his easel.

Dorian Gray let out a half-frustrated, half-anxious sigh. He had been perched on a stool across from where Basil had stationed himself behind a large canvas and easel for hours now, sitting for a portrait that had already been completed years ago. Dorian dropped his perfectly poised self and slouched, letting his weight fall down onto the stool. He watched as Basil began to clean up his little work station, grabbing paint cans and shoving them inside of a crate.

“What else is there to try?” Dorian croaked. He brought a pale hand up to rub his tired eyes.

“We will figure something out. But for now let us settle down for the night. It’s far too late to keep you at it anyway,” replied Basil.

Dorian Gray exhaled slowly. He was about to offer his help to the painter but refrained when he reminded himself that he would instantly be denied. Basil typically never accepted help from anyone, especially Dorian—and especially when Dorian was in such a compromised state.

After sitting on the stool for another minute, Dorian decided to get up to make his way over to the divan just a few feet away from where he was. He looked at it, somewhat mapping his route there as if he were about to cross a rickety bridge over a volcano. There was nothing in his way, but he felt horrendously lightheaded and feared he would fall if he was not extra careful. Slowly he slid off of the seat. Just as he did so, he felt blood rush all throughout his head and blur his vision. He gripped the seat of the stool for a moment while he recomposed himself with a groan.

Immediately Basil turned around. “Are you alright?” he questioned.

“Yes, yes I’m alright, Basil,” Dorian murmured. He finally left the stool and inched his way over to the divan on which he flung himself. He brought a hand to his forehead. “I’m alright.”

Basil huffed in slight concern. Before picking up his paint palette, he passed the easel and stopped to gander at the portrait. Before him was the horrible picture of Dorian Gray that he painted years ago—only, he did not paint it that way. It did not look horrible when he first painted it, instead having shown the wonderful image of a young man in the prime of his youth, with a radiant smile and rosy lips and eyes as blue as the sky. Now the portrait was corroded, even down to the fibers of the canvas it was painted onto. The figure standing tall in the center wore a ghastly expression; his skin was grey and decayed; his hair was the color of hay that had been left out too long in the rain. The whole portrait looked like it had been vandalized, and it had, but not by hand. Years had passed between the completion of the portrait and that very moment in Basil Hallward’s studio, and the man seated on the divan had not aged one bit. Both Basil and Dorian very well knew the story, though, and resolved not to think about it in great detail as it brought anguish to them both, especially Dorian. Basil uttered a soft noise of acknowledgment.

“Oh stop looking at that damned canvas, would you, Basil?” Dorian groaned, feeling his friend’s worry and confusion from across the room.

“My apologies, Dorian. I just—my God, this is not something I ever thought could be possible in all my years,” said Basil. He turned away and continued cleaning up.

Dorian sighed. “It’s what I get for selling my soul, no? It was bound to happen, Basil.” He lowered himself further on the divan to lie down on his side. His head felt like a whirlwind and he tried shutting his eyes to combat the feeling.

“Don’t talk like that. You merely made the wish of an innocent boy whose mind was plagued with foolish ideologies. I told you not to listen to Harry.”

“Please, Basil; Harry hadn’t any idea what he was saying, either. After having seen me battle with this, he has completely changed the way he thinks. Trust me, Basil. I know you haven’t spoken to him in a while, but…he changed.”

Basil snorted, pushing up his spectacles with his right middle finger. He began to scrape the dried paint off of his palette with a palette knife. The sound of the knife against the palette made Dorian flinch and shudder.

“I don’t like what Harry has done to you,” Basil remarked after a moment of silence had gone by. His back was turned to Dorian.

Dorian Gray took one of the pillows on the divan and used it to shield his fragile eyes from any abrasive light shining from the ceiling’s lamps. He hugged it close to his face. “Harry did nothing to me, Basil. It was I who ruined myself. It was I who made that ‘innocent wish’ as you call it,” he said.

The painter hit Dorian with a fast rebuttal almost before Dorian could finish speaking. “No,” he said, quite authoritatively. “No. It was Harry who fed you such foolish ideas about life and youth and boyhood, and practically sold you on staying young forever as if he were the Devil himself.”

Removing the pillow just a tad, Dorian peeked at his friend across the studio. He looked at his broad shoulders, how stiff they were with concern and pummeling stress. He caught a glimpse of his frantic eyes and how they scanned over everything in the studio (especially the portrait). And he noticed, in the sea of jet black that made up Basil’s luscious curls, plentiful strands of grey hair that served as Dorian’s marker for how much time truly had passed. Basil was so youthful when he painted the portrait. It was as if whatever was happening to the portrait was also happening to Basil, not because of Dorian’s foolishness, but because of the worry he felt deep inside for Dorian Gray that eventually began to mar him physically. Anything decayed because of Dorian, it seemed.

“Basil, please,” Dorian mustered out with whatever voice he had left in him before it cracked. “Please stop it. Please come sit down. I don’t want to hear anymore talk about Harry or his ‘involvement’ with all of this. He is just as innocent as you are—as everyone is besides me. Now come sit.”

“Why, do you not feel well?” Basil questioned.

Almost instantly upon hearing his friend’s voice he was on high alert. He knew Dorian had not been feeling well ever since the portrait began to show its first signs of sin, and that no medicine could cure the anguish Dorian endured because of it. Seeing Dorian decline rapidly pierced Basil’s heart. Whenever Dorian began to feel unwell, Basil began to feel anxious. In turn he dropped his palette and knife and jumped to Dorian’s aid. He crouched down next to the divan.

“There you are,” Dorian sighed, relieved.

“Do you need anything? I could put on some tea, or see if the nighttime market is still open if you are hungry, or—“

“No. Just sit.”

Basil adjusted himself to sit on the wooden ground next to the divan.

“If I am going to retire for the night, so are you. You have been painting away at that portrait since”—Dorian peered at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room—“five-o’clock yesterday morning. It is now three-o’clock in the morning of the next day. Just relax; there is nothing more we can do.”

Basil shook his head. “We will try something else, Dorian. I promise,” he said.

With a shaky hand, Basil cupped Dorian’s soft cheek and rubbed it with this thumb. He brushed over Dorian’s faint freckles, eying them like they were constellations amidst a wide galaxy. Dorian was as beautiful as he was on the day Basil met him. He wondered how Dorian would look if he actually had aged in the years spanning between the completion of the portrait and that very moment in the studio. Probably just as beautiful if not even more beautiful.

“What else are we going to try, Basil? We have tried London’s best psychics, we have tried churches, and we have just tried painting over the impurities in the picture. What more can we do?” Dorian whispered, his exhausted blue eyes staring into Basil’s frantic brown ones.

“We will—“

“I don’t want to waste your time,” added Dorian. The volume of his voice rose from a whisper to a cracked mumble.

Bail was taken aback. “You are not wasting my time, Dorian,” he declared. “I willingly—“

“But I am. All we have been doing for months now is running around like lunatics, trying to erase the mistake I made. I should have never sought your help if it were going to be this time consuming and wear you down so much. I feel as though I have destroyed you and any beautiful thing in my path after I sold my soul away,” Dorian Gray spoke. Tears budded in his bloodshot eyes.

“You forget that you sought my help and I willingly gave it to you. You forget that I value you more than anything else, Dorian Gray. You have not destroyed me. There is nothing you could do to me, Dorian, that would destroy me. You are too much of an angel,” Basil said.

Dorian turned further in towards Basil as a small whimper escaped his mouth. He still hugged the pillow. “I am a devil, Basil. You forget that.”

“I won’t hear it. Listen to me, Dorian. I am helping you because I love you. If I did not love you, I would have never painted this portrait in the first place. I love you too much to stand by and watch you suffer under this mysterious curse. I am going to do anything and everything in my power to bring you out of it, whatever that may be,” declared the painter.

A singular tear rolled down Dorian’s cheek and onto Basil’s hand. It was wiped away immediately only for another few to follow. Dorian lied there in silence, hugging the pillow and staring down at the floor before him. He embraced the gentle pressure he felt on his cheek from Basil’s large hand. He felt safe for a split second when he gave into the feeling of Basil’s hand. But then when he looked back up at the painter and saw worried eyes, trembling lips, and grey hair, he shuddered at the wilted flower he killed.

“You have always been an incredibly selfless man, Basil Hallward,” he murmured.

“I have always loved you, Dorian Gray,” Basil returned.

The studio fell silent. Dorian turned back over to look at Basil directly in his eyes. He was a tad unsure of what exactly Basil had said, but it was no matter. He took the painter’s cheek and pulled him into a delicate yet full and ginger kiss. His hand sailed up from Basil’s cheek to the back of Basil’s head where it gently rested while their lips remained locked.

Basil was taken aback by the kiss but accepted it nonetheless, equally meeting Dorian halfway in the gesture. He found himself being unable to breathe properly but somehow managing to close his eyes and enjoy a kiss for once without being overly anxious about it.

After another moment or two, Dorian slowly pulled away, hand still planted on Basil’s cheek. He kept his face near the other’s just enough to whisper, “And I have always loved you too, Basil Hallward.”

The words made Basil melt. He smiled softly at Dorian Gray and shuddered at the sensation of his lips being brushed with Dorian’s thumb. He lowered himself down to lie his head on Dorian’s shoulder, just enough to allow Dorian most of the space but to also keep them both comfortable. Dorian’s hand ran up Basil’s back and to his hair; he played with the jet black, almost licorice-like locks, and took extra time playing with some of the grey strands he came across. Everyone he knew had grey hair for the most part except himself.

“Should I call us a cab to get home?” Basil questioned a moment later, rising from Dorian and the divan.

Dorian’s hand was still in Basil’s hair, ruffling it softly. “I am afraid I cannot move from this spot.”

“Are you not feeling well?”

“I feel as though I must faint or fall asleep, one of the two. I don’t want to risk anything.”

“Alright then. I will stay the night here with you.”

A sigh escaped Dorian’s mouth. “You are so sweet, but if you must go home—“

“No, I mustn’t. I can stay the night here with you,” said the painter matter-of-factly.

Dorian rubbed his sore eyes and smiled at the man next to him as best as he could. “Take that coat off first, at least; it’s got paint all over it.”

Basil looked down at the garment he was wearing: a brown coat that was not so brown anymore, instead a mix of colors ranging from blues to purples to oranges to yellows. He shrugged it off and tossed it to the side where it collapsed upon itself into a colorful pool on the floor. Basil also undid his orange tie just so he would be more comfortable.

“I think I have a spare change of clothes in the closet over there, Dorian, if you’d like to sleep in something other than your suit. I should have a large shirt, and a blanket somewhere,” Basil said.

Dorian flicked his wrist in place of shaking his dizzy head. He then began to undo his blue tie as well. “No, no, Basil. I’m fine just like this.” He hung his tie on the back cushions of the divan. “Now, where are you going to sleep?” he asked.

“Oh, right here,” said the painter, shuffling around in his little spot on the floor. “I hope you don’t mind but I want to stay close to you tonight…considering how you are feeling.”

Dorian Gray frowned. “I don’t mind at all but Basil, won’t you be uncomfortable? I won’t have you sleep on the floor… It is far too uncomfortable.”

“I’m comfortable so long as I’m next to you.”

The painter looked at him with sincerity and nodded slightly with his head. Dorian could not help but smile brightly at his friend. It was the brightest he had smiled in a long time, considering how he had been feeling for the past few years. To have a friend that would, under any circumstances, help him and stay next to him in his lowest moments meant more than the world to him. Basil in particular meant more than life to him.

“You truly are a selfless man…” Dorian mumbled. He wriggled around on the divan. “But I’m sure I could make at least some room for you if you needed—“

Basil put a firm but gentle hand on Dorian’s shoulder, grounding him and stopping him from any more movement. He simply shook his head and insistently said, “No, thank you. I appreciate your kindness but I cannot share that space with you. You are more in need of it than I am.”

“Then sleep on a chair at least?” suggested Dorian.

“I haven’t any real chairs, only stools. Now let’s stop this banter and get to sleep, Dorian. We are both terribly exhausted,” Basil said.

Basil removed his hand and Dorian settled down into the cushions of the divan. Dorian watched as Basil reached over for his previously discarded coat and began to fold it up into a lumpy square. He placed it where his head would lie.

A hand ran through Basil’s hair to slick it back, moving it away from his eyes. As he went down to unbutton his vest he began: “I apologize that I do not have a bed or a fuller sofa in here; this divan is all I—“

Dorian took a hold of Basil’s cheek and pulled both Basil and himself into a hearty, rich kiss. The painter, startled by the swift action, uttered a noise of confusion but was soon comforted by the soft hand on his cheek that ran its thumb in a loving, stroking motion. Basil’s stiff shoulders dropped and his brows settled right above his closed eyes. His hands inched up to hold Dorian’s arms; his grip was not too tight nor too loose, just loving and full. Dorian removed his hand from the other’s cheek to push up the spectacles obstructing him from fully pressing his face against Basil’s. Their noses scrunched up against each other’s cheeks. Dorian returned his hand to Basil’s face for the remainder of their kiss.

When they separated, Basil’s spectacles fell down onto the bridge of his nose. He adjusted them along with some ruffled parts of his beard where Dorian’s hand was. Dorian pulled his sore body back onto the divan and hugged a pillow close to his chest. His pale cheeks flushed a bright rose color. It was as if the kiss had breathed a bit of life into Dorian, returning him to the youthful man he once was just for a moment.

“The divan is fine, Basil, I can make do with it,” Dorian whispered.

“I promise I would offer you something better if I had it.”

“Hush, I don’t care. You already offer me the best.”

Basil shuffled around to lie down on the wooden floor. Carefully he placed his aching head on the makeshift pillow he constructed out of his coat, and wriggled around just enough so he could have a decent view of the man lying a few inches above him. He had to keep an eye on him during the night.

Basil went back to unbuttoning his vest. “Come morning I will go to the market to fetch us breakfast. Then I will try repairing the ripped parts of the canvas, maybe even call in another psychic or priest to look at it, one from Cambridge since we have tried most of the ones in London,” explained Basil.

A sigh escaped through Dorian’s parted lips. He subtly wiped away a tear that formed in the corner of one of his eyes. “I would not worry about the last part. You already have done so much for me and it has proven a failure, so stop while you are ahead. It has made itself clear to me that I must live like this for the rest of my life,” he replied, his voice dry and low.

The painter shook his head. “I am going to try everything until I run out of things to try, Dorian. I promise you, we will try something else if another doesn’t work. You do not deserve to live under this anguish. I am going to help you out of it,” he declared, his voice propelled by the thumping in his chest. His hand slowly crept upwards for Dorian’s, whose hand he squeezed tightly once received. Quietly, almost as if people were listening in, Basil raised his head to speak solely to Dorian. “I will do anything for you, Dorian Gray.”

Hearing Basil’s statement made Dorian shudder. Many people have declared such devotion to him over the years, just to all end in shambles and ruin because of him. Dorian knew he had already ruined Basil Hallward despite the man’s countering rebuttals. It was plain to see: Basil was exhausted, his hair was greying, and he was no longer the man he was when they first met. Dorian was confused as to why Basil continued to stay devoted to him and for a moment it plunged him into deep thought, but he was pulled out of it when he felt his hand being squeezed by the man lying beside and beneath him. Then he realized it.

Basil Hallward, unlike others, saw that Dorian Gray too was struggling. He saw that Dorian Gray was in pain as well, and it only came after he had caused others pain, after he had realized that he was acting on another’s dime, whether it was Lord Henry’s or whoever got a hold of him at whatever moment. Dorian Gray became the puppet to many masters. Many saw that he had become the master to many puppets. Basil saw how disheveled the marionette had become after letting so many masters pull on his strings, teaching him to become a master as well. Dorian Gray, in a sense, was used, chewed up, tossed to the curb, and Basil could see it all. Dorian only wished Basil could see that through all of the usage, chewing, and tossing: he, in another light, became a master of puppets too.

But Dorian was done now. He had cut off all of his masters’ strings and threw away the stage on which he performed, and had others perform. Now he had to cut off the portrait’s strings. The portrait had a control over him that he could not quite identify or come to, but he tried to make sense of it many times over again in his mind. It had a grip on him like the full moon does on a werewolf, or like blood does on a vampire. Dorian wished he could understand what was being done to him that he could not see, because then if he understood, maybe distancing himself from it would be much easier.

With another sigh, Dorian squeezed Basil’s hand as tightly as he could with whatever strength he had left for the night. He kept it close to his lips, almost wanting Basil to feel his breath on his hand to ensure that he was there, that he was still alive under the portrait, that there was still a Dorian Gray somewhere. A tear had rolled onto it while Dorian lied there in silence.

“I love you, Basil Hallward,” he finally murmured after allowing himself time to put his thoughts aside.

Basil secured his grip on Dorian’s hand. He picked himself up to kiss it before sinking back down to the ground. “I love you too, Dorian Gray. Good night.”

Dorian emitted a soft whimper. “Good night, Basil.”

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