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Basil Hallward was still absolutely, irrevocably in love with Dorian Gray.
Unfortunately.
Even after everything – seeing Dorian slowly succumb to Harry’s wicked influence, watching him jump from sin to gluttonous sin like a game of Scotch-hopper, and then thoroughly humiliating himself in possibly the world’s most miserable attempt at a confession to date – he was still sulking in his studio like a fool.
From that day on, as painful as it was, Basil had resolved to never see Dorian again.
Basil now stood alone on a cool summer evening at the end of a long gravel drive that led to a towering brick mansion, with towers and intricate iron turrets that pierced the sky, which was turning brilliant gold along with the setting sun. He gripped the thick parchment he held in his fist, which invited him in looping cursive to an evening of entertainment at the home of one Dorian Gray.
Basil had never had that much resolve.
He sighed, squared his shoulders, and made his way into the fray. He was purposely late (by an astounding 5 minutes, as he could not bear to wait any longer – he really was pathetic), so the front hall alone was already humming with life, whispers and peals of high-pitched laughter bouncing off the marble floors. A few people recognized him, engaging him in friendly, empty conversation. Basil had never felt comfortable among people, let alone these kinds of people – filthy rich and constantly bored. Lord Henry had roped Basil into these upper circles when he was still a starving artist, and at that point he needed patronage and was largely preoccupied with the filthy rich part. But to them he was an oddity – too refined for the vulgar masses, but a contemplative, awkward sore thumb amongst high society.
Basil grit his teeth through aimless chatter and inquired whether anyone had seen Dorian – the evening was dragging on, and even as music had begun to play and the ballroom came to life with people whirling across the floor, the man of the hour had been mysteriously absent.
Basil languished in the corner, unable to bear anymore conversation with the pit of acid anxiety welling in his gut. He tried to take his mind off it by taking it all in – Dorian's home was a veritable artist’s paradise. He admired the vivid tapestries adorning the walls, the intricate mosaics speckled with topaz and lazuli that creeped across the floor, the gold leaf that wound its way around every sconce in delicate vines. But he could not stop fearing the worst – that Dorian had only invited him to see if he would come, only to never show his face and laugh with his beautiful, empty-headed guests at what a poor sap Basil was.
It was suddenly unbearably hot, and the dizzying commotion of everyone waltzing to an anxious, thrumming cello piece made Basil spontaneously nauseous. He clung to the wall, making his way along the edge of the room to the French doors flung open along the western wall. As the cool midnight breeze licked at his collar, someone materialized at his shoulder. Basil glanced over, mentally preparing himself for another draining conversation, when his dull, dirt brown eyes locked with a pair of brilliant blue ones. Dorian Gray was grinning at him, pressed against the outside wall of the house, partially hidden in a bulbous hydrangea bush. Basil gaped at him; gob smacked for a moment.
“Dorian? What on ear-”
With more strength than his lithe, boyish twig arms would suggest, Dorian yanked Basil with him into the shadows, grabbed him by the arm, and began dragging him around the corner of the mansion.
“I never doubted you for moment, old fellow! Although I am quite impressed – you can make yourself hellishly difficult to find.”
Before Basil could think to reply, Dorian leapt onto a trellis draped in wisteria and started clambering up to the second floor, pausing for a moment to turn around and hold out a hand to Basil.
“Well come along Hallward! We don’t have all night, and I promised you an evening of entertainment, didn’t I? Everyone else is up there - I thought it would be delightful to have a party on the ground floor to serve as ambiance for the real one upstairs.”
“T-Two parties? Isn’t that, well, excessive?”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful? It was all Harry’s idea, but to anyone who asks it was all me. Dinner has already happened, and you missed it all– did you even read your invitation? Honestly, you artistic types can barely keep your heads on straight -”
As Dorian chattered, Basil was thrown off balance for a moment by the way the moonlight shone off Dorian’s golden locks, which were simultaneously impeccably styled and unruly, softly swept into a mop of perfect curls that framed his face, glowing with excitement and slightly flushed with wine. He looked positively angelic - yet with an air of mischief, grinning puckishly and clinging to the trellis like a thief in the night. Basil was overcome with the urge to paint him, to capture this moment – Dorian suddenly so reminded him of the young man he was when Basil had first met him, first invited him to sit so he could bask in the glow of Dorian’s personality and youthful beauty, and let it flow through him and pour out onto the canvas in front of him.
“Basil? Are you with us?” Dorian sing-songed and poked him in the forehead, knocking him out of his reverie, and the absurdity of the moment hit him in full force.
“Wha- Dorian what is the meaning of this?! I assumed you never wanted to see me again! And I was fine with that!”
Basil began to pace, waving his arms as he spoke.
“You don’t speak to me for months, don’t visit me for months, and as soon as I have grown accustomed to your absence - “
(That was a lie – Basil hadn’t been able to paint a thing for weeks)
“-You invite me to your home for some ridiculous party, leave me stranded with all your ridiculous friends, then appear out of nowhere after avoiding me all night?”
He sighed, trying to compose himself.
“I understand if being around me makes you... uncomfortable. I knew the risks when I chose to make that confession to you. I know my affections were not returned. You have no obligation to associate with me anymore – the fault is all mine for ruining the circumstances of our friendship. But please, I beg you, don’t toy with me. Don’t drag me to some useless event just to mock me.”
Dorian stared at him for a moment, confused.
Then he chuckled, shaking his head, and said, “Harry was right, Basil – you are quite the artist. I have no clue what is worrying you so. I invited you because I have not seen you as of late. Harry told me that being too familiar with one’s friends renders them terribly dull. I confess that I had grown a bit bored of our friendship – I thought that some time apart could reinvigorate it, but you’re just the same as ever. That’s perfectly alright of course – you are new to me again, and thus ever so fascinating. Now could you stop your nattering and climb up this god forsaken trellis?”
Basil stared at him for a moment.
“Dorian - do you not remember when we last spoke?”
“Not particularly.”
Basil was struck into silence again.
“I can vaguely recall you going on about how much I inspired your art? It was all very touching, but a little over my head – I don’t believe I’ll ever comprehend the mind of an artist,” Dorian laughed again, an airy sound that rang against Basil’s ears in the quiet garden.
Basil stared at him for a moment, contemplating.
Dorian looked just the way he remembered. He had clearly changed - the way he spoke about their friendship so callously (likely Henry’s doing), and how his eyes were sharper, more learned than they were that day in the garden so long ago. But looking at him now, he couldn’t help seeing the boy he had first known. The slightly shy, naïve lad who had been fascinated by his art, who had walked arm and arm with him home from the bandstand that day in the park. The boy who had directed his smile - a deadly weapon he scarcely comprehended the power of - directly at Basil, harpooning his heart, reeling him in and rendering him utterly helpless all in one fell swoop.
Basil had been given a remarkable second chance – Dorian didn’t hate him. He could still be near him, if he was even more careful than before to never let on what he truly felt for Dorian Gray, a feeling that was quite a bit more than one ought to feel for someone they claim merely to be a muse. And despite the clear effects of Henry’s influence on him, as Basil stood there, seeing Dorian - whose mere presence still affected his soul, still lifted his spirit with his youthful purity – he hoped that maybe things could be as they were before.
Dorian smiled at him now, in way some could describe as sly, but to Basil it was only light. He felt a bittersweet tug in his chest. Dorian extended his hand. Basil took it.