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…“Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!” There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Pray, Dorian, pray,” he murmured. “What is it that one was taught to say in one’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.’ Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.”
Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered.
“It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow’?”
“Those words mean nothing to me now.”
“Hush! Don’t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don’t you see…”
Dorian grabbed him by the face, and stopped Basil's mouth with his own. The older man brought his hands up instinctually to defend himself, only to surrender the next moment, his hands hovering just before Dorian's shoulders.
He had to stop him, the sound of his voice was to Dorian's ear like the squealing of train breaks, and his talk of prayer and sin made him sick. He had had enough talk of morality for a lifetime.
It was far from a good kiss, brief and harsh, but it had fulfilled its purpose, and Dorian pulled away to look in the panting painter's face, realizing, with surprise, he was breathing the same way. He dropped his hands abruptly, and turned his face to the floor, wiping away the tears he had ignored earlier.
A terrible silence hung in the air, until Basil started to speak, only to stop. start again, and fall short, “Wh… Why did you…” His voice was quiet, breathless.
“I couldn't bear to let you speak anymore.” He knew he would assume his motives were romantic, and he let him, it was easier that way. He continued to look at the old carpet, counting the threads to distract himself from his pounding heart. He closed his eyes, dizzy with fatigue, frustration, and an anxiety like none he'd known. He felt like a child, the room didn't help.
“But, why… did you have to do that?” His emphasis on the final word was unintentional, but he could stifle his distress no longer.
Dorian stood silent, utterly unsure of how to answer, when of all things, Harry popped into his mind. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” He said dreamily, with a single, sad laugh.
“Please… don't toy with me, Dorian.” It sounded like it physically hurt to say his name, and it sent a hot needle through Dorian’s heart. No matter, content with that last remark that he had upset Basil enough, he cleared his throat, and put on a hard face, only to be disarmed with the most tender expression.
Basil looked on him with a reverence reserved for saints's relics, and other tangible pieces of divinity. He had only seen anything close to this with one other, and for her it had been love.
The well cultivated mask Dorian conjured crumbled in the honesty of Basil's gaze, as they stood almost exactly eye to eye.
Despite being nearly fifty, Basil was still a reasonably handsome man, a wisp of gray by each ear the only real sign of his age. His features were strong, with nothing particularly extraordinary about them, except for the kindness and sincerity that lived behind his eyes that could have compelled the devil back to heaven.
“May I?” There was a boyish trembling in Basil's voice, his eye briefly moving to glance down to Dorian's lips. He stared back at him, still lost in his thoughts, speechless, mouth innocently agape.
No one… no one had ever asked to touch him. As a child, he was passed around like a doll, and then as he grew, it seemed his appearance meant he belonged to everyone. Even through his adulthood, a lover may have hesitated, but generally people took what they wanted from him, and so he had learned to do the same. He had never had a choice before, not like this at least, and the feeling was intoxicating.
Swallowing hard, he could only nod in reply, and Basil, with the most delicate touch, placed just his fingertips on his cheek, gradually allowing the rest of his hand to make contact. He brought up his other hand, and looked as though he may make the sign of the cross, before laying it on the side of Dorian's neck, just as gently as the other; only his thumb touching over the collar.
Dorian's eyelids felt heavy under this careful handling, and when Basil's shy lips met his, he let them close easily; he was safe in these hands. It all felt so chaste; in that moment, he was that youth in Basil's studio again; inexperienced and fresh. This was not certainly not Dorian's first kiss, or Basil's for that matter, but it was their first.
He brought his hands between them, and slipped them inside of Basil’s jacket, until he could feel the linen back of his waistcoat. Basil flinched at his touch, but that only made him pull the painter closer. Basil took this as permission to continue, and gently combed his fingers into Dorian’s angelic curls.
Parting his lips, Basil let slip an airy moan, and pressed himself against Dorian, bathing him in kisses. Basil was a little clumsy, but his enthusiasm was endearing, even as Dorian was pushed back, and into the wall. The impact was enough to force the air from his lungs with a groan, and Basil trembled with a cry of his own, taking Dorian’s lower lip in his teeth.
Dorian found himself responding unexpectedly to each new offering of affection, and what started as a ploy to get the man to leave, now left Dorian not wanting him to let go. He pulled one hand out of Basil’s jacket, and combed it through the older man’s dark hair, letting his hand rest at the nape of his neck. Basil leaned his head back into Dorian’s hand, tugging at the lip he still held, before releasing it, only to lay countless kisses on Dorian’s porcelain face.
This baptism left Dorian enthralled, and he was glad to have the wall at his back. There was a hint of a moan with each exhale, that try as he might to stop, it felt out of his power. He was balling the fabric of the vest tightly just as he felt tears on his cheek, but pulled back to discover they weren’t his.
Basil's eyes were glossy, and he made no effort to hide his crying, as he looked his angel in the eye. There was a sadness in it, this gaze, but more so there was a relief, like one who has returned home after a long journey; a look that would break a statue's heart.
Dorian couldn’t help but bring his hand around to cup his pitiful face and brush the tears away. “I’m only a man…” He said to comfort and reassure, though neither were the effect.
The corners of Basil's mouth raised minutely through his tears, “Not to me.” His voice barely a whisper, punctuating his words with another kiss to Dorian's blushing mouth. He licked at his lips as though to drink some divine elixir, and when Dorian parted them, his tongue received the same treatment.
Feeling faint, he pulled at his tie and collar, letting them fall to the floor, and exposed his neck to Basil's amorous assaults. When his lips did make their way to his throat, Dorian took a sharp breath, and looked up to the ceiling, only giving more territory away. His neck had always been his weakness in situations like this, but this was different, and the moan that came from his was almost helpless. His hips twitched, and he found himself stradling Basil’s thigh; the unexpected pressure forced another cry from him, the reply spoken into the soft flesh of his collar bone, bringing another motion of his hip.
It was overwhelming, being worshipped like this, each kiss was placed with such a tender deliberacy, as though Basil were performing a ritual. It was euphoric, and distracted as he was, Basil made quick work of opening his vest and shirt, moving the fabric aside to partake in the pristine skin there. His touch tickled as he dragged his fingernails down Dorian's side, bringing out more shameless grinding, and whimpering cries.
Dorian felt like he had never been touched, certainly not like this, and the pressure building in his spine with each administration wouldn't allow him to stay still. He turned his head to drown his cries in Basil's hair, inhaling the smell of turpentine, and the long dead flowers of that garden so many years ago with a sigh.
Basil pressed his thigh a little harder, and Dorian gasped, arching his back while so many sensations shot through him. He was panting when Basil took his leg away, and then his breath froze, as Basil started to move down, leaving a trail of small marks as he kissed and sucked at Dorian’s chest, like poppies in the snow.
Basil untangled his hand from his silken hair, and snaked it down Dorian’s shivering form, as he continued kissing further and further, until he was on his knees, his hands on either side of the younger man’s waist.
Dorian focused his blurred eyes on the man kneeling perfectly before him, just as they had both been taught. His crying had stopped, but tears still stained his face, catching the lamplight with a gorgeous shimmer. Dorian placed one hand on his shoulder, the other to his cheek, as he felt tears burn in his own eyes. He wasn't sure what part of this was causing this reaction, but it felt necessary, cathartic. He brushed his thumb over Basil's stubbled cheek, relishing the bristle of it.
Gazing up at him with a beautiful plea in his eyes, he entreated, “Only say the word.” Basil swallowed hard, “Tell me to stop now… or I shall lose myself.”
A tear fell from Dorian’s eye, onto Basil's parted lip, only to be licked up by his eager tongue. He closed his eyes, to better savor this gift, and Dorian gripped his jacket tighter, biting his own lip at the sight.
“Please… Basil…” He replied, taking a breath for each word, with just as much entreating as Basil's.
At the sound of his name, he tightened his hold on Dorian’s waist, and brought his face to lay on his thigh. The proof of Dorian’s acquiescence was very obvious, and Basil was so painfully close, that he shuttered. Basil lifted his head, meeting his gaze again, as he moved to hover over Dorian’s trouser buttons. It was nearly impossible not to move as, using only his mouth, he undid all the closures, slowly, almost too slowly, and without breaking eye contact. Dorian unhanded his shoulder, and moved to touch the shirt underneath; Basil released his hips, unfastening Dorian's suspenders in the same motion, and removed his own jacket, letting it fall to the floor with Dorian’s trousers.
The cool air of the attic room flowed over his bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake that tingled under Basil’s touch. With fingertips brushing up and down each leg, he looked at what he had done to Dorian, then he looked up to his eyes again, and laid a single kiss to the pearl waiting there. He sucked at the burning flesh just enough, and Dorian gasped a breath, moaning with the exhale louder than he would have liked, all hitched and stilted. Again, he felt like a youth, without knowledge or experience; it took all his self control to not grab the man by the hair, and put an end his torture.
He did place a hand to his head, but managed to allow Basil to do as he pleased, which he soon realized was to consume him completely; dangerously, and devilishly slow. Basil’s eyes fluttered closed, as he held his position, the heat of his mouth almost too much for the captured man.
A curse rumbled from deep in Dorian's throat, as he focused on rocking his hips as evenly as he could to match Basil's tantalizing pace. Basil's movements were each done with such care and discipline, as though this was an act of atonement. Nothing to cleanse sin could ever feel like this.
Basil’s tongue danced the length of him, and Dorian thrust a little too hard, eliciting a muffled cry that vibrated around him. He could hold it back no longer, and gave half a dozen more, before regaining enough control to pull himself away, the wall catching him. The painter leaned back on his legs, and gasped like a man finally reaching the water’s surface, all the while looking up at Dorian, eyes wet and lips parted.
He needed to kiss him, taking his acolyte by the hands, and pulling him up into his arms with strength he didn't appear to possess. A tantalizing bitterness lingered on Basil's tongue, as Dorian lost himself in that kiss, determined to make up for what started this. Basil wrapped his arms around his neck just as desperately; the rough tweed of his suit rubbing against Dorian in such a way that he groaned lewdly with a frown.
Basil let go, and moved back, his eyes filled with terror and contrition. Dorian stepped out of his trousers, and took off his jacket and vest in one graceful movement to get back to his artist. He took the poor man’s face in his hands, much gentler this time, and blessed his forehead with a kiss. The prettiest little cry escaped Basil's mouth, and Dorian kissed those willing lips again, guiding him back, until Basil came in contact with the heavy table behind him. It was at such a height that he only needed to lift himself a little to sit upon it, his feet not quite reaching the floor.
Dorian, now standing a little taller than him, leaned over and indulged in the sensation of his traveling suit against his skin again. He always surrounded himself with silks and velvets, so there was an odd novelty to this roughness that only managed to inflame him more. Sucking at Basil's lip as he had done to him, he opened Basil's waistcoat, removing his trousers by stepping away, and swiftly pulling them free of his legs, taking one of his shoes with them. Dorian's unbuttoned shirt slipped off one of his white shoulders, and when he turned panting back to Basil, he was staring at him so intensely that Dorian blushed.
Basil sighed, “Even Ganymede would weep.” and held his hand out.
Dorian let his shirt drop to the floor with a little laugh, “Now you sound like Harry.” and he took his offered hand, knocking Basil’s legs apart with his knee to get as close to him as possible, and kiss hungrily once more. With his free hand, he unbuttoned Basil’s shirt, kissing his neck to the sounds of his very audible approval. His hand gilded over his dark downey chest hair, and he inhaled the warm musky smell of it, as he lay his head against it, bringing his hand around to the small of his back. Basil arched artfully with a moan in his supportive embrace, and dug his nails into Dorian's shoulders, dragging them slowly until he was moaning against his breast.
Their erections rubbed together deliciously, simultaneously arousing, but only so much, and both men shifted their hips a little closer, seeking something more. Dorian brought their stilled clasped hands between them, and wrapped his hand around them both, and Basil’s hip bucked sharply. Their hands stayed still while each sought their pleasure, ever trying to move in rhythm with the other.
Dorian nuzzled against his chest, and finding Basil's nipple, teased it with the tip of his tongue, while the man in his arms lost all pattern in his movements. He sucked at the hard bead with relish, as Basil clawed his hand from his back, over his collarbone, and down to the golden man’s chest. A series of sharp, short breaths escaped Basil, before finally he let out a long, lingering exhale full of need. Dorian’s teeth grazed over the overstimulated flesh, as he let his own seering arousal fall from his hand to focus entirely on the man at his mercy.
He lay Basil back on the table, as he peered up at him through drunken, half lidded eyes, absolutely compliant to Dorian’s will. He straightened up, dragging his nails down Basil’s chest and to his hip, and continuing to work him to the sound of quiet cries. Dorian varied his pace to Basil’s consternation, his brow furrowed with an adorable agony; it was all too amusing to watch him writhe. Basil’s arm stretched over his head to grab the edge of the table, and steady himself, but it was to little effect, and Dorian only drank in more of his lithe form.
He slipped a hand underneath him after a particularly strong jerk of Basil’s hips, only to cause another when he recognized Dorian's touch. He kneaded the supple flesh of Basil's backside, relishing in the chill on his skin from the table, while Basil shifted as though he were trying to avoid being burned. The cries he was making though, couldn’t have sounded farther from pain, and Dorian couldn’t help himself.
“Do you need something, Basil?” He asked coyly, drawing out his name as the man’s whole body went rigid for a moment.
“I… ask for nothing.” The yearning in his reply told a very different story, as did his closed eyes, and the delightful flush in his cheeks.
Dorian laughed as he attacked him from all sides, clenching his hands around all he held, and pulled Basil towards him, “That wasn't my question…” The whine that he earned from that, said more than any words Basil could have found. Dorian indulged in the state of his companion for a few moments, before he drew out another cry at the removal of his hand.
Basil’s chest heaved as he lay completely limp, giving no resistance to Dorian bending his leg until his heel was on the table. Unable to reach him, Basil brushed the fingertips over his own stomach, going down even to the top of his thighs, but always keeping a “respectful” distance from where he truly wanted to touch.
As Dorian watched the sensual display before him, he brought his hand to his mouth, and gave it a few slow licks. His cock burned in his grasp as he moistened the tip, and Basil gasped with a shudder of his hips, when the heat of it neared him . Dorian pressed a little harder on the tight orifice he had revealed, and Basil arched deeply with a moan. He had no intentions of going any further, yet; not with the reaction he was receiving, and not with the violent lust coursing through him for this man.
One hand above grabbing the table harder, and the other reaching weakly for Dorian, their eyes met, and Basil begged through gasps and new tears, “You don’t have to do this.”
He knew Basil meant these words, but again, his voice betrayed his true feelings, and Dorian shivered as that desire swept through him. With a flick of his hips, he broke the first wall of Basil’s defenses, bringing a clipped moan from both of them, eye contact unbroken.
Mischief gleamed in Dorian’s gaze at the honest, pitiful man. “Would you like for me to stop then?” His voice was dark and heavy as he pulled back just enough, and Basil let out a truly lascivious whine.
“God… please, no.”
Dorian laughed his own moan, and he had no choice but to resume his position, and more, with a sudden, but careful push. Basil writhed for a moment, clearly in pain, but his cries urged Dorian forward. The pressure that increasingly consumed him, was taxing his already exhausted restraint, and finally when his hips were nestled perfectly between Basil's soft thighs, both men gasped.
His arousal was all encompassing, and he knew if he moved now, he would be utterly undone by Basil's all too welcoming body, so he stood there, trembling like a school boy, until even that was too much, and he could wait no longer. With a deep breath, he pulled back until just the head remained, watching Basil bite his fist to stifle a moan, before Dorian filled him again, more than twice as fast as he left. Basil went stiff, while he groaned with the most exquisite mix of pleasure and pain, and rolled his hips wantonly. Dorian brought him closer, burying himself even deeper, while Basil wrapped his leg about Dorian’s waist. His hand traveled down to capture the pillowy flesh of the painter’s ass, squeezing hard, and thrusting a little harder with each move.
Basil looked divine, a faint gleam of sweat collecting on his naked form like a veil, as they performed this carnal dance. He had never enjoyed watching someone react to his touch so much.
Needing to put his lips on him, Dorian slid his hands up the older man’s back, supporting him into a half sitting position. Their hips rocked together in a feverish rhythm, and Dorian leaned to claim Basil’s damp throat, licking the salt from his lips greedily. Basil draped his arms about his shoulder, taking advantage of the angle to grind against him in a new and devastating way.
Dorian moaned into his neck, but that wasn’t enough, and he bit down on the vulnerable flesh. Basil gasped, and Dorian sucked hard, thrilled by the thought of it leaving a mark he would have to hide.
He released his prey, and stood up straight, slowing his pace to stave off his own rapidly approaching climax, only to have Basil respond with even more ardor; throwing his head back, and moaning with abandon.
“Ah!... Just… ah, there, God!…” He whimpered, one hand firmly planted behind him for support, the other was making its way down Dorian’s arm, his nails scraping with the perfect amount of discomfort. He shivered, and Basil pulled him closer with the leg still at his waist. His hand left Dorian’s arm, and almost, just almost, let it fall upon his weeping organ. Instead, he pushed down forcely on the base, his fingers only barely tasting his true desire.
Dorian felt his eyes gaze with lust, and the pressure in the small of his back was quickly becoming unignorable with this latest scene, and still, he couldn’t help but tease him. “Is this what you’re looking for, darling?” Taking hold of Basil’s cock as he spoke, he wrapped his fingers about it tightly, to Basil’s great appreciation; Dorian’s own movement becoming a little less coordinated, as he too lost himself in the sweet hedonism of it all. Basil’s body seemed to have molded around him, stimulating every inch of him to the point of madness. He didn’t know how he had managed to hold back so long, other than his yearning for it to never stop.
Basil was rapidly nearing the end of that fight though, bucking and gasping as Dorian’s velvet hand matched the rhythm of their hips. The sound of their cries echoed off the walls in a chorus of want, and Basil wrapped his arms around Dorian’s shoulders once more, nearly insensible in his need. Dorian took advantage of his free hand, caressing the helpless man’s chest and neck roughly. He rubbed the dark bruise he had left on his white throat earlier, tightening, as Basil leaned into his grasp.
Basil gasped a final desperate moan, looking into Dorian’s sapphire eyes, his brow furrowing as he went ridgid. Dorian stopped as well, just to tease him one last time, before tightening his hold at his neck, and fucking him as hard as he could. Basil’s cries had reached their peak, as Dorian’s mingled with them, and he surrendered utterly to his pleasure. The nails piercing his back sent shudders through him, and, sorry as he was to lose Basil gaze, his eyes fluttered closed as his hips crashed against his painter with enough force to make the table groan.
He couldn’t breath, and he was so hot he thought he would swoon, until all the pressure and ache was released in a devastating climax that left him truly breathless. The moans that flowed from him were like nothing he had done before, falling somewhere between ecstasy and agony, as though a painting of St. Sebastian had come to life. His hand on Basil’s neck relaxed, and vaguely, he realized Basil was kissing his cheek as they both panted and slowly ground out the last drops of passion in a world that only contained them.
He leaned his face against Basil, who moved to kiss Dorian’s parted lips with a quick lick of his tongue. This kiss was soft and tender like a lullaby, and clung to each other a moment before Basil pulled back to feed his starving lungs.
Basil’s breathing was now the only sound in the room, bouncing here and there until it sounded like a strange, almost demonic laughter. It seemed to get inexplicably louder, and louder, and louder, until Dorian opened his weary eyes, not understanding what he saw. Terrified, he blinked to focus in the darkness, as the laughter began again, and he peered down to find that wretched, dreadful horror that started this all.
Dorian’s heart pounded in his chest, as his hand that he had been drawing away, redoubled its efforts at the neck of the creature, pushing it back until its head slammed against the table with a crack. He brought his other hand up as well, the joints of his fingers straining to choke the throat of his nightmare as tightly as he wished. It tried to defend, pushing and beating against his chest, but nothing would stop him; could this grant him freedom?
The foul parody of his own face sneered up at him, only compelling him to push harder. He thought amongst the laughing he could hear his name, but it could only be a trick because he was winning; the incessant cackling thankfully fading away into a deafening silence, and he collapsed upon his foe, his strength sapped.
His eyes closed, and for one blessed, glorious moment, he was in Basil’s garden again, the lilacs and lilies in full bloom, kissing the air with their sweet perfumes, the doves cooing in the roses. The evening sun still felt warm on his skin, and yet, with a blink, it was gone.
It only took the time for Dorian to stand up for him to know the garden was an illusion, and that he was in the dark, damp, attic nursery, but the longer he looked at what lay before him, the less he understood.
That haunted thing was on the table, head to one side, one arm draped across his stomach, the other limp at his side, as still as stone, and then, as though a breeze swept through the room, that visage washed away, and it was Basil once more. Dorian put a hand on his arm, shaking him gently, but there was no response, and the realization was immediate, and terrible.
With trembling hands, he slowly moved to gather him up, cradling him more than gently behind the neck and shoulders. The head dropped back sickeningly far, and Dorian coughed as bile and tears rose within him. Having sat him up, he brought his hand into his raven hair, and met his eyes. Basil’s beautiful dark eyes were open, and angled up as they were, the golden light of the lamp was caught within them as if he had seen a divine vision, tears dried on his cheek. He looked… serene; the corners of his mouth even curved upward in the most sublime way.
This was a knife to Dorian’s racing heart, and he was thankful for the tears clouding his vision as he pulled Basil to him, and sank down to the floor. He cradled him as one would a sick child, and whispered his name as though it could be penance. His tears fell on to the painter's cheek, his smooth brow, and swollen lips, but Basil was unmoved. Dorian kissed those lips, a lingering trembling kiss; his cries were so different now.
“You can’t… not now…” He spoke into the silent mouth, tracing Basil’s cheekbone slowly with his thumb. It felt all too cruel, to have everything fall into place, only to be torn away. No matter what scandal or indiscretion he had committed, Basil’s door was always open to him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a stern “Dorian”... God, what he would give to hear that now. The crushing weight of all Basil had given him was almost too much to bear.
He ran his hand over Basil’s thin frame, and thought about how he had watched him dance in the parlor just below. He took up his arm, traveling down the length of it to his hand, his right hand, the hand that he used to make Dorian Paris, Adonis, Apollo… the hand birthed his doppelganger.
The room was spinning, and looking away from Basil, his eyes moved listlessly about the room, until inevitably they fell on the damned portrait. It was grotesque, as always, but there was… something more to it now, a keener sneer in his lip, or a bit more evil in his eye? It was in his eyes, he concluded, but he would need to stand before it to understand.
Dorian placed him on the floor as though he feared waking him, and stepped silently to his soul. His legs felt unsteady as he inspected every inch, wishing to avoid its stare as long as possible. When finally he did meet the muddy, cloud eyes, for they had long lost their blue, a chill coursed through his veins.
There was a change in the brow that carried down into his whole expression, but centered in the eyes was the deepest, most profound mirth that distorted the whole face; it was now more akin to a mask. The corners of his mouth stretched upward, bringing deep wrinkles to his cheeks, but having no effect on his eyes, which were wide, and open, and the whites unnervingly white. That was the word for it, unnerving. The ghastly thing was always hard to look at, but now it was repulsive.
Hatred filled his being, for himself, for the painting, for Basil… poor, poor Basil. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. Revenge in his heart, he snatched up the blade, and held it high, at the ready to plunge it deep within the chest of the vile reflection, when he caught its gaze, and he froze.
Adding a truly ghoulish final touch to the already nightmarish harlequin before him, was the bright, too bright in the light of the lamp, vermillion seeping from the eyes. Three times he tried to will his arm down to dig in the canvas, and three times he failed, letting the knife fall with a thud and a clang. His hand stayed aloft, and moved to touch the infernal picture, but when his fingers made contact, he jumped back with gasp.
It was wet. They were wet, and warm, these crimson tears running down the unnatural cheek, and his stomach went sour. He gagged, nearly bringing the sullied hand to his mouth, but blessedly, he spotted the foul substance dripping impossibly down his hand. He grabbed the first bit of cloth he found, wiping his hands again and again, as the smell of the blood made him faint, and he was crying again.
He angrily wiped at the tears; he refused to weep anymore, that demon didn’t deserve his tears.
Dorian unhappily turned his attention to Basil, and a shiver ran over his now uncomfortable nakedness; the shadows had eyes, and they were all looking at him. More than the desire to cover himself, though, was the need to dress Basil. It felt so improper to leave him there like that, like a wounded bird fallen from the nest. Dorian gathered their clothes in the fading lamplight, and set about his labor. He indulged himself as he worked, letting his fingers linger on Basil’s skin for the final time; a scream building within.
He admired his work a moment, before pulling on his own clothes, they felt so cold. As soon as the collar of his shirt touched his neck, the smell of varnish filled his nose, and with a quake of his heart, he realized he had Basil’s shirt by mistake. He froze, staring at the dead man wearing his clothes, but then the comforting thought that he could keep this small part of him, washed away any superstitious nonsense he could conjure. This meant he would have a piece of Dorian too.
His chest burned from the cry he sought to suppress; he had to get out of here, as much as it pained him to think of leaving him here. He would have to find a way to… take care of him, but he couldn’t think about that right now, that was work for the morning.
Fully clothed once more, he moved to grab the lamp, but hesitated at the last second. He couldn’t bear to have poor Basil on the floor, and taking him tightly into his arms, Dorian brought him to the chair, leading his head to lay upon the table. As he moved him, one of his arms had fallen just so that he almost looked to be sleeping, but the truth was a burning stone in his stomach, heavy and undeniable.
Dorian brushed Basil’s hair back the way he would have liked, and bent to kiss his cool forehead. The tears he so desperately wanted to hold, flowed freely again, anointing Basil’s brow like rain. It had been love, all those easy hours spent together; he had loved him all along, only to realize too late…
He stood up straight, he could endure this to more, he had to be done with this, or at least until he had gotten to his bed to hopefully wake up from this nightmare. He grabbed the lamp, and held it high to take in a last memory of the scene; the master dead before his masterpiece.
The smell of Basil's shirt hit him as he turned to move towards the door, and his tears dug in his cheeks like talons.
“Enough…” He said out loud, as stern as a whisper can be.
Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough.