Seeing His Own Face in a Glass. (Crossover, Godchild/The Picture of Dorian Gray)
Title: Seeing His Own Face in a Glass.
Fandom: Godchild/The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Warnings: If you know both series, you're good to go.
Characters/couples: Cain/Dorian, Riff, Merryweather, Basil, Lord Henry.
Summary: “Won't you stay with me, Cain?” Dorian asks him, “My dearest Cain, since I heard of you, I knew it. We are the same, aren't we? You sound as horrible as me.”
Rating: PG/PG13-ish, perhaps.
Notes: Written for springkink: Crossover: The Picture of Dorian Gray (Book)/Count Cain (Godchild), Cain/Dorian: Egotism-- "You're my kind of guy, 'cause I like your style, and you sound as horrible as me."
Seeing His Own Face in a Glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The Portrait of Dorian Gray
The party is nearing the part where Cain will be able to make a tasteful retreat when Lord Henry Wotton approaches him.
“Lord Hargreaves, leaving already?” the man's smart eyes are on him, an eyebrow raised.
Cain smiles, bows his head a little. “I'm afraid so, lord Wotton. Having a younger sister has made me a creature of routines, and Merryweather gets ever so upset if I do not come back on time to bid her good night.”
“The Good Lord bless her heart and children everywhere, for how they tame even the most savage of beasts,” Lord Wotton says, not masking the sarcasm in his voice. “Before you go, may I introduce you to someone? My friend has begged me for weeks for the chance, and I gave my word that I would do so.”
Cain makes himself smile, glancing around to see if there is any young lady whom he shall enchant. Merryweather is going to scold him terribly, come tomorrow morning.
“I would be delighted,” he agrees.
But it's no a fair maiden who approaches, but a fair young man of pale golden hair and periwinkle blue eyes. He is a creature of extraordinary beauty, not older than Cain himself, ivory skin that flushes with a soft touch of pink, lips so soft as if they wore paint. He is more beautiful than most of the women Cain has ever knkown.
“Milord Hargreaves, may I introduce you to mister Dorian Gray,” lord Wotton says, his smile mocking. “Dorian, my dear, this is count Cain Hargreaves.”
“I'm honor, lord Hargreaves,” Dorian says, his delight evident like that of a child as he smiles. “Please, forgive Henry if he was rude. I have been bothering him non-stop since I found out you two were acquainted.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Cain says. “Except that you may be bored with me, mister Gray. I'm an extremely dull person.”
“Nonsense, lord Hargreaves,” lord Wotton scoffs, a smart gleam to his gray eyes. “A dull person would never generate that much gossip.”
“Or perhaps they would, simply to hide that fact?” mister Gray adds, shaking his head. There's something in his expression that doesn't, completely, fit his face, the expression in his eyes much more complicated. Mister Gray smiled, and cherubs in heaven envied the way he looked righ then. “Even so, lord Hargreaves. I pray we might be friends.”
**
“His mother ran away with a man with no title and no money, but when the man saw that her father would not give them money, he ran away, leaving her with child,” Riff informed Cain the next day, as he poured him tea. “The mother died at childbirth, and so mister Gray was raised by his grandfather until he died...”
Cain noticed the pause as he sipped, turning to look at Riff, an eyebrow raised.
“Riff? When was that?”
“... it seems that mister Gray's grandfather died was almost nineteen years ago, sir,” Riff tells him.
Cain frowns, setting his cup down, crossing his fingers. “Is there any news that Dorian Gray married or somehow he was with children? The boy I met yesterday is not a day older than seventeen, eighteen if.”
“Not that I'm aware, sir,” Riff says, putting the breakfast tray away. “Mister Gray has been involved in a number of gossip, but none of them about dubious parenthood, and none of them lasted more than a few weeks.”
“How far do these affairs span?”
“Over eighteen years, sir. They start with a young actress, Sybil Vane.”
Any other pondering is forgotten when a maid informs him that mister Basil Hallward has arrived. Merrywether had fallen in love with a picture of the man she had seen when Cain took her to visit a gallery not but two months ago, and upon discovering the fact that the artist lived nearby, he had requested his presence, commissioning a picture of Merryweather for his studio. The artist had been unwilling at first, but upon seeing Merryweather in person he had agreed. He was a man whose despair had aged him prematurely, and at age fifty he seemed seventy, gray haired and with terribly sad dark eyes. Merryweather had taken an instant liking to him.
“Is it done, mister Hallward?” She asked, beaming, leaning over to smile at him.
The man didn't smile back, but he bowed his head. “It is, my lady. I hope you and your brother find it to your liking.”
“I see no reason why we shouldn't,” Cain said, his hand upon Merry's shoulder. “I have liked everything you have showed me so far.”
Basil bows his head, not agreeing nor disagreeing, but he simply moves to take the sheet that covers Merryweather's picture, and then Merry gasps. Even Cain feels like doing so, wondering how is it possible that from a week to the other a picture could change so much. Last week, the last time Merry sat for the artist, the picture was just that, a picture. Now it seems as if Merryweather herself sits within the frame, every strand of hair shining as silk, and Cain for a moment thinks that her eyes twinkle within the oils.
“It's beatiful!” Merry sighs, getting closer to the artist. “Oh, mister Hallward, thank you so much!”
“Mister Hallward, I had thought your price was too high, but now I think you sold yourself cheap,” Cain sighs, offering the man a smile.
Basil, however, looks grim. He bows his head.
“I am glad it is to your liking, miss Merryweather, lord Hargreaves. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll retire...”
“Already?” Merry cries, looking sad. “Please, have a cup of tea, first. Brother!”
“It would be an honor if you would stay, mister Hallward,” Cain asks him. “If you have any other appointment, you are more than welcome to use my carriage after you have some tea. I'm thinking of commissioning another picture, maybe this time one of Merryweather and myself.”
“I would reject your kindness, milord, and your commission. I only agreed to this one because miss Merryweather reminded me of someone I lost a long time ago,” Basil sighs, sadness all around him. He looks at Cain for a moment, and then at Merryweather, and his expression is just as pained. “I thank you both for your kindness.”
Just as he's leaving, the door opens, a maid walking forward with Dorian Gray walking behind her, mister Gray carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses. The moment Basil sees the youth he stumbles, trips with his own feet, and he would have fallen down had it not been for mister Gray helping him, a hand to his arm to support his weight. Mister Hallward moves away as if he had seen a ghost, wide eyed and pale.
“I wasn't expecting you until much later, mister Gray” Cain says calmly enough, as Merry walks towards Basil. “To what do I owe the honour? ”
“I apologise, milord. I'm afraid I have always been too impatient,” mister Gray says with a smile. “I was thinking about just what kind of present I could bring to your sister when I found these flowers, and they were so lovely that I thought it would be a shame if they would start to brown after their prime.”
“You would know about that, wouldn't you, Dorian?” Basil asks.
Dorian smiles, but his eyes are still so very cold. “My dear Basil, it has been such a long time, hasn't it? I must thank my tardiness today, had I not decided to come unannounced, I would have missed the chance to see my oldest friend and my newest one.”
Basil blanches even more, shudders, and he moves away from Merry's care, giving a terse bow before he strides to the door, snatching his coat and hat and walking away.
“We had a quarry a while ago, and our friendship has never been properly patched after that. I'm afraid Basil can hold his grudges for a long, long time,” Dorian sighs, shaking his head. His smile is honey-sweet as he looks at Merry, but she moves to Cain's side. “I hope you like roses, miss Merryweather?”
“She adores them,” Cain says, taking the offered bouquet before Merry can take it. “Don't you, little sister?”
“I do,” Merry says, offering a courtesy. “Thank you, sir.”
“One of the maids will put the roses to water, and we can have them in vases to adorn your new picture, Merry,” Cain says with a gentle smile to ease her worries.
But at the words 'picture', Dorian's gentle demeanor changes. Like an animal trapped he turns around, taking notice of the easel with Merry's portrait and he shudders at it, taking steps back his face twisting into rage that mars those beautifully sculptured features before he simply turns his back to it.
“Mister Gray, is everything alright?” Merry asks.
“Y-yes, of course, miss Merryweather. I'm simply afraid that the reason for coming here was to apologise to you, lord Hargreaves,” Dorian says. “Something has come up that requires me in Paris: I'm leaving tomorrow. But I felt I had to come myself, after I insisted so much on us becoming friends.”
“You didn't have to bother, mister Gray,” Cain dismisses the apology with a smile. “But I thank you for the favour anyway. I hope you have a safe trip.”
**
A week after that, Basil Hallward is declared missing.
Merryweather weeps for him.
**
Lord Wotton laughs at his questions. The man, Cain thinks, reminds him too much of himself for him to be entirely comfortable near him, but he simply smiles.
“A new mystery for you, lord Hargreaves? How quaint!”
“I believed that mister Hallward and you were friends, lord Wotton?” Cain asks. “Perhaps I was confused.”
“That was a long time ago, before you were even born, I'm afraid.” Henry says with a chuckle, drinking his brandy. “Basil never forgave me for stealing Dorian's attention away from him, and thus our friendship was ruined. He adored Dorian's innocence, and when he learned that Dorian wasn't such, his heart broke like that of a maiden's.”
“Just how old is mister Gray?”
“He looks the same as he was when I met him, eighteen years ago,” Henry laughs. “I have always wondered how he does that.”
As Cain ponders, lord Wotton finishes the last of his brandy. He leaves his cup besides him, standing up, hooking his cane over his arm. He smiles at Cain, a cocky look as he consideres him for a few moments.
“I'll give you a clue, milord, since at the moment you are more entertaining than anyone else I know,” Henry smiles. “Basil's best work has never been shown. Only three people have seen it: he as the painter, me as the nosy friend, and, of course, the person who sat for him.”
“Mister Dorian Gray,” Cain guessed.
“Basil gifted Dorian the picture. It was truly remarkable, and it captured Dorian at his best,” Henry shruggs, walking towards the door. “It's truly peculiar, considering just how vain Dorian is, how he never showed his picture at all.”
**
“I'm honoured, my lord,” Dorian tells him, dismissing his maids. He takes Cain's overcoat, cane and hat himself, hanging them carefully. He's only half dressed, his waistcoat gone, his shirt half open, so that the lit fire shows the clear line of his shoulder bones, the soft dip of his neck, the rosy tone of his chest. “If you had announced yourself, I would have had the cook stay awake.”
“I hope you can forgive me, but I'm afraid I'm a bit impatient myself,” Cain says with a smile, and just as Dorian is smiling, he presses him against the wall. He's a bit taller than Dorian, and his eyes are truly blue before Cain presses his mouth to his. Dorian's mouth tastes faintly of liquor, and the other young man weaves his arms around Cain's shoulders, pressing wantonly against him, moaning into his mouth.
He trembles once they break the kiss, so perfectly as if he was truly as innocent as a young maiden. There's a faint flush to his pale face, his lips red.
“Milord...” he says.
“'Cain',” Cain interrupts him, brushing his lips with Dorian's. “And I'll call you Dorian, shall I?”
“Of course,” Dorian smiles, eyes half closed, still pressed against him. He arches his back sinuously, and again Cain is reminded of a reptile. Dorian bows his head, kisses his neck, bites gently at his earlobe and then he whispers in his ear: “Shall we go to my rooms, Cain?”
“First,” Cain tells him, pushing away a little. “I want the truth. Why do you look so young, when you should be twice my age?”
“You would hate me,” Dorian says, lowering his eyes as if coy. Cain smiles and he moves his mouth down Dorian's pale neck, moves a hand to touch the warm flesh of his waist and he presses a leg between Dorian's, where he can feel him starting to grow hard.
“Try me,” Cain whispers him this time, smiling against Dorian's neck, at the soft sounds of arousal he makes before he stops and looks at him.
Dorian considers him, his eyes serious and his expression... the only word for it is 'old', far to cynical for 'jaded', but then he smiles, cocking his head to the side.
“Follow me, then.”
Dorian guides him all the way to the last floor of the house, where there's a picture hastily covered by a dirty sheet. Dorian shudders merely at the sight of it, but he makes no motion to stop Cain as he moves to uncover it.
“My god!” Cain cries, stepping away from the picture.
There is a monster there, ugly and twisted, his skin yellow, sagging and spotting, his hair scraggy and gray. It's not only the signs of disease and old age what make the picture twisted, but the evilness upon his eyes, the sneer, the smirks, the vacuous expression of pride and wrath and lust. It's a monster wearing a gentleman's suit.
“Cover it, cover it!” Dorian cries, but Cain doesn't do that. Instead he looks at the picture again, and then at Dorian.
“That's you, isn't it, Dorian?” he wonders out loud.
The golden haired Adonis that stands in front of him shakes his head no, and he clings to him, his hands upon the lapels of his waistcoat. “Of course it's not! We share no resemblance at all!”
Cain smiles at Dorian, and for a moment Dorian smiles back.
“Is that why you killed Basil?”
Dorian lets him go and moves backwards.
“I-I have no idea what you're talking about!”
“He disappeared after that day where you saw each other in my house,” Cain tells Dorian. He walks closer to the portrait, takes notice of the way the color of the blue eyes is the only thing that remains the same. “And his maid said that he went to see you.”
“I never saw him! He was probably robbed and killed before he arrived to my house!”
“When I heard he made a picture of you, I was overwhelmed by the sheer idea,” Cain says if Dorian hadn't said anything at all. “I thought to myself: it must be such a beautiful picture! The Mona Lisa will pale in comparison to it, nothing by Rembrandt nor Da Vinci will ever be as beautiful... and yet, it's nothing but a monster. Basil must have been broken hearted, his best work, ruined.”
“It's Basil fault I'm like this!” Dorian cries, and again his face twists into rage, close enough that it mirrors the sneer upon the portrait just for a fleeting second.
But he calms down, shakes his head.
“He deserved it. He promised me once that he would die if I ever grew to hate the portrait, and I despise it, I truly do, I hate it so much that I wish it would disappear. I would have been so much happier, had this picture never existed. ”
And then Dorian moves towards him, lithe and sinuous, his expression coy, soft and gentle.
“Won't you stay with me, Cain?” Dorian asks him, eyes blue and soft, his arms lithe around his waist. He puts his head against Cain's shoulders, rubbing his head against it as if he was a cat. “My dearest Cain, since I heard of you, I knew it. We are the same, aren't we? You sound as horrible as me.”
He looks at him, and madness shines in his eyes. “Don't you grow bored of it? Perhaps not yet, for you are young, but you will find the pretending boring. We could be great together, Cain. You wouldn't have to pretend with me. There is nothing that you would do that I would find--aaack!”
“Good grief, I was starting to wonder if I had diluted it too much,” Cain says as Dorian falls to the ground, hands around his throat, coughing. He takes out his handkerchief, wiping his mouth, taking a small flask hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket, drinking from it. “Don't worry, Dorian. I doubt that small dosage of belladonna will kill you.”
Dorian twists around to look at him, his face once again twisted in rage, but now there's fear as well. Cain wonders just what he's hallucinating, which of the many dark voices Dorian must have acquired through eighteen years of licentiousness. Cain kneels in front of him, smiling.
“You should really pay more attention to gossip, Dorian, if you are going to do it at all.” He tells him as Dorian gasps, by now the hallucinations probably wild and terrible. Cain touches the soft curve of his face. “Didn't you consider there was a reason why I was called Lord Poison?”
He stands up, considering the portrait once more.
“It's such a shame. I would have liked to see the portrait as it originally was. I'm sure it must have bee breathtaking,” he sighs, before walking outside the room.
**
Riff is helping him inside the carriage when they hear Dorian's cries. Though diluted enough so that the belladonna won't leave him in a coma, Cain had made sure that he coated his lips with enough of it for Dorian to have a most unrestful night full of nightmares, at the very least.
“His actions made Merry miserable, it's the least he deserves,” Cain huffs, rolling his eyes before he grows serious once more. “Riff, I need you to find me an artist that can make me a perfect copy of Merry's portrait, and then we'll take the original one to the attic and hide it for good.”
“Of course, sir,” Riff says, but he frowns. “May I ask why?”
“I don't think the same thing will happen with Merry's portrait, but I'd rather not risk it,” Cain tells him, and Riff doesn't question him more.
In truth, Dorian had been right. They are not so different, and that worries Cain: if what Dorian had cared the most had been his beauty and that had triggered the exchange, then... then Cain would rather not risk having such a perfect portrait of Merry nearby, in case one moment he grows weak in his fears, and he might do something else he grows forever to regret.
Fandom: Godchild/The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Warnings: If you know both series, you're good to go.
Characters/couples: Cain/Dorian, Riff, Merryweather, Basil, Lord Henry.
Summary: “Won't you stay with me, Cain?” Dorian asks him, “My dearest Cain, since I heard of you, I knew it. We are the same, aren't we? You sound as horrible as me.”
Rating: PG/PG13-ish, perhaps.
Notes: Written for springkink: Crossover: The Picture of Dorian Gray (Book)/Count Cain (Godchild), Cain/Dorian: Egotism-- "You're my kind of guy, 'cause I like your style, and you sound as horrible as me."
Seeing His Own Face in a Glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The Portrait of Dorian Gray
The party is nearing the part where Cain will be able to make a tasteful retreat when Lord Henry Wotton approaches him.
“Lord Hargreaves, leaving already?” the man's smart eyes are on him, an eyebrow raised.
Cain smiles, bows his head a little. “I'm afraid so, lord Wotton. Having a younger sister has made me a creature of routines, and Merryweather gets ever so upset if I do not come back on time to bid her good night.”
“The Good Lord bless her heart and children everywhere, for how they tame even the most savage of beasts,” Lord Wotton says, not masking the sarcasm in his voice. “Before you go, may I introduce you to someone? My friend has begged me for weeks for the chance, and I gave my word that I would do so.”
Cain makes himself smile, glancing around to see if there is any young lady whom he shall enchant. Merryweather is going to scold him terribly, come tomorrow morning.
“I would be delighted,” he agrees.
But it's no a fair maiden who approaches, but a fair young man of pale golden hair and periwinkle blue eyes. He is a creature of extraordinary beauty, not older than Cain himself, ivory skin that flushes with a soft touch of pink, lips so soft as if they wore paint. He is more beautiful than most of the women Cain has ever knkown.
“Milord Hargreaves, may I introduce you to mister Dorian Gray,” lord Wotton says, his smile mocking. “Dorian, my dear, this is count Cain Hargreaves.”
“I'm honor, lord Hargreaves,” Dorian says, his delight evident like that of a child as he smiles. “Please, forgive Henry if he was rude. I have been bothering him non-stop since I found out you two were acquainted.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Cain says. “Except that you may be bored with me, mister Gray. I'm an extremely dull person.”
“Nonsense, lord Hargreaves,” lord Wotton scoffs, a smart gleam to his gray eyes. “A dull person would never generate that much gossip.”
“Or perhaps they would, simply to hide that fact?” mister Gray adds, shaking his head. There's something in his expression that doesn't, completely, fit his face, the expression in his eyes much more complicated. Mister Gray smiled, and cherubs in heaven envied the way he looked righ then. “Even so, lord Hargreaves. I pray we might be friends.”
**
“His mother ran away with a man with no title and no money, but when the man saw that her father would not give them money, he ran away, leaving her with child,” Riff informed Cain the next day, as he poured him tea. “The mother died at childbirth, and so mister Gray was raised by his grandfather until he died...”
Cain noticed the pause as he sipped, turning to look at Riff, an eyebrow raised.
“Riff? When was that?”
“... it seems that mister Gray's grandfather died was almost nineteen years ago, sir,” Riff tells him.
Cain frowns, setting his cup down, crossing his fingers. “Is there any news that Dorian Gray married or somehow he was with children? The boy I met yesterday is not a day older than seventeen, eighteen if.”
“Not that I'm aware, sir,” Riff says, putting the breakfast tray away. “Mister Gray has been involved in a number of gossip, but none of them about dubious parenthood, and none of them lasted more than a few weeks.”
“How far do these affairs span?”
“Over eighteen years, sir. They start with a young actress, Sybil Vane.”
Any other pondering is forgotten when a maid informs him that mister Basil Hallward has arrived. Merrywether had fallen in love with a picture of the man she had seen when Cain took her to visit a gallery not but two months ago, and upon discovering the fact that the artist lived nearby, he had requested his presence, commissioning a picture of Merryweather for his studio. The artist had been unwilling at first, but upon seeing Merryweather in person he had agreed. He was a man whose despair had aged him prematurely, and at age fifty he seemed seventy, gray haired and with terribly sad dark eyes. Merryweather had taken an instant liking to him.
“Is it done, mister Hallward?” She asked, beaming, leaning over to smile at him.
The man didn't smile back, but he bowed his head. “It is, my lady. I hope you and your brother find it to your liking.”
“I see no reason why we shouldn't,” Cain said, his hand upon Merry's shoulder. “I have liked everything you have showed me so far.”
Basil bows his head, not agreeing nor disagreeing, but he simply moves to take the sheet that covers Merryweather's picture, and then Merry gasps. Even Cain feels like doing so, wondering how is it possible that from a week to the other a picture could change so much. Last week, the last time Merry sat for the artist, the picture was just that, a picture. Now it seems as if Merryweather herself sits within the frame, every strand of hair shining as silk, and Cain for a moment thinks that her eyes twinkle within the oils.
“It's beatiful!” Merry sighs, getting closer to the artist. “Oh, mister Hallward, thank you so much!”
“Mister Hallward, I had thought your price was too high, but now I think you sold yourself cheap,” Cain sighs, offering the man a smile.
Basil, however, looks grim. He bows his head.
“I am glad it is to your liking, miss Merryweather, lord Hargreaves. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll retire...”
“Already?” Merry cries, looking sad. “Please, have a cup of tea, first. Brother!”
“It would be an honor if you would stay, mister Hallward,” Cain asks him. “If you have any other appointment, you are more than welcome to use my carriage after you have some tea. I'm thinking of commissioning another picture, maybe this time one of Merryweather and myself.”
“I would reject your kindness, milord, and your commission. I only agreed to this one because miss Merryweather reminded me of someone I lost a long time ago,” Basil sighs, sadness all around him. He looks at Cain for a moment, and then at Merryweather, and his expression is just as pained. “I thank you both for your kindness.”
Just as he's leaving, the door opens, a maid walking forward with Dorian Gray walking behind her, mister Gray carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses. The moment Basil sees the youth he stumbles, trips with his own feet, and he would have fallen down had it not been for mister Gray helping him, a hand to his arm to support his weight. Mister Hallward moves away as if he had seen a ghost, wide eyed and pale.
“I wasn't expecting you until much later, mister Gray” Cain says calmly enough, as Merry walks towards Basil. “To what do I owe the honour? ”
“I apologise, milord. I'm afraid I have always been too impatient,” mister Gray says with a smile. “I was thinking about just what kind of present I could bring to your sister when I found these flowers, and they were so lovely that I thought it would be a shame if they would start to brown after their prime.”
“You would know about that, wouldn't you, Dorian?” Basil asks.
Dorian smiles, but his eyes are still so very cold. “My dear Basil, it has been such a long time, hasn't it? I must thank my tardiness today, had I not decided to come unannounced, I would have missed the chance to see my oldest friend and my newest one.”
Basil blanches even more, shudders, and he moves away from Merry's care, giving a terse bow before he strides to the door, snatching his coat and hat and walking away.
“We had a quarry a while ago, and our friendship has never been properly patched after that. I'm afraid Basil can hold his grudges for a long, long time,” Dorian sighs, shaking his head. His smile is honey-sweet as he looks at Merry, but she moves to Cain's side. “I hope you like roses, miss Merryweather?”
“She adores them,” Cain says, taking the offered bouquet before Merry can take it. “Don't you, little sister?”
“I do,” Merry says, offering a courtesy. “Thank you, sir.”
“One of the maids will put the roses to water, and we can have them in vases to adorn your new picture, Merry,” Cain says with a gentle smile to ease her worries.
But at the words 'picture', Dorian's gentle demeanor changes. Like an animal trapped he turns around, taking notice of the easel with Merry's portrait and he shudders at it, taking steps back his face twisting into rage that mars those beautifully sculptured features before he simply turns his back to it.
“Mister Gray, is everything alright?” Merry asks.
“Y-yes, of course, miss Merryweather. I'm simply afraid that the reason for coming here was to apologise to you, lord Hargreaves,” Dorian says. “Something has come up that requires me in Paris: I'm leaving tomorrow. But I felt I had to come myself, after I insisted so much on us becoming friends.”
“You didn't have to bother, mister Gray,” Cain dismisses the apology with a smile. “But I thank you for the favour anyway. I hope you have a safe trip.”
**
A week after that, Basil Hallward is declared missing.
Merryweather weeps for him.
**
Lord Wotton laughs at his questions. The man, Cain thinks, reminds him too much of himself for him to be entirely comfortable near him, but he simply smiles.
“A new mystery for you, lord Hargreaves? How quaint!”
“I believed that mister Hallward and you were friends, lord Wotton?” Cain asks. “Perhaps I was confused.”
“That was a long time ago, before you were even born, I'm afraid.” Henry says with a chuckle, drinking his brandy. “Basil never forgave me for stealing Dorian's attention away from him, and thus our friendship was ruined. He adored Dorian's innocence, and when he learned that Dorian wasn't such, his heart broke like that of a maiden's.”
“Just how old is mister Gray?”
“He looks the same as he was when I met him, eighteen years ago,” Henry laughs. “I have always wondered how he does that.”
As Cain ponders, lord Wotton finishes the last of his brandy. He leaves his cup besides him, standing up, hooking his cane over his arm. He smiles at Cain, a cocky look as he consideres him for a few moments.
“I'll give you a clue, milord, since at the moment you are more entertaining than anyone else I know,” Henry smiles. “Basil's best work has never been shown. Only three people have seen it: he as the painter, me as the nosy friend, and, of course, the person who sat for him.”
“Mister Dorian Gray,” Cain guessed.
“Basil gifted Dorian the picture. It was truly remarkable, and it captured Dorian at his best,” Henry shruggs, walking towards the door. “It's truly peculiar, considering just how vain Dorian is, how he never showed his picture at all.”
**
“I'm honoured, my lord,” Dorian tells him, dismissing his maids. He takes Cain's overcoat, cane and hat himself, hanging them carefully. He's only half dressed, his waistcoat gone, his shirt half open, so that the lit fire shows the clear line of his shoulder bones, the soft dip of his neck, the rosy tone of his chest. “If you had announced yourself, I would have had the cook stay awake.”
“I hope you can forgive me, but I'm afraid I'm a bit impatient myself,” Cain says with a smile, and just as Dorian is smiling, he presses him against the wall. He's a bit taller than Dorian, and his eyes are truly blue before Cain presses his mouth to his. Dorian's mouth tastes faintly of liquor, and the other young man weaves his arms around Cain's shoulders, pressing wantonly against him, moaning into his mouth.
He trembles once they break the kiss, so perfectly as if he was truly as innocent as a young maiden. There's a faint flush to his pale face, his lips red.
“Milord...” he says.
“'Cain',” Cain interrupts him, brushing his lips with Dorian's. “And I'll call you Dorian, shall I?”
“Of course,” Dorian smiles, eyes half closed, still pressed against him. He arches his back sinuously, and again Cain is reminded of a reptile. Dorian bows his head, kisses his neck, bites gently at his earlobe and then he whispers in his ear: “Shall we go to my rooms, Cain?”
“First,” Cain tells him, pushing away a little. “I want the truth. Why do you look so young, when you should be twice my age?”
“You would hate me,” Dorian says, lowering his eyes as if coy. Cain smiles and he moves his mouth down Dorian's pale neck, moves a hand to touch the warm flesh of his waist and he presses a leg between Dorian's, where he can feel him starting to grow hard.
“Try me,” Cain whispers him this time, smiling against Dorian's neck, at the soft sounds of arousal he makes before he stops and looks at him.
Dorian considers him, his eyes serious and his expression... the only word for it is 'old', far to cynical for 'jaded', but then he smiles, cocking his head to the side.
“Follow me, then.”
Dorian guides him all the way to the last floor of the house, where there's a picture hastily covered by a dirty sheet. Dorian shudders merely at the sight of it, but he makes no motion to stop Cain as he moves to uncover it.
“My god!” Cain cries, stepping away from the picture.
There is a monster there, ugly and twisted, his skin yellow, sagging and spotting, his hair scraggy and gray. It's not only the signs of disease and old age what make the picture twisted, but the evilness upon his eyes, the sneer, the smirks, the vacuous expression of pride and wrath and lust. It's a monster wearing a gentleman's suit.
“Cover it, cover it!” Dorian cries, but Cain doesn't do that. Instead he looks at the picture again, and then at Dorian.
“That's you, isn't it, Dorian?” he wonders out loud.
The golden haired Adonis that stands in front of him shakes his head no, and he clings to him, his hands upon the lapels of his waistcoat. “Of course it's not! We share no resemblance at all!”
Cain smiles at Dorian, and for a moment Dorian smiles back.
“Is that why you killed Basil?”
Dorian lets him go and moves backwards.
“I-I have no idea what you're talking about!”
“He disappeared after that day where you saw each other in my house,” Cain tells Dorian. He walks closer to the portrait, takes notice of the way the color of the blue eyes is the only thing that remains the same. “And his maid said that he went to see you.”
“I never saw him! He was probably robbed and killed before he arrived to my house!”
“When I heard he made a picture of you, I was overwhelmed by the sheer idea,” Cain says if Dorian hadn't said anything at all. “I thought to myself: it must be such a beautiful picture! The Mona Lisa will pale in comparison to it, nothing by Rembrandt nor Da Vinci will ever be as beautiful... and yet, it's nothing but a monster. Basil must have been broken hearted, his best work, ruined.”
“It's Basil fault I'm like this!” Dorian cries, and again his face twists into rage, close enough that it mirrors the sneer upon the portrait just for a fleeting second.
But he calms down, shakes his head.
“He deserved it. He promised me once that he would die if I ever grew to hate the portrait, and I despise it, I truly do, I hate it so much that I wish it would disappear. I would have been so much happier, had this picture never existed. ”
And then Dorian moves towards him, lithe and sinuous, his expression coy, soft and gentle.
“Won't you stay with me, Cain?” Dorian asks him, eyes blue and soft, his arms lithe around his waist. He puts his head against Cain's shoulders, rubbing his head against it as if he was a cat. “My dearest Cain, since I heard of you, I knew it. We are the same, aren't we? You sound as horrible as me.”
He looks at him, and madness shines in his eyes. “Don't you grow bored of it? Perhaps not yet, for you are young, but you will find the pretending boring. We could be great together, Cain. You wouldn't have to pretend with me. There is nothing that you would do that I would find--aaack!”
“Good grief, I was starting to wonder if I had diluted it too much,” Cain says as Dorian falls to the ground, hands around his throat, coughing. He takes out his handkerchief, wiping his mouth, taking a small flask hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket, drinking from it. “Don't worry, Dorian. I doubt that small dosage of belladonna will kill you.”
Dorian twists around to look at him, his face once again twisted in rage, but now there's fear as well. Cain wonders just what he's hallucinating, which of the many dark voices Dorian must have acquired through eighteen years of licentiousness. Cain kneels in front of him, smiling.
“You should really pay more attention to gossip, Dorian, if you are going to do it at all.” He tells him as Dorian gasps, by now the hallucinations probably wild and terrible. Cain touches the soft curve of his face. “Didn't you consider there was a reason why I was called Lord Poison?”
He stands up, considering the portrait once more.
“It's such a shame. I would have liked to see the portrait as it originally was. I'm sure it must have bee breathtaking,” he sighs, before walking outside the room.
**
Riff is helping him inside the carriage when they hear Dorian's cries. Though diluted enough so that the belladonna won't leave him in a coma, Cain had made sure that he coated his lips with enough of it for Dorian to have a most unrestful night full of nightmares, at the very least.
“His actions made Merry miserable, it's the least he deserves,” Cain huffs, rolling his eyes before he grows serious once more. “Riff, I need you to find me an artist that can make me a perfect copy of Merry's portrait, and then we'll take the original one to the attic and hide it for good.”
“Of course, sir,” Riff says, but he frowns. “May I ask why?”
“I don't think the same thing will happen with Merry's portrait, but I'd rather not risk it,” Cain tells him, and Riff doesn't question him more.
In truth, Dorian had been right. They are not so different, and that worries Cain: if what Dorian had cared the most had been his beauty and that had triggered the exchange, then... then Cain would rather not risk having such a perfect portrait of Merry nearby, in case one moment he grows weak in his fears, and he might do something else he grows forever to regret.