a vain belief of private revelation (Picture of Dorian Gray, Basil/Dorian)
Title: a vain belief of private revelation
Fandom: Picture of Dorian Gray.
Warnings: None.
Characters/couples: Basil, Dorian Gray.
Summary: Dorian flushes, the softest vermilion spreading over his cheeks and Basil's fingers ache with the sudden yearning to touch his face.
Rating: G.
Notes: Written for springkink: - The Picture of Dorian Gray, Basil/Dorian: worship - "For thine is the power and the kingdom and the glory."
a vain belief of private revelation
“Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?'
The intriguing Mr. Gray, he dares to laugh: crystal bells and violins know not of such a gentle sound. Basil feels his throat tighten, his heart shudder at the pure line of his throat painted as he throws his head back with his merriment. It's not a long laughter, but it's honest: it shimmers upon Mr. Gray's eyes when he looks back at Basil, there in the soft curve of his ivory cheeks, in the daunting turn of his dimpled smile. Even though he is, as a matter of fact, laughing at the hostess, it would be near impossible to hold it against him, not with that look, with that laughter.
“The piano, Lady Brandon,” the youth adds, turning his head just so in a faint bow. “Although I am afraid that it may very well be qualified as 'nothing' since, alas, I am not bad, but I am not particularly good either, which puts me at 'boring' at best, 'mediocre' at worst.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Gray, I am sure that you are simply being too modest,” Lady Brandon shrills, hitting the young man's arm with her fan before she turns towards him. “Won't you tell him so, Mr. Hallward?”
“I have yet to listen to Mr. Gray play, but it must be as you say so, Lady Brandon,” Basil offers with a nod, before adding. “And, if you would forgive me, Mr. Gray, I have troubles believing you could ever be boring.”
The youth flushes in pleasure, the softest vermilion spreading over his cheeks as Basil does with his pictures. His fingers ache with the sudden yearning to touch it and see if it would smudge at all. Mr. Gray nods at him again, the curve of his eyelashes painted in sunlight and charcoal in what looks almost like shyness.
“See, Mr. Gray? And you must believe in Mr. Hallward's words: he is not only very honest, but he is able to make the truth beautiful to watch.”
“Is he a magician?” Mr. Gray smiles, blue eyes on him.
Lady Brandon gives them her shrilly, loud giggle as she moves from Mr. Gray's side to his, her fan touching his arm now.
“Much better than that,” she says. “He is the most wonderful artist. His last picture was very well praised in the newspaper, not but a week ago! You, Mr. Hallward, must tell dearest Mr. Gray everything about it.”
It is obvious that this is Lady Brandon dismissing herself, now that the introductions have been made. The idea of being left alone with this son of Apollo or perhaps even Aphrodite both scares him and thrills him. And yet, Basil has to bow his head, taking notice of how Mr. Gray does the same.
“I will do so, Lady Brandon, but I will not be at fault if the young man ends up running away in fright after I have managed to bore his very soul.”
They both laugh, but Basil only pays attention to the gentle, musical sounds that Dorian's laughter is, and he treasures it as lady Brandon moves to keep tending to her guests.
“Will you tell me, then, Mr. Hallward?” The youth asks, his hands held behind his back. Basil motions him forward, sure that if he was to stay still - or worse, sit! - he would fidget and behave like nothing more than a lad himself.
“If you insist, Mr. Gray, I shall do so, but it is a truly dreadfully boring tale,” Basil waits for the young man to go through the door first, and then he adds. “And please, call me Basil. I detest formalities.”
He is gifted with Mr. Gray's smile again, this time something much softer, pastel hues of an autumn sunset instead of the full gleam of the summer sun at midday.
“Then, I must insist as well on you to call me by my name, Dorian,” the young man says, mirth and mischief within his periwinkle eyes. “It would only be fair.”
“And do you believe me a fair person, Dorian?” Basil asks.
Dorian gives him his full dimpled smile. “Yes, of course. And as such, you will tell me about this picture that has Lady Brandon calling you a magician. Could I have seen this picture of yours, I wonder? Perhaps something else?”
“I pray not!” Basil cries. “If you have seen my work before, then, your opinion of me is already tainted and I have already lost.”
“Even if I might have seen something I liked?”
“Especially if it was something you liked,” Basil nods, his eyes on the prim pansies and posies that are upon lady Brandon's garden. “If you have seen my work and you liked it, then you might believe that I am more enchanting than I might be, or more handsome, or even something as simple as actually being interesting, and when you realise that I am neither of those things, your disappointment will be as sharp as a thorn. Instead, if you did not like it, I might still have the chance to make you change your opinion on me, and yet your opinion on me will be forever tainted with the knowledge that my art is terrible and thus, I must be terrible as well.”
“If I had seen your work, of course” Dorian adds, still smiling. He's beautiful.
“If you had seen my work,” Basil agrees, and then he sighs. “And for this, I am grateful for the fact that I have not shown anything new in almost a month, because even with the newspaper focusing on one simple picture, it makes it harder, just a little bit, for you to have seen my pictures. Even though it means that I am almost forgotten and that, for an artist, as you may already know, might very well mean death.”
“And so have you come to stand in front of Hades to beg for your Eurydice, Basil?” Dorian asks, cocking his head just so, so that a stray ray of light filters through the foliage, rendering his hair gold and silk, and Basil feels his heart breaking at the sheer beauty Dorian brings upon the world, sure in the knowledge that he won't ever be able to portray something or someone as pure as Dorian Gray is right then and there.
“Hardly,” he says, fortunate enough that he does so before the pause grows too large, though he can do nothing to stop his voice, ever the traitor, for almost, almost sounding yearning. “I do not have any muse to call my own, which I am unsure if it makes me more or less of an artist than I am, since I must call any inspiration I may ever had as nothing but my own.”
“Do you seek a muse, then?” Dorian asks, honest curiosity upon his face and the way he cocks his head to the side.
Yes he thinks of saying. A thousand, desperate cries of yes. He wonders if Dorian would agree to become his muse, better than any Eurydice, or Helen, or Patroclus could have ever been.
“I don't believe that a muse is something you search for,” he answers instead, surprised that his voice doesn't tremble. “I rather think that it is something you just find, like suddenly turning your head and finding this perfect rose that has bloomed just beneath your window and yet never before you paid attention to it. Finding a muse should be like falling in love, sudden and unexpected, pain and pleasure both, knowing that you are lost, you are no longer owner of your own being. I do believe it is the only way in which you would be able to fool Inspiration. She is a hard-tempered mistress, Dorian. She constantly laughs and dances out of your reach, only the ruffles of her ideas almost approachable, and when you have started to forget her, she comes once more and embraces you, promising to never let go and alas, you always believe her.”
“It sounds like a terrible burden,” Dorian says, turning to walk back towards the rest of the guests, and Basil follows him, keeping his hands behind his back as well, out of fear that he won't keep tight control on himself. “And yet you do not make yourself free of her?”
“It is a poor-fated love, that much is true, but do not take my words for granted. They are tinted green due to spite, since my lady has forgone me for weeks now. As soon as she comes back, you will hear me sing praises about her touch and hand, and I will deny that I ever thought ill of her.”
Dorian laughs again, and Basil would wonder how is it that he cannot tire of such a sound if he wasn't so mesmerized as well.
“I promise I will remember your words, Basil, and I will repeat them to you, once your lady, as you have called her, visits upon you once more. Who knows? Perhaps this time you will be the one to find a muse, and thus your lady Inspiration will come back, moved by her jealousy.”
Dorian smiles at his own words, as if he was delivering a blessing, his gloved hand touching Basil arm, and yet the touch burns through clothes and flesh alike, so that Basil feels it in his very soul, a mark that he is almost afraid to think won't ever vanish.
And yet, he manages to smile, just barely. “Perhaps it will be as you say, Dorian.”
“Will you show me your pictures then, Basil?” Dorian asks. “If I promise that no matter what you paint, my opinion of you will remain unchanged?”
“Perhaps,” Basil says, unbelieving that such words are coming from his own mouth. “If you would allow me to do your picture, Dorian? It only seems fair, that you form your opinion of my art that way.”
“And you are, of course, a very fair person,” Dorian says, as if reminding him of the fact, but he nods then, bright eyes and even brighter smile. “Very well then. Yes. I will sit for you, Basil.”
And deep within, Basil thinks he knows that he is lost, that he is doomed, and that he cannot, will not do anything at all to save himself.
Fandom: Picture of Dorian Gray.
Warnings: None.
Characters/couples: Basil, Dorian Gray.
Summary: Dorian flushes, the softest vermilion spreading over his cheeks and Basil's fingers ache with the sudden yearning to touch his face.
Rating: G.
Notes: Written for springkink: - The Picture of Dorian Gray, Basil/Dorian: worship - "For thine is the power and the kingdom and the glory."
a vain belief of private revelation
“Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?'
The intriguing Mr. Gray, he dares to laugh: crystal bells and violins know not of such a gentle sound. Basil feels his throat tighten, his heart shudder at the pure line of his throat painted as he throws his head back with his merriment. It's not a long laughter, but it's honest: it shimmers upon Mr. Gray's eyes when he looks back at Basil, there in the soft curve of his ivory cheeks, in the daunting turn of his dimpled smile. Even though he is, as a matter of fact, laughing at the hostess, it would be near impossible to hold it against him, not with that look, with that laughter.
“The piano, Lady Brandon,” the youth adds, turning his head just so in a faint bow. “Although I am afraid that it may very well be qualified as 'nothing' since, alas, I am not bad, but I am not particularly good either, which puts me at 'boring' at best, 'mediocre' at worst.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Gray, I am sure that you are simply being too modest,” Lady Brandon shrills, hitting the young man's arm with her fan before she turns towards him. “Won't you tell him so, Mr. Hallward?”
“I have yet to listen to Mr. Gray play, but it must be as you say so, Lady Brandon,” Basil offers with a nod, before adding. “And, if you would forgive me, Mr. Gray, I have troubles believing you could ever be boring.”
The youth flushes in pleasure, the softest vermilion spreading over his cheeks as Basil does with his pictures. His fingers ache with the sudden yearning to touch it and see if it would smudge at all. Mr. Gray nods at him again, the curve of his eyelashes painted in sunlight and charcoal in what looks almost like shyness.
“See, Mr. Gray? And you must believe in Mr. Hallward's words: he is not only very honest, but he is able to make the truth beautiful to watch.”
“Is he a magician?” Mr. Gray smiles, blue eyes on him.
Lady Brandon gives them her shrilly, loud giggle as she moves from Mr. Gray's side to his, her fan touching his arm now.
“Much better than that,” she says. “He is the most wonderful artist. His last picture was very well praised in the newspaper, not but a week ago! You, Mr. Hallward, must tell dearest Mr. Gray everything about it.”
It is obvious that this is Lady Brandon dismissing herself, now that the introductions have been made. The idea of being left alone with this son of Apollo or perhaps even Aphrodite both scares him and thrills him. And yet, Basil has to bow his head, taking notice of how Mr. Gray does the same.
“I will do so, Lady Brandon, but I will not be at fault if the young man ends up running away in fright after I have managed to bore his very soul.”
They both laugh, but Basil only pays attention to the gentle, musical sounds that Dorian's laughter is, and he treasures it as lady Brandon moves to keep tending to her guests.
“Will you tell me, then, Mr. Hallward?” The youth asks, his hands held behind his back. Basil motions him forward, sure that if he was to stay still - or worse, sit! - he would fidget and behave like nothing more than a lad himself.
“If you insist, Mr. Gray, I shall do so, but it is a truly dreadfully boring tale,” Basil waits for the young man to go through the door first, and then he adds. “And please, call me Basil. I detest formalities.”
He is gifted with Mr. Gray's smile again, this time something much softer, pastel hues of an autumn sunset instead of the full gleam of the summer sun at midday.
“Then, I must insist as well on you to call me by my name, Dorian,” the young man says, mirth and mischief within his periwinkle eyes. “It would only be fair.”
“And do you believe me a fair person, Dorian?” Basil asks.
Dorian gives him his full dimpled smile. “Yes, of course. And as such, you will tell me about this picture that has Lady Brandon calling you a magician. Could I have seen this picture of yours, I wonder? Perhaps something else?”
“I pray not!” Basil cries. “If you have seen my work before, then, your opinion of me is already tainted and I have already lost.”
“Even if I might have seen something I liked?”
“Especially if it was something you liked,” Basil nods, his eyes on the prim pansies and posies that are upon lady Brandon's garden. “If you have seen my work and you liked it, then you might believe that I am more enchanting than I might be, or more handsome, or even something as simple as actually being interesting, and when you realise that I am neither of those things, your disappointment will be as sharp as a thorn. Instead, if you did not like it, I might still have the chance to make you change your opinion on me, and yet your opinion on me will be forever tainted with the knowledge that my art is terrible and thus, I must be terrible as well.”
“If I had seen your work, of course” Dorian adds, still smiling. He's beautiful.
“If you had seen my work,” Basil agrees, and then he sighs. “And for this, I am grateful for the fact that I have not shown anything new in almost a month, because even with the newspaper focusing on one simple picture, it makes it harder, just a little bit, for you to have seen my pictures. Even though it means that I am almost forgotten and that, for an artist, as you may already know, might very well mean death.”
“And so have you come to stand in front of Hades to beg for your Eurydice, Basil?” Dorian asks, cocking his head just so, so that a stray ray of light filters through the foliage, rendering his hair gold and silk, and Basil feels his heart breaking at the sheer beauty Dorian brings upon the world, sure in the knowledge that he won't ever be able to portray something or someone as pure as Dorian Gray is right then and there.
“Hardly,” he says, fortunate enough that he does so before the pause grows too large, though he can do nothing to stop his voice, ever the traitor, for almost, almost sounding yearning. “I do not have any muse to call my own, which I am unsure if it makes me more or less of an artist than I am, since I must call any inspiration I may ever had as nothing but my own.”
“Do you seek a muse, then?” Dorian asks, honest curiosity upon his face and the way he cocks his head to the side.
Yes he thinks of saying. A thousand, desperate cries of yes. He wonders if Dorian would agree to become his muse, better than any Eurydice, or Helen, or Patroclus could have ever been.
“I don't believe that a muse is something you search for,” he answers instead, surprised that his voice doesn't tremble. “I rather think that it is something you just find, like suddenly turning your head and finding this perfect rose that has bloomed just beneath your window and yet never before you paid attention to it. Finding a muse should be like falling in love, sudden and unexpected, pain and pleasure both, knowing that you are lost, you are no longer owner of your own being. I do believe it is the only way in which you would be able to fool Inspiration. She is a hard-tempered mistress, Dorian. She constantly laughs and dances out of your reach, only the ruffles of her ideas almost approachable, and when you have started to forget her, she comes once more and embraces you, promising to never let go and alas, you always believe her.”
“It sounds like a terrible burden,” Dorian says, turning to walk back towards the rest of the guests, and Basil follows him, keeping his hands behind his back as well, out of fear that he won't keep tight control on himself. “And yet you do not make yourself free of her?”
“It is a poor-fated love, that much is true, but do not take my words for granted. They are tinted green due to spite, since my lady has forgone me for weeks now. As soon as she comes back, you will hear me sing praises about her touch and hand, and I will deny that I ever thought ill of her.”
Dorian laughs again, and Basil would wonder how is it that he cannot tire of such a sound if he wasn't so mesmerized as well.
“I promise I will remember your words, Basil, and I will repeat them to you, once your lady, as you have called her, visits upon you once more. Who knows? Perhaps this time you will be the one to find a muse, and thus your lady Inspiration will come back, moved by her jealousy.”
Dorian smiles at his own words, as if he was delivering a blessing, his gloved hand touching Basil arm, and yet the touch burns through clothes and flesh alike, so that Basil feels it in his very soul, a mark that he is almost afraid to think won't ever vanish.
And yet, he manages to smile, just barely. “Perhaps it will be as you say, Dorian.”
“Will you show me your pictures then, Basil?” Dorian asks. “If I promise that no matter what you paint, my opinion of you will remain unchanged?”
“Perhaps,” Basil says, unbelieving that such words are coming from his own mouth. “If you would allow me to do your picture, Dorian? It only seems fair, that you form your opinion of my art that way.”
“And you are, of course, a very fair person,” Dorian says, as if reminding him of the fact, but he nods then, bright eyes and even brighter smile. “Very well then. Yes. I will sit for you, Basil.”
And deep within, Basil thinks he knows that he is lost, that he is doomed, and that he cannot, will not do anything at all to save himself.