Chapter Text
Harry had never seen himself as the settling down type. Though he had been married, divorced, the heartbroken and the heartbreaker; finding “the one” was never particularly of any interest to him. If he was truly honest with himself, which was rare, he had never believed himself to be capable of love at all. He harped on this, hiding himself away behind an overbearing facade of witty retorts and overcomplicated conversations to drive the average person away. This worked for some time, even successfully driving away his wife- who he thought was the closest thing to “the one” he could get.
He fell into a deep depression over this, sucking down enough opium to inebriate a village and drinking until he could hear colors. That was when, in his seemingly infinite melancholy, Harry met Basil.
He and the painter had met at one of his sister’s hundreds of parties; Harry looming in the corner and sending people away with his favorite icebreaker, “How do you plan to cope with the inevitability of death when you don’t know when it will come?” Whilst downing as many glasses of champagne he could get his hands on
This intrigued Basil- the question, not the drinking. His attendance to the party was demanded via the Lady’s recent obsession with a landscape painting she’d seen passing by his studio. He and the Lady had never really met, and Basil hated parties, but with a recent spell of artist’s block overcoming him, he really had nothing better to do. Though afraid to approach the now almost maniacally laughing Harry, he watched from behind a column and studied him like a sculpture.
There was something in his eyes which moved Basil nearly to tears, the wine clasped in his now shaking hand suddenly revolted him. He had to get closer, he had to see what it was that made this man so suddenly magnetic.
Harry asked his question again, now to the open air which surrounded him; his head tilting to the side as Basil approached him. He straightened himself, cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment. “I don’t believe we-” He cleared his throat, becoming aware of just how drunk he was, “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Harry held out a hand, trying his best to maintain some level of appropriate eye contact.
“No, we haven’t.” Basil accepted it, shaking lightly and smiling. “I’m Basil Hallward, your sister invited me.” Their hands were clasped together for much longer than necessary.
Harry strained to hear him, the live orchestra had caused a dull throbbing in his temples. “She does like to pack a room.” He replied more to himself than Basil, taking his hand back to cough and sighing, “So, Mr. Hallward-“
“Please, call me Basil.” He interjected with more excitement than he meant to, cringing at his own eagerness. “And you?”
Harry took another flute of champagne from a passing server, cocking an eyebrow and really looking at Basil for the first time. He flushed again, self-conscious at being this drunk in front of someone he could sense wasn’t a total fool; the alcohol swooping in to dull such feelings almost immediately. “Henry Wotton, but just call me Harry.” His inhibitions were drowned by the bubbly as he continued, “Right, so Basil, let me ask you; how do you plan to cope with the inevitability of death when you don’t know when it will come?”
“I don’t.” This surprised Harry, causing him to choke slightly mid sip; the sight making the painter chuckle. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
His eyes went slightly wide, studying Basil further and finding a sense of comfort within the hues of his eyes, “No, no, you didn’t say anything wrong.” He wiped the corner of his mouth on his sleeve, “That’s just an exceptional answer, why do you say that?” Harry led them to a small sitting area just outside the main ballroom and away from the loud party. He leaned forward in his seat, hands to his chin and waited in poorly hid anticipation for Basil’s answer.
“Well,” He began, trying his best to ignore the almost childlike amazement in Harry’s gaze. “Being as it could, as you said, come at any moment, I don’t really see a point in coping with something I don’t have much of a choice in. Especially when within my moments of coping, death could be lingering just behind me.” Basil took a short sip from his wine, “Besides, why should I waste my life trying to cope with its end when I could spend an equal amount of time just living?”
Harry could feel the rising need to weep building in his chest, drowned by another half a flute of champagne. “You’re brilliant.”
“I’m sensible.” Basil corrected.
When the party ended and they said their goodbyes, exchanging addresses, Harry was left with a warmth he had never experienced before. Basil was left with an unshakeable need to paint the man’s face in as much detail as he could remember. Which gave him an almost horrifying replica of Harry’s face; right down to the despair in his eyes. He spent the rest of the night fawning over it, only to tear it to pieces the following morning.
Neither slept that night, nor the night after and on and on for weeks until the letter Basil had been waiting for finally arrived inviting him out for dinner that evening.
It was uncomfortable a first, seeing one another sober respectively for the first time was a bit awkward. Harry could see what Basil really looked like, which didn’t draw him away from the painter any less. He could tell from the way he fiddled with his hair in the silence that he was self conscious about his appearance, which he couldn’t begin to understand why.
Basil could hear what Harry’s voice sounded like ungarbled, which stirred something in him that he didn’t know was there. Something he couldn’t discern between passion or odd anxiety.
Pushing around some steak he didn’t remember ordering and didn’t particularly want, Harry cleared his throat in an attempt to break the tension and smiled, “So, I don’t believe you ever told me what you did, Basil.”
“You never asked.” He said plainly, carefully ladling a spoonful of soup into his mouth.
Harry faltered, “I um, I guess I never did.” He lamely chewed on a piece of steak, swallowing and clapping his hands silently to once again break the tension, “Well- now I am, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a painter. I do commissions as well as whatever strikes my fancy, though I tend to hate to part with anything I make.” Basil watched his expression carefully, this was typically the line of conversation in which he lost a lot of people. Doing something so non-lucrative in their day and age was often seen as trivial and worthless- though the same people who thought so were always the same begging for a free portrait.
“Really?” He propped up his chin with his fists, genuinely amazed, “I’ve met a handful of your type before, but I can tell that you’re different. Deeper.”
“Is that so?” Basil didn’t like the cross-examination but something in the way Harry looked at him made him soften, let his guard down.
Harry nodded slowly, “I’d love to hear you speak about it it some more, but I can’t stand this place anymore, the smell of cheap cigarettes is killing me.” He made a face, making Basil smile, as he waved down their waiter for the check.
The painter bit his lip, weighing the very few pros and cons of the thought he’d been mulling over all evening and spoke up abruptly, “I can take you back to my studio for some tea, perhaps show you some of my work.” He rose, blushing, to put on his jacket and take a final sip of liquid courage.
“I would enjoy that, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No not at all, it’d be my pleasure.”
They left, Basil leading the way and talking absently about his career and Harry hanging onto every word that came from his lips. Basil wasn’t used to being allowed to speak about his passion without being made fun of, so he savored the opportunity as he savored the look in Harry’s eyes and the feeling of his closeness.
The studio came into view, Basil putting the key into the antique lock and speaking now like a parent rather than a young artist, “Now, I must warn you Harry, it’s quite the mess in there.” He shot him a look of soft warning, “And don’t go touching everything, most of my things are delicate.”
His companion was listening, though loosely. “Undoubtedly a reflection of the creative mind, no?”
“I…suppose so.” Basil was flustered and felt oddly seen.
Harry turned to him and flashed a smile, pushing the door open and assured Basil of his understanding by clasping his hands behind his back. This didn’t last for very long however, as the world which Harry walked into was not one he had ever seen before. The overwhelming of his senses was so great that he brought his hands over his mouth, stopping in his tracks before he ever really stepped in.
“Are they really so terrible?” Basil walked around him, unaware of the sensation taking Harry over, clearing spare canvases and a tarp off of a chaise lounge. He fiddled over a small paint stain to distract himself from the mounting anxiety gathering in his chest. “I haven’t shown any of these to a soul,” Collecting himself, Basil turned around and was met with Harry already standing before him, “Except for you of course.” He mustered out in a whisper.
Harry reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him gently with each syllable, “You’re brilliant.” Basil guffawed, trying his best to slide away from the compliment, but Harry would not allow it, gripping onto his shoulders slightly tighter. “I’m serious, take this how you want, but I’ve never seen someone so unknowing of their own talents before.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “Artists can make the equivalent of children’s drawings and think they’re DaVinci, or paint what looks to be a photo and drown themselves in the Atlantic.”
“So what am I?”
“Someone so unaware of the visual harmonies they create that they can live in ignorant bliss of the symphonies they refuse to give to the world, rather than be consumed by the noise.”
He felt his heartbeat in his throat, overcome by something which he couldn’t place. “How many artists have you swept off their feet with that one.” Basil shook free from his grip and tried to turn away, Harry catching him by the hand.
Looking intently into his eyes, which he now wanted to see behind into whatever Basil could possibly be thinking about, Harry dropped his voice to a whisper, “Like I said, I’ve never met one like you before.”
Harry never left after that night, and if he did, it was only to go outside and pick up whatever it was he asked his butler to bring by. The social scene saw less and less of him as summer turned into fall, stumbling then into winter and finally into effervescent spring. He was missed at parties, at plays, during dinner’s in which when his name came up- a hush came over the table. The painter had captivated him more than anything had in his entire life, breathing life into sedentary lungs.
The artist’s block which loomed in Basil’s brain had been broken into a million splintering pieces. Harry had provided for a him a muse both in physicality and unabridged emotion which creatives can only dream of. If he knew how, he’d put pen to paper and illustrate in the form of words how alive he felt. Alas, with what medium he knew, all he could possibly say was done with strokes of a brush and between the sheets of their bed. Both which seemed to get the point across effectively to the only one he now needed approval from.
They spent two years this way, wrapped in one another so intensely that the outside world seemed to fade away like just another one of Basil’s painting; though the hues of the sunrise and sunset somehow had less depth.
The moon was positioned just above their bedroom window, a cool breeze billowing the curtains out like a woman’s dress during a waltz. The pair couldn’t sleep, existing in a comfortable, nude silence with only the crickets breaking their train of thought. Basil lay pressed firmly against Harry’s chest humming a song in tune with his heartbeat; his lover playing with his hair absently and thinking of nothing in particular.
“I think I’m going to try and paint us like this, as we are now.” Basil said, looking up into Harry’s eyes, trying to figure out what color to use to show the reflection of the moonlight in his pupils.
Harry scoffed, kissing his forehead and leaning back in an attempt to get some sleep, “And why now? What’s different about tonight than yesterday or even last week?” He cracked open one eye, “I mean that in the nicest way darling.”
“I know, I know,” Basil pulled away, making Harry whine, and sat up on his knees. “I just,” He cocked his head to the side, studying him- which he hated. “There’s something about this moment, I don’t think I’ll ever have one like this again.”
“No two moments are the same my dear, every second brings something different whether it’s a new direction for the wind to blow or a shocking punch to the gut.” He extended his arm for Basil to back to his side, which he accepted wordlessly. “Let’s not focus on the triviality of life from moment to moment- I’m too tired for that right now.”
“So you’re telling me that I shouldn’t attempt to paint it?” Basil asked, almost sullen.
“You’re the brilliant one my love, do what brings you stimulation, always.”
“I love you my dear.”
“I love you too. Now hush, go to sleep.”