Work Text:
"Would you give up painting for me, Basil?"
"Pardon?"
"Not that I'm asking you to, of course," Dorian Gray said quickly. He was sat draped across the divan in Basil Hallward's studio, examining his nails and appearing quite like a portrait himself, despite the fact that he was not here to be painted today. "Hypothetically, I mean, if I were to ask you never to pick up another paintbrush in your life, would you agree?"
"That is rather a complicated question, my friend," said Basil, who was pouring tea for his guest into an old China cup. He looked up to see Dorian Gray watching him intently with his fingertips pressed gently against his lips, as if he were about to bite his nails. (Dorian never bit his nails, which was why they were always perfect. Basil did, which was why paint didn't get stuck under them.)
"I shouldn't think so."
"Well, it certainly warrants a complicated answer. I haven't the faintest idea of how long it would take to construct one."
Dorian pouted, which would've made Basil nervous if he hadn't found it so endearing. "Well, construct it out loud. You know how impatient I am, Basil, and now that I have thought of the question I must have an answer today."
Basil chuckled. It was so very like Dorian to say such things that he couldn't be irritated. He handed Dorian his tea and settled next to him on the divan with his own cup. "It would entirely depend on the circumstances. You say you aren't asking me to cease my work - you are merely curious - but how am I to formulate a response if there is no motive for your question?"
Dorian tilted his head, lost in thought. Basil watched him sip his tea daintily. He drank a mouthful of his own cup, but coughed violently upon discovering that it was still far too hot. He looked up at Dorian, who was giggling and still sipping his tea with ease. Basil shook his head - this boy really was the epitome of composure and elegance. He had poured Dorian's tea a little before his, he supposed, but he knew it wasn't really an excuse. He took a small sip to lessen the heat, grinning behind his teacup while pretending to glare at his companion. Dorian only smiled.
"So, it would depend on the reason for my asking? And the consequences of refusing, I suppose..." said Dorian, seemingly more to himself than to the painter.
"Well, what would the consequences be? Perhaps that will help me give you an answer."
Dorian shrugged. "I wouldn't want to blackmail you. I like you too much for that. I suppose I could tell you I'll cease contact with you if you don't comply. That sounds like me, doesn't it? I have told you that before, haven't I, though it is usually an empty threat..."
"You have," said Basil, not looking at his friend lest Dorian see the emotion colouring his face. "I would find it hard to say no to that." He could feel Dorian's eyes on him. "That is as good an answer I can give at this moment."
"I suppose it shall have to do, then."
"Why do you ask such a question in the first place if there is no motive behind it?"
"I only wanted to find out how much you care for painting," said Dorian boredly. Basil detected a faint note of disappointment in his tone and his posture. To him, the words sounded a lot like 'I only wanted to see how much you care for me'. After all, he ought to know how much Basil cared for painting already. He told Dorian every day. And he was sure he had never told Dorian how much he cared for him. He never intended to, either.
"I should like to ask you a similar question, dear boy, though I don't know if there is anything you care about as much as I care about my painting. Will you stay for dinner?" he added, placing his empty teacup on a small table by the divan.
"I'm not sure, Basil," Dorian said, leaning back in his seat with a dramatic sigh. "On days I am not sitting for you, you tend to spend the evening telling me how you should like to paint me then and there."
"Do you not enjoy it?"
"I do, but Harry says I ought not to."
"I'm not surprised."
"Why not?"
"Harry wants you all to himself, that's why," said Basil, getting up and taking his cigarette case out of his trouser pocket. "Why does he say you ought not to?"
"He says it is flattery of the wrong kind."
"And what's so wrong about this kind of flattery?"
"He says that it can only be interpreted, and that flattery is best when it is plain and obvious."
"Harry is a man of many opinions, many of which I agree and disagree with simultaneously. This one I simply disagree with," said Basil, lighting a cigarette. "Flattery works wonders when you are alone, hours after the conversation, and you realise what someone has been trying to convey to you. Vague flattery is so much prettier, and you know how I like things to be pretty."
Dorian nodded. "I try not to listen to what Harry says, but I'm sure you'll understand how impossible it is."
Basil shook his head. "Your youth is a beautiful thing, Dorian, but it makes you so very impressionable. I've learnt that you are free to tell Harry you disagree with what he says, because he does not argue. You cannot argue yourself if your opponent does not argue back."
"You sound just like Harry saying that, funnily enough."
"Just because I disagree with him does not mean I don't listen to him. Now, help me clear the tea things away, there's a good boy."
Dorian finished his own tea and helped the painter pile the crockery onto a wooden tray. Basil had been about to call for Parker, but his valet appeared in the doorway to ask if dinner was to be made. Basil said yes, earning a pointed look from Dorian, and gave Parker the tea things to put away.
"I hadn't made my mind up, yet," grumbled Dorian, pouting petulantly.
Basil smiled. "I apologise, dear Dorian, I couldn't help it. The light in the studio is so pretty this evening, I really must tell you how you looked on that divan."
Dorian grinned bashfully, betraying a hint of pride in his puffed out chest. Basil chuckled inwardly. Harry was wrong. Indirect compliments worked so much better.
They sat and dined together, in polite silence at first, as their unspoken custom was. This was always how it worked, eating quietly for five minutes until Dorian would grow impatient and ask Basil what he was thinking of. Basil would always indulge him. As usual, Basil found his eyes flickering up from his meal every few seconds to admire the way the yellow lamplight cast golden shadows over his companion's face.
"You keep looking at me, Basil. What are you thinking, pray tell?" asked Dorian, as if he had never done so before.
"I am wondering if I have enough left of a specific shade of marigold to paint the light illuminating you."
Dorian tilted his head in his childish way. "I thought you always keep spares of all your paints in case you run out?"
"I do, usually, but I used up so many of my yellows colouring your hair last time that I didn't have the time to replace them. I intend to, certainly, but let me see if I can't rush to the studio and finish a painting of you without restocking first," he joked.
The lad shivered. "I sat so often for you last week, dear Basil, I don't think my feet can bear much more standing on that platform."
"I must say, you sat so still today that it was almost as if you were sitting for me. Stiller, in fact, than you sometimes are when sitting."
Dorian grumbled, picking at his food with his fork. Even though it had been a joke, Basil felt a little guilty.
"I apologise, dear Dorian. It must be incredibly dull to hold your position for so long when I do not so much as open my mouth except to gnaw on a paintbrush. I've entirely forgotten why you still sit for me."
"I may complain, but you are very talented, Basil. It is a gift to see myself reflected so beautifully when you have finished a painting."
"Surely you bear no shortage of mirrors in your fine household? You can see a creature far more miraculous and perfect if you only look in a mirror."
"Your art captures so much a mirror cannot. And don't think I don't notice how you flatter me tonight, Basil."
"I exist to flatter you."
"You exist to paint."
"I exist to paint you."
Dorian leaned back in his seat, placing his fork down on his clean plate. He ceased his mild arguing to survey Basil Hallward with searching eyes. Basil felt very exposed, all of a sudden; he had always known he would give himself up to Dorian entirely - give himself to Dorian entirely - wherever they were, but usually he was not the one being stared at so thoroughly. Was this what it felt like to be scrutinised for a portrait? He always forgot how he stared so while working, too caught up in his muse and his canvas to spare a thought for how deeply he looked at, looked into Dorian. If this was what it was like, he wondered how Dorian endured it for so long without melting on the spot.
Possibly because he wasn't being stared at by a live statue, a Greek myth, something out of a fairy-tale.
Dorian looked away again, polishing off his drink while still leaning back in his chair. Basil watched him with a vague curiosity. He knew he would not speak until Dorian did.
Unfortunately, though the lad was usually so adverse to silence, he basked in it for far longer than Basil was comfortable with. The artist wiped his brow with a muslin handkerchief as he waited for Dorian to restart the conversation.
"You said you'd tell me how I looked on the divan," he said finally with a glittering smile.
Basil grinned. "Hasn't Harry told you not to fish for compliments? It sounds like him to say they are not as sweet when you are asking for them."
"On the contrary, Harry says they are all the more delicious when you ask for them - though I can't remember why. Probably something to do with the flatterer indulging you... but let's not talk about Harry. Tell me about myself, won't you?" Dorian leaned forward, elbows on the table, a sweet smile stealing onto his scarlet lips.
"It would be my pleasure," murmured Basil, and he did so. He told Dorian about every spot of evening light hitting his face, every strand of hair falling elegantly into his eyes as he flopped back on the divan. He explained the precise techniques he would use to colour his porcelain skin and his rose-red mouth, and he marvelled out loud at the perfect way he knew Dorian's frame would fill out the canvas. He sketched his fingers through the air, imagining how he would lay out the shapes of his limbs draped across the divan. He spilled his heart out across the table in front of him and he passed it off as flattery, just as he always had done.