Work Text:
It was a cloudy, chilly morning in early autumn when Algernon Moncrieff was suddenly and inexplicably possessed by something that made him want to take a walk. He had no reason for taking a walk, especially on a day as dreadfully grey as this one was, but he took up his hat and put on his jacket and walked. He walked aimlessly through town, past storefronts and markets and children playing games in the streets, passing a sweet little church and a neighboring graveyard, and came out into a tiny, lesser populated area right on the outskirts of town.
Flowers of all shades and hues were fighting to stay alive in the yards of every house, and yet were withered away by the cooling temperatures and fading sunlight. Many people had their windows open, and Algernon could peek in as he passed, watching women stitching patches onto clothing, friends drinking tea together and chatting, a lady curled in an armchair and reading a book; there were so many different things happening in such a small town, and it intrigued Algernon. He thought he might have had the sudden urge to go Bunburying in this particular town sometime, if he hadn’t killed Bunbury in a reckless fling of self-improvement two months previous: the worst decision he’d ever made.
He passed by a little blue house without paying much attention.
He stopped.
He backtracked quickly and peered into the open window from a little distance away, watching the inhabitant with a look of deep interest on his face.
Inside, an artist— a man about his brother’s age with coal black hair and a tired expression— was painting on a canvas with a series of swift, aggressive jerks of the wrist. He was ruggedly handsome, in a beautifully disastrous way, for his white shirt was untucked and half-buttoned and paint-stained, his tie hanging loose around his neck, and yet he looked so graceful and so very intelligent, with the way he gazed at the art he was creating and focused solely on that. In that moment, he seemed to be, to Algernon, the epitome of controlled chaos.
The painter ceased his movements and stepped back, pressing the end of the paintbrush to his lips thoughtfully as he studied his painting, a colorful landscape with a lake and what seemed like a million flowers, each painted carefully and with the utmost detail. Algernon stood and waited for him to continue his work, but the painter only stood there, deep in thought, examining his work. After a moment’s hesitation, Algernon walked to the end of the street and turned the corner to start his walk back home.
There was no doubt in Algernon’s mind that he was meant to know this mysterious painter. He was so infatuated, in fact, that he fell victim to a constant fever that urged him out of the house to take a walk every day, in hopes of seeing the mysterious artist work a masterpiece. He never said anything, and the artist never noticed him; he would simply walk through the town, stop and admire the artist at work for however long he felt he needed to, and then round the next corner and go home. It almost felt like an addiction; whenever he was away, he couldn’t get the painter out of his mind, and his entire soul ached to see him again. But still, be refused to say anything, and admired from afar.
Then one day, while he was admiring the artist from the sidewalk, the painter turned and spotted him. Algernon flushed and thought for a second that he should run and not return, when the artist smiled and raised a paint-stained hand to wave at him.
Algernon’s heart fluttered, and in a moment of reckless courage he approached the open window.
“I was wondering when you’d come to chat,” remarked the painter when Algernon was within earshot. “You’ve only been watching me for about a week or so.”
Algernon started. “Oh. You’ve seen me?”
The artist was mixing a bright lavender on his pallet, his back turned to Algernon. He laughed— a warm and soft sound— and spoke over his shoulder.
“My peripheral vision is quite good, I should say.”
He finished with his paints and turned to face the man at his window. Algernon was immediately taken aback; he had never seen the man up close before, and he was even more mesmerized by his presence. He was achingly handsome, in an odd way that Algernon couldn’t quite put his finger on. His mannerisms subtle and nervous, and his skill so very precise, accompanied by his messy and reckless appearance, came together to form a character rich with history and deep with emotion, personality, and insight. Algernon wanted to sit with him for hours and listen to him recount the tales of his life, for he was sure this man, however young, was a novel in his own right.
Algernon cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry if I have disturbed you in any way.”
“No, no, not at all,” the painter said, shaking his head and dipping his brush in pale yellow. “I’ve been meaning to invite you in, but I admittedly get rather distracted when I’m painting. Do come in and have some tea, if you’re not short for time.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother–“
“Nonsense! Come sit for a while. I’m almost finished. I’ll be there in just a moment.”
Algernon was let in by a servant and was led to a small, comfortable library. A divan and two armchairs were placed in the far corner around a simple glass coffee table, a couch against one of the walls, a desk next to a large window with violet velvet curtains, and floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books. There was also an extraordinary painting of a beautiful young man off to the side, and Algernon immediately went forward to admire it. The detail was immeasurable, and the sheer beauty of the portrait was magnificent. He felt compelled to reach out and touch the young man’s sunlight curls, just to see if his fingers would actually brush through the bright golden locks…
“He’s a friend of mine.” Algernon jumped, and turned immediately to face the artist, who was smiling quite proudly. “I just got back from displaying this piece at a gallery in Paris.”
“It is… quite lovely.”
“Thank you. But I have to say it does very little justice to the muse.”
He sounded almost saddened, and Algernon had the dreadful feeling that something awful had happened to the boy, but he said nothing. He turned back to the painting and looked it over. At the bottom, in a bright vermillion, was the artist’s signature: Basil Hallward.
“Basil Hallward?”
The artist smiled in reply.
“Yes. Might I ask who the mysterious man in my library is?”
Dear God, had he really forgotten to introduce himself?
“Algernon Moncrieff, Mr. Hallward.”
“Do call me Basil, Mr. Moncrieff.”
“Algernon. Please.”
Basil Hallward rang a bell and asked his servant to bring tea. He walked around the glass table and sat down on the divan. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it carefully, thoughtfully… it seemed like he did everything thoughtfully.
It happened suddenly that Algernon was himself again, and he walked with a defined swagger, hands in pockets, to the divan and took a seat next to Basil. He lit his own cigarette and leaned back as he spoke.
“I’ve never seen you round here before.”
“Well, I just arrived back from Paris about a month ago. I don’t usually stay round these parts, but my old studio and the people coming in and out of it were becoming too familiar. Familiarity is never good for art, I believe. So I got together my things and set up here without telling anyone. Well, almost anyone. The only person I told where I was going was Dorian, the young man whose portrait you see there.” There was a wistful look of despair in his eyes. “And I doubt he’ll be coming by anytime soon.”
Algernon sighed. “So, this isn’t your permanent residence?”
“It will be for the next six months or so. Perhaps it will become permanent. The old one holds many happy memories, but many more that are very, very dreadful.”
The servant brought in the tea then, and Basil was pulled from whatever depressing daydream was running through his mind.
“All that aside– why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason in particular,” Algernon said, pouring himself some tea. “It would do this part of England good to have some artistic genius. That is all.”
Basil Hallward blushed, and Algernon sipped his tea with a subtle satisfaction.
~
It was almost immediately that the two became friends, and only hours after their first encounter, they were rantingly talking of experiences and people, and raving about art and books and poetry. After a couple glasses of wine, they became engaged in a friendly debate about the true purpose of art; Basil claimed that art is purely aesthetic and should hold no personal piece of the artist within it, to which Algernon exclaimed that “Art is feeling and feelings are art! You should paint your heart upon the canvas!” Truthfully, Algernon did not care a bit about what art was supposed to be, as long as it looked nice on his wall, but he delighted in the way that Basil Hallward got to his feet and paced around the library, and talked with his hands as he described what he believed in his very soul that art should be. He had not changed his clothes from that morning, and while he had tucked his paint-stained shirt into his trousers it was still nearly half unbuttoned, exposing prominent collarbones and a sliver of olive-toned flesh, and his sleeves were still rolled up to his elbows.
“Art is art!” he cried, spreading his arms out as if he were speaking to the entire world, and perhaps he might have been. “And art is created for the sake of art!”
“You know what? You are absolutely right, Basil,” said Algernon, lighting another cigarette. His jacket had been long discarded and was lying across the back of a leather armchair.
Basil paused, sighed, and rested his hands on the back of a chair.
“You just enjoy getting a rise out of me, don’t you?”
“It’s quite attractive, I must say,” Algernon said, silently regretting the choice of the word attractive. The regret was washed away when he saw the color rush to Basil’s cheeks. “Passion is very attractive.”
Basil dropped his head with a modest smile in reply. He sat down in the armchair and poured himself another glass of wine.
Algernon checked the time and saw that it was half past twelve in the morning. He desperately wished to stay, but knew he couldn’t, and so he went to the writing desk, scribbled on a piece of paper, and folded it.
“It’s quite late and I must be getting home, Basil,” he said, putting his jacket on. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you very much, and would be delighted if you would come and have tea with me some time. Here is my address.”
He handed Basil the folded piece of paper.
“Shall I write to you?”
“Of course,” Basil said, his eyes tired and hazy from wine, but his smile so awake and vibrant. “And I should be taking you up on your offer very soon, Algernon. I’ll write to you before I come.”
“I’ll be sure to be home when you do. It’d be a shame to miss you.”
Basil looked up at him, and in his eyes there was something taking place. Something burning, Algernon thought. He wasn’t sure what. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but decided against it.
“Goodnight, Algernon,” he said instead.
“Goodnight, Basil.”
Algernon closed the front door behind him, and let out a shivering breath. He thought of hailing a hansom, but decided instead to walk. A walk would do him good.
~
For the next three days, Algernon sat at home, doing nothing much but drinking tea, eating, and people-watching through the window. He had written Basil a letter a day and, in hours of self-doubt, sent none of them. Gwendolyn came over and talked about Ernest most of the time, and when she wasn’t talking about Ernest she busied herself talking about Algernon’s personal affairs.
“I’m still so terribly sorry about Cecily,” she chimed in her musical little voice, and drank from her cup of tea. “Broken engagements are always dreadful. You were never even granted the thrill of a divorce!”
“It was a mutual decision, Gwendolyn, I’ve told you this,” Algernon said, picking at a cucumber sandwich. “Cecily is a very dear friend to me, but I have no intentions of making her my wife, and she no intentions of making me her husband. No… I don’t think I will ever marry, Gwendolyn.”
“Nonsense, Algy! Of course you’ll marry. Perhaps you’ll marry multiple times; one can only hope so.” Gwendolyn smiled to herself, as if she had said a great thing, and took a bite of buttered bread.
As Gwyndolin left, Algernon finally sat down and began to write a letter to Basil Hallward, inviting him to tea and a trip to the theatre, when Lane entered and placed a letter on Algernon’s desk.
“From Mr. Basil Hallward.”
Algernon jumped to his feet, practically tore open the letter and quickly read over the contents:
Algy,
I have just finished my latest work and thought you would like to see it, as you have seemed most interested in it even before we met. Come over on Saturday and we can have tea and wine, and perhaps go to the theatre afterwards, if you would like. I have missed your company.
— Basil
P.S.
You left your hat.
Algernon looked about and realized that, indeed, he had left his hat in Basil’s library. He went to his desk and scribbled out a note in response, confirming their plans for Saturday, and gave it to Lane.
Once his servant had left, he sat on the couch and, when he realized sitting was too much for him, lied down and lit a cigarette. What was he doing? Why was he so desperate to know this man, desperate for intimacy? He was talented, of course, and intelligent and intriguing. But what did that matter? He knew lots of people who were talented and intelligent and intriguing, and he had no desire to get to know them beyond what gossip was being spread about them at the club. Something was drawing him to Basil Hallward, something that he couldn’t fight, and in his mind he wanted to resent him for it, but he couldn’t; if he was to resent the man he felt he would be committing a heinous crime against his own self.
Lane stepped back into the room, and Algernon started from his thoughts.
“Lane… Lane, I am in desperate need of muffins and wine.”
~
A month and a half passed, and winter rolled in with its harshness and murdered the remaining flowers in the yards of the townspeople. Yet, Algernon still walked to Basil Hallward’s house; he had grown so accustomed to walking there that when, once, he took a hansom, it threw the entire feel of the day so off axis that Algernon went into the painter’s house and immediately fell asleep in an armchair, and woke the next morning with a blanket thrown over him and his coat folded beside him. That had been the first time Algernon had spent the night in Basil’s home, and it had become a frequent occurrence, usually when the two got particularly deep in conversation and lost track of the time, talking into the early morning hours and promptly falling asleep in chairs or on the divan.
Algernon spent nearly every day with Basil Hallward. They enjoyed clubs and theatres and dinners very much, but Algernon found that he had grown rather fond of doing nothing with Basil; sitting and talking about everything and nothing at all with the painter had become one of his favorite pastimes. Basil had grown increasingly fond of the young man, and doted on him with a gentleness that touched on romance at times. Romance, Algernon pondered. He was critical of the word; he hadn’t used it since he broke off the engagement with Cecily. Besides, romance was far from the feelings Basil Hallward harbored for him; fondness, definitely, and love perhaps, but romance? Surely not. He dared not get his hopes up, at least.
He was, admittedly, rather smitten with the artist. He dreamed quite a lot of kissing him and always woke with butterflies in his stomach and tingling in his lips. It never, ever frightened him; he was far too familiar with his affinity for the male sex to be frightened by a longing for romance, or any other aspects of the homosexual agenda.
On this day, Basil Hallward had come to Algernon’s home for tea, and the two had talked, in a comfortably familiar manner, for hours until it was time to leave for dinner; Algernon had made reservations at a lovely restaurant Basil had never been to. As they finished their tea, Lane brought in a stack of letters, and Algernon skimmed through them: bills, invitations to parties, and a letter from Ernest Moncrieff. He tossed the bills in the trash and put the invitations on his desk to be sorted out later. The two men left and hailed a hansom and chatted aimlessly during the ride, until Algernon noticed the flower pinned in Basil’s buttonhole.
“A green carnation?”
“What’s that?”
Algernon leaned in. “Your buttonhole. A green carnation.”
Basil looked down. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Quite lovely.”
“Yes, I agree.”
Algernon sat back with a smirk. “I had no idea you were one of those ones.”
“I beg your pardon? What ones?”
Algernon leaned in again and whispered as if he were telling a grand secret.
“A homosexual.”
Basil flushed and started to reply when the hansom jerked to a halt.
“My, we’re here. Come along, Basil. We’re already running late.”
As they were sitting after their meal and drinking champagne, a man sitting at the end of a long, packed table got up from his seat and approached them. He was tall and graceful, with a smart face and pretty eyes, and when he spoke to Basil his voice didn’t sound much different than striking harmonious chords on a piano, even as he unceremoniously interrupted their conversation.
“Why, dear Basil, who is your friend? I don’t think you’ve ever introduced me.”
Algernon glimpsed a flicker of irritation in Basil’s eyes, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and the way Basil smiled so sweetly made him question if it was ever there to begin with.
“Harry, this is Algernon Moncrieff, a very dear friend of mine,” Basil said. He emphasized very with a side eyed look to the man. “Algy, this is Lord Henry Wotton.”
“Algernon Moncrieff, what a fine name.” Algernon shook his hand. “Do call me Harry.”
Lord Henry seemed polite enough, but something about him made Algernon’s hair stand on end. There was something so artificial about his kindness; Algernon preferred people, especially strangers, to be rude to your face. If one was rude to your face, then you’d never have to worry about them being rude behind your back.
Seemingly to Basil’s dismay, Lord Henry took a chair at the table and sat down.
“Why, Basil, you wouldn’t believe what Dorian Gray has been up to–“
Basil lit a cigar and refused to look at him as he spoke, prompting Henry to reach over and touch his arm. Something jerked in Algernon’s gut, and his entire body tensed as if to stop him from rising from his seat and throwing Henry out himself.
“Harry, I hope this won’t sound too terribly rude, but it does not matter to me what Dorian has been up to.”
“Oh, we both know that’s a lie, Basil. Everyone wants to know what Dorian is up to!”
“Except for myself, Harry.”
Henry was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Just the other day, Dorian spoke of you.”
The way Basil’s face brightened just a little broke Algernon’s heart.
“In regards to what?”
“His wedding.”
Basil’s face darkened.
“Of course. And what did he say?”
“He said that he would be eternally grateful if you would paint a portrait of the wedded couple at the reception. He’s willing to pay quite a large sum, I should add. Unless you’d rather it be your wedding gift to them…”
“And why would I do that?”
“Why, you’re his friend… are you not?”
Algernon saw the look of sharp pain cross Basil’s face, and in a moment of genius rose to his feet.
“Dear Basil, we really must be going. I told poor Bunbury that we would be in the country by seven and it is already half past!”
“Bunbury?” Henry asked. “Who is Bunbury?”
“Oh, my dear invalid friend, of course! He lives far out in the country, and I’ve made a commitment to taking care of the poor man. He had a relapse just yesterday evening and I gave my word that I would be there, and look– you’ve gone and sullied those plans.”
“Why, then, must Basil go?”
“Why, don’t you know that familiarity is the most detrimental poison to invalids! Variety is a cure for nearly all ailments, I can assure you. In fact, Bunbury has become so accustomed to my own face that I would not be surprised if Basil’s presence brought him back to perfect health. Now, if you will excuse us–“
“Mr. Moncrieff–“
“Come, Basil, we must go. Farewell, Lord Henry. It was nice meeting you.”
In the hansom, Basil was laughing so hard tears pricked his eyes.
“Did you see his face? My God, Algernon!”
“Poor, sick, invalid Bunbury!”
“Dear ill Bunbury!”
The two laughed and leaned heavily on each other, and Basil took the green carnation from his buttonhole and placed it behind Algernon’s ear.
The hansom dropped them in front of Algernon’s home, and as they walked in Algernon exclaimed, “Lane, we require wine!” and pulled Basil into the parlor.
They were still laughing, and Algernon spun them around, as if they were dancing a lazy rendition of the waltz to the sounds of the city outside. “We should go dancing, sometime,” Algernon mused. “My dear brother is having a party next Saturday. We should go! Yes, yes, we must go!”
Lane brought in the wine and Algernon filled their glasses. He sat on the piano bench and leaned against the piano, his long legs stretched out in front of him, grasping his glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He saw Basil’s eyes brighten and his entire body perk up as he said, “I want to paint you.”
“What’s that?”
“Yes… yes! I must paint you.”
Basil hurriedly grabbed a paper and pen from Algernon’s desk and began sketching furiously.
“Basil–“
“No, no, stay right there! I’m almost finished.”
Algernon didn’t move until Basil held up the sketch, studied it carefully, and then folded it and placed it in the pocket of his discarded coat.
“May I look at it?”
“No, not until I start painting. I’ll most definitely have to have you come and sit for me, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother. I know how you desperately despise doing nothing.”
“Not at all,” Algernon said, rising from his seat. He put out his cigarette and pulled him up from the couch. “I’ve actually grown quite fond of doing nothing.”
There was a party raging in the house beside them, and the grand sounds of an orchestra were billowing out of open windows. Algernon opened the parlor window, and the music could be heard with such clarity it almost felt like they themselves were in the ballroom. They picked up their lazy rendition of the waltz from earlier, and danced with joined right hands and wine glasses clasped in their left ones.
“Oh– oops.”
Algernon stumbled against an armchair and bumped roughly into Basil, spilling wine down the front of his white shirt. Algernon sat his glass on the table and flushed in embarrassment– and perhaps a bit from the wine– but Basil only laughed and pulled him against him.
“Algy, you are so dear to me!”
Algernon held on to him. Basil’s hair was soft against his cheek, and his nose was cold as he nuzzled against the crook of his neck. He breathed him in; cigars and wine, and something like that of flowers, filled his senses and lingered on his tongue. He felt Basil take a deep breath. He felt him shiver. He wondered if Basil was trying to memorize the moment just as he was.
Algernon pulled back and let the palm of his hand rest against Basil’s cheek.
“You amaze me, Basil.”
“Oh, Algernon, don’t flatter me–“
“No, no flattery. You amazed me from the moment I met you,” Algernon confessed. “From your unmatched talent, to your simple beauty, to that complex intellect of yours… and you continue to amaze me.”
Basil shook his head, in a daze, with a faint smile on his face. The face of unbelief, Algernon thought. He was overcome with the sudden and unsmotherable urge to kiss him. He mentally begged himself not to, for he knew it would be disastrous, but he was a Moncrieff, and Moncrieffs had never been good at denying themselves anything.
Their lips met for the first time, and Algernon felt the familiar tingling as he had in his dreams. He felt the hesitation in Basil’s body, and then he felt the hesitation melt away as he kissed back. He tasted of the day’s wine and champagne and cigars, and that distinct flowery scent seemed to stick to his skin.
Algernon pulled away and placed a fervent kiss on the corner of Basil’s mouth. He was shaking as he traced Basil’s lower lip with his thumb. He had too many things to say, so many that they became stuck in his throat and he said nothing.
Basil was searching for something to say as well, but all he could manage was, “Oh, Heavens–“ before they were kissing again and making desperate grabs at clothing. The wine glass was knocked from Basil’s hand and spilled all over the carpet.
Algernon was surprised that they ever got to his room, for he stopped often in the hall to push Basil against the wall and kiss him again. They knocked a painting down and neither paid any mind to it; Algernon was busy marking up Basil’s neck and touching him through his trousers, and Basil was swearing and begging to be taken to bed.
They got there, eventually, and fell onto the sheets with a flurry of laughter and soft moans. There was nothing quite like undressing someone, Algernon mused, both physically and mentally; he undressed Basil’s body with his long nimble fingers, and undressed his mind with the picking of his tongue. Basil responded just as much to the words that he spoke as he did to the way he touched his cock, if not more. He fucked his fingers in and out of him, and Basil arched and moaned and dug his nails into his back. Algernon called him words like “beautiful,” “mesmerizing,” and “perfect” and he nearly sobbed and grabbed Algernon’s hair, making valiant attempts to kiss every inch of Algernon’s face.
“Oh, you have no idea how I’ve longed for you…”
Basil was warm around him, and tight, and heavenly. His handsome face had become angelic in the candlelight, all the cherubic charm of a Botticelli painting in his flushed face, and the hair matted to his forehead and clinging to his cheeks with sweat. He gasped and moaned “Algernon… Algernon…!” and pulled him in deeper with his legs. He pulled him down to kiss him and taste him, only to break away in cries and swears of pleasure. Basil was still clasping his right hand, the hand he had been holding as they danced, and he continued to hold on until they each reached their climax, and still long afterwards.
The aftermath was just as wonderful; Algernon lied on Basil’s arm and rested his cheek against his chest as he told a random story from Oxford. Algernon enjoyed Basil’s stories of Oxford very much, mostly because Basil had been a bit of a troublemaker. “But nobody had suspected me of anything,” Basil had said during a previous story, “because I was always polite and never talked during classes.” This particular story was about the time he and Adrian Singleton’s elder brother had snuck a stray cat into their flat and kept it there for well over six months before being caught.
“We were almost permitted to keep her anyhow,” Basil went on as Algernon tossed his head back and laughed. “She nearly fixed the flat’s mouse problem completely!”
Algernon beamed and brought Basil’s head forwards to kiss his jaw.
“We require more wine!” he chirped, quite giddy.
“And champagne!” Basil added, sitting up and starting to get out of bed. “Do not wake poor Lane, Algy. It is nearly two and he has put up with us quite enough for tonight. I’ll get it.”
He pulled on his shirt but didn’t button it, and left his trousers unfastened, and once again Algernon was subjected to that wonderfully chaotic man he had seen through a window so long ago. Was it really so long ago? Nearly five months previous… It felt closer to five years. Five lifetimes, perhaps.
“What is it, Algy?”
“You are so very beautiful, Basil.” Algernon sat with the bedsheets bunched around his hips. “How someone has not stolen you away from me yet, I don’t know.”
“They couldn’t even come close, darling. Not even if they had the desire to try.”
When Basil returned with the wine and champagne they drank and drank, and fucked and kissed, and drank and fucked some more, then kissed some more, until they passed out in each other’s arms in the early morning, warm and cozy from the wine and champagne in their stomachs, and their lover’s arms around them. When the morning came, they drank tea and kissed and fucked some more, and lied in bed all morning, brushing loving lips against blushing skin and staying warm under the sheets and in each other’s arms.
Lane brought Algernon’s breakfast (and Basil’s coffee; he had tried to make him breakfast as well, but Basil assured him that coffee was more than enough) and letters in on a tray, and Algernon read through them with Basil reclining on his chest, smoking a cigarette with his eyes closed as Algernon played with his hair, the two already making plans to go to the theatre. The night’s performance was Hamlet; Algernon’s personal favorite and, as he had found out many nights previous, one of Basil’s earliest influences. “Imagine,” the painter had said, with an exhausted grin, “myself, at Oxford, with the ability to create whatever form of self portrait I wanted for this class, and I paint the most dreadful portrait of myself as the Danish prince, and have the audacity to call it art! My God, Algy, they should have taken my brushes away at once.” He had miraculously dug the thing out from the depths of his attic and let Algernon look at it (“You are the only person besides my professor who has seen this abomination…”), and Algernon had found it rather beautiful; Basil’s black hair, tired face, and sultry eyes had apparently always been just so, and, together with the black cloaks and cracked crown he bore in the painting, they created a portrait of the Dane that he was quite sure Shakespeare himself would have hung on his wall with pleasure. He thought, as he studied Basil in his bed that morning, that he would request to keep the painting himself. It would look so lovely in the parlor.
~
Algernon was kissing Basil heatedly with his hand between the artist’s legs, delighting in the way he whimpered and submitted so easily to each touch, spreading his legs obediently and blushing so prettily, when Lane knocked on the door and called, “Mr. Ernest Moncrieff is here, sir.”
“My elder brother,” Algernon mumbled, kissing Basil and brushing stray curls from his face. “I’m tempted to make him wait until I’m done with you. You’re just so… enticing this morning.” He most truly was: sleep-tousled hair, dream-clouded eyes, kiss-bruised lips; the way the morning light danced through the gaps in the curtains, and played chase in intricate patterns over the olive expanse of his flesh when the trees swayed in the breeze. When he stretched, his muscles were more prominent, and Algernon was reminded of the steadiness of his hands, and the precise way he painted that demonstrated such controlled strength. Basil was plainly handsome from day to day, and there was nothing wrong with that; in fact, his rather ordinary features made him seem more approachable and trustworthy, and more comfortable to be around. However, that morning he reminded Algernon of the male beauties of the Renaissance, and he thought that he would not look out of place in a scandalous Venetian painting. Algernon kissed him roughly again, pressing his back into the mahogany headboard and touching him under the sheets. He had kissed his way to Basil’s inner thigh when Lane knocked on the door again.
“Sir? Mr. Ernest Moncrieff is here and wishes to speak with you.”
Algernon begrudgingly sat up and called back to Lane. “Tell Ernest to wait while I dress. Surely it is not anything too important.”
He was greeted by the exasperated face of his elder brother when he entered the parlor, his always-busy hands holding out his unopened letter for Algernon to see.
“Algy! Why have you not opened my letter? It contains very important details concerning Gwyndolin’s party next week as well as— well, I suppose I should just tell you in person, as I’m already here, although Gwyndolin wanted to tell you herself— oh!— Algernon, you’re going to be an uncle! How lovely!”
His hands clasped Algernon’s in joy, and to Algernon’s surprise he felt very much genuinely happy.
“My… My God, Ernest, that is so very wonderful. Congratulations. Lane? Lane, will you bring us some wine? We need to celebrate.” He thought for a little while, and then added, “And wake Mr. Hallward, if you will. I don’t want him to be a stranger.”
“Oh?” Ernest asked. “Who is Mr. Hallward?”
“A very dear friend of mine. We stayed too late at the club last night and I offered him a spare room for the night.”
Basil joined them after a short time and Algernon recited the news to him, to which Basil congratulated Ernest so authentically, as genuine as he always was. They drank wine and talked, Ernest seeming ever-so-interested in Basil’s work as an artist, until he suddenly turned his attention, as always, back to Algernon and his personal affairs.
“I know you’ve said it was mutual, but, with Gwyndolin’s pregnancy and all, I must ask— do you regret calling off your marriage to Cecily?”
Algernon’s eyes wandered to Basil Hallward, lounging in an armchair with his gentle face, and kind eyes, and tousled hair, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“Not at all, Ernest,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think I ever want to be married. I could never settle down with a woman.”
At the last part, he saw Basil crack a smile, and Ernest, oblivious as ever, laughed and shook his head.
“I can’t say I’m disappointed, Algy. I wouldn’t want you to be a father anyway.”