Chapter Text
Thirteen years ago, not one person would have guessed that Dorian Gray would ever grow to loathe the sight of his own reflection. In his youth, Dorian was a man of extraordinary personal beauty. Everywhere he went, he charmed the world. Women and men alike were beguiled by his extraordinary appearance and his natural magnetism. It seemed none were immune to his allure.
He had been poisoned, however. At the age of twenty, he met Lord Henry Wotton, a man with strange and wonderful ideals and philosophies, who spoke much like the devil did to Eve in the garden of Eden. He’d persuaded Dorian to accompany him in search of his ‘new hedonism’. Consumed by vanity and a selfish pursuit of pleasure, Dorian had led a sordid life of sin and debauchery. He had drunk deeply of everything, and such a full existence had not been kind to his appearance. The years had etched themselves into his face, his own cruelty had smote his pure and innocent beauty, vice had snatched the colour from his cheeks.
It had snuck up on him suddenly, but he began to notice that those around him no longer seemed ensnared by his good looks, and in fact many would pass him by without so much as a second glance. He saw in his own reflection that hideous wrinkles were beginning to form on his forehead and around his mouth, and that the hair at his temples was thinning. It was deeply disturbing to him. By the age of thirty, his rose-red youth, as Lord Henry had once called it, had all but wilted away. Henry was correct when he asserted that eventually Dorian would agree that youth was the only thing worth having. It was only once he had lost it that he ever realized how important it truly was.
Dorian himself was correct, too, that fateful day in Basil Hallward’s studio on which the painter had finished his portrait of the young man. Gray had declared that someday, the portrait would mock him terribly— that it certainly did, now. The beautiful picture remained completely unaltered, representing the youth and beauty that the real Dorian no longer possessed. Many times, Dorian had stood in front of the portrait and wept bitterly, mourning his loss, decrying the relentless brutality of the passing years. On several occasions, he had almost destroyed the portrait in a fit of passion. Yet, he always stopped himself. He was, in fact, far too vain to ruin the one physical reminder he had of his former glory.
As Dorian entered the third decade of his life, he became utterly obsessed with the idea of regaining his youth. He followed diets and exercise regimes, using various concoctions from all around the globe that promised to reduce the signs of aging on the skin. Dorian gave up drugs and alcohol and late nights at the club, he largely withdrew from his once active social life. He no longer associated with many of the friends he’d had in his twenties— especially Lord Henry, who he’d come to consider as the harbinger of his downfall, the source of all his pain. Nothing Dorian did, however, gave him the results he craved. He was a healthier man, but not a younger one. It seemed there was no way he could reverse the toll that time and vice had taken on his appearance.
Then, however, he realized that perhaps there was something someone else could do. Perhaps modern science could work its inexplicable wonders on him. The closer the 20th century crept, the more it seemed that anything was possible.
There was a man Dorian had been intimately close with, years ago: a man by the name of Alan Campbell. He was a scientist, an extremely intelligent and well-educated fellow. Shortly after Dorian had lost contact with him, he had taken an interest in the biology of aging and death. He had made experiments and written papers that had earned him a place in prestigious scientific journals. According to rumor, however, during the last few years, Alan had withdrawn from society, isolating himself to the point where he was no longer held in such high esteem by the scientific community, and was in fact struggling to find work.
A devious idea unfurled itself in Dorian’s mind like a horrid bloom. In a flight of fancy, he penned Alan Campbell a letter.
Sitting at the table in front of a mostly-finished breakfast, Dorian sipped his tea— he had given up coffee years ago for fear of what caffeine might do to age him. He stared blankly at the small pile of mail on his table, recalling how much larger such a pile had been when he was younger and more beautiful. He didn’t care about any of these letters, anyway. None were from interesting people, none were from Alan Campbell. He hoped with his whole being that Alan had read the letter he’d sent and was desperate enough for money to come speak to him.
Dorian’s ears perked up as he heard the soft footfalls of his servant, Clarence. He turned towards the arched doorway of his dining room expectantly.
“Sir,” Clarence began with a small bow, “Dr. Campbell is here to see you.”
It seemed his hopes had not been in vain. Forgetting propriety for a moment in his excitement, Dorian stood quickly, nearly knocking over his fine oaken chair. “Wonderful,” he said. “Show him in, Clarence.”
“Yes, sir.” Clarence quit the room.
Dorian grabbed a napkin from the table and dabbed at the corners of his mouth before dismissively tossing the thing back towards his plate. As ecstatic as he was that Alan had decided to pay him a visit, he did wish that the scientist had waited at least until Dorian had finished his breakfast.
He walked briskly into the sitting room, with its pale furnishings bathed in soft morning light from the large eastward-facing windows. Inhaling sharply, he tugged on his waistcoat.
A moment later, Clarence ushered another man into the room. It suddenly occurred to Dorian that it had been the better part of a decade since he had last laid eyes on Alan. It was unsettling to see how the years had changed this person who he’d once loved; in many ways, it reflected the ways the years had changed him . Alan’s face still held much of the handsomeness it had in his youth, that which had initially drawn Dorian to this man all those years ago— but now his cheeks were gaunt, and behind his round glasses, his eyes were tired and rimmed with darkness. His hair, much longer than it used to be and tied back neatly with a ribbon, had thinned considerably and lost some of its luster.
“Alan,” Dorian said at last, forcing a smile, “I am so happy to see you!”
The other man did not return the expression. He was stone faced, standing with his arms clasped behind his back. “I had resolved never to enter your house again, Gray, but in your letter you promised me that you knew of a well-paying research opportunity that might interest me…?” Alan spoke gravely; the infectious joy that had once bubbled through his tone was entirely gone.
“Yes, I do indeed,” Dorian said. He nodded to Clarence, and the servant bowed his head before silently departing. “There is a wealthy man in London who seeks to regain his youth, and who has exhausted all methods at his disposal. He is looking for a scientist who will discover or create some kind of method, or substance, that will turn him into a better, younger, more beautiful version of himself. He will cover the scientist’s cost of living for as long as necessary for his research to conclude, even if it takes years. I believe, dear Alan, that you’re just the man for the job.” He concealed the truth for the time being, just as he had in his letter, and he padded his words with a certain remoteness.
As Dorian spoke, something akin to hope sparkled in Alan’s dark eyes. “‘For as long as it takes’? Is he sure of that? Such a project could take decades, if it is even achievable at all. Mankind has sought eternal youth since ancient times, and no one has found the answer. Would he really pay my cost of living as I worked on an experiment that may never be successful?”
“He is sure of it,” Dorian answered decisively with a firm nod, causing the curls of his blond hair to bounce upon his head. “Even if it is impossible, this man is willing to gamble. Science has come so far since those ancient times, after all. Besides, there is nothing he would rather spend his money on.”
Alan shook his head in disbelief. “This is… This is incredible. Who is this man? I must speak to him.”
Dorian grinned, a flash of some youthful mischief on his aging lips. “You are speaking to him. This man is me.”
The scientist’s face fell. “You?”
“Yes.”
Alan scoffed, turning away in disgust. “I knew this was too good to be true. I should never have come here. I know better than to expect you to help me.”
“I will help you,” Dorian promised, taking a step towards his former companion. “What I said was true. I will keep you employed for as long as it takes you to discover the way to bring back my youth.”
“I should have known it was you!” Alan spat; it seemed that he did not hear Dorian’s words, or at least he did not care what the man had to say. “No one but you and your precious Lord Henry are so obsessed with youth.”
Dorian clenched his fist. “Do not speak that name to me. He is not precious to me anymore. I will never forgive him for how he ruined my life.”
“Just as I will never forgive you for how you ruined mine!” Alan countered, vitriol singeing the edges of his voice.
The older man frowned, and for a moment guilt snubbed his anger. “Alan—”
“You corrupted me. You led me to explore such hideous pleasures, such foul joys… To this day I shudder at the thought of them.”
“I know. I regret them all, deeply, but those days are in the past, now— together, we shall reverse the damage wrought to us by our sins and our mistakes!” Dorian reached towards Alan, hoping to grab hold of the other’s hands despite them still being behind his back.
The scientist flinched away. “Only God can grant such absolution. I wholeheartedly refuse to assist you in your disgusting, selfish pursuit of vanity!”
“Do you have a choice, Alan?” Dorian asked, raising his voice once again. “When was your last steady job? When was the last time a paper you wrote was published in a journal? How much longer until you’re out of money altogether?” He looked down his nose at the scientist, puffing out his chest.
Alan set his jaw, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. He was silent for a moment, staring defiantly back at Dorian before he glanced down at his own worn shoes. “I… I wish I had more of a choice in the matter. If I were not in the position I am in, I would never agree to help you. The whole thing is horrid.”
“So you are going to accept my offer?” Dorian said smugly, pridefully, like a hunter observing an animal that he has just caught in a trap.
“Reluctantly, yes,” Alan conceded.
Dorian grinned. “Ah, but Alan, you shan’t have to worry about money until you’ve discovered the secret to regaining one’s youth— and once you’ve managed that, you shall be rich of your own accord! Take heart in that, won’t you?”
Alan did not, in fact, take heart.
Five years had passed since Dorian employed his old friend. Dorian, now thirty-eight years of age, had only grown to further despise his reflection; each day, it seemed that more countless minor imperfections whispered their dread truths to him. He was so ashamed of his appearance that he isolated himself until he was seldom seen or heard from at all.
All the while, Alan Campbell slaved away in his laboratory, performing endless experiments and running innumerable trials. He promised Dorian that he was getting closer to his goal— often he would invite the other man to observe his progress, to look upon the small creatures he kept as test subjects. In return, Dorian kept up his end of the bargain. He paid Alan a fair share of his grandfather’s dwindling fortune, keeping the man fed, clothed, and housed as he worked tirelessly.
Dorian believed that Alan would succeed, mostly because he refused to grapple with the alternative. He could not and would not watch his body degrade further— he was growing very impatient.
One afternoon, he sat pondering in his sitting room, and his newest servant, Francis, entered with a letter.
“A letter from Dr. Campbell, sir,” the man declared, extending the envelope towards his master.
Dorian’s heart leapt in his chest; updates from Alan were the one thing he had left to look forward to. He snatched the letter quickly from Francis, not even bothering to thank him. He tore the envelope open and procured its singular page, upon which only three lines of text were written in Alan’s neat and careful cursive:
Mr. Gray,
I have made a breakthrough. Please visit me in my laboratory at your earliest convenience.
-A. C.
His eyes widening, Dorian stood, casting the letter aside.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Gray?” Francis asked, concerned.
“No,” Dorian answered as a smile broke out onto his pale face. “No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He rushed out of the room into his foyer and grabbed his overcoat from its place on his coat rack. “I am heading out, Francis, and I may not be back for some time.” He speedily slipped on his coat and fixed his necktie. “It is possible that when I do return, I may look… slightly different.”
He picked up his hat and placed it upon his head, then proceeded towards the front door. He stopped for a moment in front of the portrait hanging on the wall nearby, and gazed upon its youthful magnificence— its smooth and unmarred skin, its cheeks that were dusted with a light rosy blush, its hair like spun gold. Soon, he thought, and quickly departed.