the accursed painter.

he always had spirit, and for a while there, dorian felt as if he was wandering around with no purpose in sight. this deprived him of getting to feel the more pleasurable emotions in life, but he couldn't deny now that with his thriving fashion company and the fact that he was with basil, that everything in the universe felt as if it had righted itself. dorian could only hope that basil felt confident in his work too and that he was able to make a positive impact on his artistry itself. he had noticed that the other hardly ever painted full figures now — something he'd been meaning to ask him about, but never quite got the chance — and that almost felt like, in a way, that the man was doing himself a disservice. basil had painted him so well, but at the same time, maybe it was the trauma behind what had followed his portrait that prevented him from putting his paintbrush to canvas in creating completely painted faces or bodies. for what it was worth, though, dorian thought that while the artists that basil had shown him might've been impressive...

he hadn't known any of those people and so they meant less to him than basil's works ever would. dorian was brought back to reality soon enough whenever he felt the other break his lips off from him, but he could feel the unmistakable leaking of precum sliding down from the tip of his length all the same. his chest heaved momentarily as he brought his hand down through basil's hair to feel along the side of his face, then his jaw, his eyes screaming one thing and that was that he loved basil so much he might as well have put the stars in the sky himself. dorian was so ready for the other to kiss him, it only took a few seconds for him to catch up on the rhythm with which he hungrily slotted his lips in between his own, and his mind went shockingly blank with everything besides what they were doing. the little laugh the other made, as well as his length touching dorian's made him inhale sharply, before he reached a free hand down to both of their lengths and closed his hand around the both of their tips.

oh, what could he say about basil that wasn't endlessly complicated even though he tried his best to put it in flowery language upon the pages of his diary that same evening, starting with the phrase: 'basil had the sort of beauty that made one wish one had been born with a conscience — if only to have the pleasure of ignoring it?' he had been with him for a time romantically whenever he was going to oxford, and that romance was sometimes what henry needed desperately to keep on going through hard times, admittedly. basil's terrible, rapt attention on him whenever he looked at him did make him feel worth the scrutiny for a moment in such an ever-changing and occasionally scary time. he was much younger back then and so was basil. so of course henry thought to get as close as possible to flaunting that he was his lover as humanly possible, because he considered himself lucky to have a compassionate man like him to kiss and lay with during the late hours of the night.

how he had been so open back then, henry no longer seemed to know, but he looked back on their temporary romance with the unmistakable sharp blow to his chest that came with acknowledging a tragedy. not because it ended (all things must end, as it was) but because the boy he was certainly wouldn't recognize the man he was today. today, he moved with a literal predators grace, which was only disturbed by the constant tap-tap-tap sound of his cane, was sealed shut. the kindness he cultivates is a choice and like a canary who's made its way into a mine, henry can never quite tell whether he'll come out the other side of being kind for better, or for worse. which was explicably why it was a rare choice, at that, but it is like a ghost of the kindness he used to be able to display when really vulnerable back at oxford. though he could say that no matter how hard he tried to contain his feelings, there was something about seeing the lilacs in the austrian country-side that reminded him of the boundless joy he had caught on the other man's face, as he had it turned up to a blossom-laded branch.

he would be a liar to say he didn't yearn for those simpler times, but still, there is a part of him that believes he had to get to this point in time to have someone he could call 'daughter' with him. fate had smiled upon him in some ways whenever clementine was born, seeing as she was like his most exquisite, yet confounding creation to date. in other words, there was never a dull moment with clementine around, and he valued the fact that she had a natural charm to her (just like her father). but going back to the present, henry's work as a flavorist had brought him to paris that week, because he'd heard a specialty spice shop located there in particular had a rare essence that might be the key to him successfully creating a fresh watermelon flavor. and that would be very notable, considering how no flavorists thus far have been able to nail that profile. he also needed inspiration, he thought, for other things and to just... get away.

so a trip to paris sounded perfect. there he was then, walking through the streets to find a shop called g. detou when he passed by a place that was obviously meant for tourists, with how they had a corkboard of local going-on's in the building. but well, that was okay, because henry was a tourist and so he stopped within it to see what he could see about any events happening soon. a certain flyer stuck out to him almost immediately then called 'the man with the yellow book.' already, that title seemed too coincidental, and so henry turned his attention towards the bottom to see if the name of the artist of the exhibition or even contact information was on it; his blood feeling like it ran cold with impossibility at the name he was faced with. basil hallward. how many other people could have that name besides the one henry knew? he found himself taking the flyer off of its push-pin soon enough, carrying it out of the place as he examined where it would be, and when.

because henry would be going. oh, it would be a disservice not to show support to whoever was running the exhibition after all, wouldn't it? even if it wasn't his basil. but the day before the exhibition, he couldn't help but keep on thinking: if he were an upir, which he was, and dorian was immortal by the way of a painting, then couldn't basil also somehow be immortal? henry supposed he would just have to see for himself, as he crossed the threshold of the exhibition wearing green with a bold dash of yellow, like he also wanted to claim the color for himself once more. the gold choker he wore is what really pulled the outfit altogether, though, into a cohesive whole whilst he worked on setting his eyes beyond all the people visiting the gallery to see if he could spot basil anywhere. because he'd know that man by scent, by the padding of his feet, and saw what he thought was a glimpse of the artist behind the exhibition. and it was him.

how many years later, and it was him? there was a very boy-ish like quality to the first few paintings, he thought, as he tried to blend in for now despite him clearly making his way through the gallery quickly. but then he saw the one with the profile turned to face the viewer and in the sun, but most of the main figure in it was obscured, like they were becoming harder to tangibly reach. the odd thing about it, though, was that it wasn't the hand atop the thigh that stopped him to observe this one but the oxford shoes drawn in such detail that they were identical to the ones he used to wear. he had even perfectly depicted the crease he had practically cried over getting in his shoes on one fateful day whenever they sat together in the sun, feeling like they were on top of the world. and there was no one, not a single soul, who could possibly know henry had that simple little crease in his shoes but basil.

still, a tall silhouette amidst the crowd has him thumbing over his pocket that houses said glasses, and in fact putting them on a little later as the other browses the art. he drops them as he's bringing them out, his hands shake a little, but nothing happens to them and very soon he excuses himself to go see about the familiar stranger whom the streetlights have washed up in here.

"harry——?" he states, perhaps too quietly, perhaps too far away, or perhaps he's just wrong and this person is not harry at all, either way he is not heard, and so must repeat himself, rather close this time, speaking almost over the other's shoulder. "harry—?"

even if he were expecting him, he gasps. his hand involuntarily settling on the other's shoulder, not aiming to contain him but rather touch him, to make sure that he is real. basil had his own fair share of visual hallucinations brought on by exhaustion in the past, and though this looked different, a part of him still wanted to be sure. who could blame him, after all? his former friend was supposed to be dead by now. how ridiculous was it, that they'd meet again, all these years later in paris? him, basil and dorian. immediately he catches himself wondering whether henry knows of dorian's immortality, too, and a part of him is grateful that dorian couldn't make it here because of a business trip out of the country. he didn't see any of the paintings, didn't hear of the change in the exhibition program and wasn't here now to see harry in the flesh. there's some relief to that, even if basil finds himself looking inquisitely over the other's features, wondering how much has changed to go along with how much has stayed the same. allowing himself, perhaps naively, to imagine that something changed at all.

but then he remembers the occasion for the exhibition, and he frowns. in a gesture all too familiar, he hooks up his arm into harry's and pulls him along to the back, past the enormous bright receptive renditions of him, of them, of the moments they'd shared, and towards the back curtain that in comparison seems dull, heavy and deaf. it's velvet and basil finds himself tracing his hand over it for comfort. though there is joy to be felt about being in the presence of his oldest friend, there is also fear, apprehension. and he can tell the other knows. his eyes could read in basil like he was an open book and when they couldn't, a quiver of his tongue had basil revealing all his secrets nonetheless. that's why basil decides to start with a question, before he himself is questioned.

"Just a moment!" Aziraphale called out when the bell alerted him that a customer had entered the bookshop. It had been a quiet day so far, mostly because the shop had remained closed for the majority of it, and as most people had surely given up on shopping for the day, the Angel wasn't expecting anyone to disturb his reading.

Reluctantly, he got out of his recliner and after carefully setting his bookmark he made his way to the front of the bookstore. He did not like to leave the shop unatended when there was a customer about. Not because he was afraid of missing out on a sale, but rather because he was afraid someone might be tempted to make a purchase if he didn't pay close attention.

"Good evening, sir -"

His eyes went wide, and for a moment he was too stunned to speak. You see, he knew the man who had just wandered into his bookshop - or rather, he knew of him, for they had never actually spoken. It was Basil Hallward, and, if his calculations were correct, he should be either dead or, at the very least, a very old man by now.

Forcing his face into a more neutral expression, and then a welcoming smile, he started again: "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

still, it is entirely human to be lured by the familiar like a moth to a flame; perhaps this is why he stumbles inside the bookshop almost without a second thought, merely intrigued by the fact that at least something looks and feels the same. — he didn't use to be a regular here by any means, but on a handful of occasions he did browse the books here which proved rather unobtainable, anyway, as when ever he'd made up his mind to buy one of them, the owner was nowhere to be found, though he could swear he'd seen him before, stalking amidst the shelves.

"good evening, uh— am i interrupting? the door was unlocked." only now amidst the shelves does he realise how little daylight pours in here from the outside. it is rather late and he is rather lucky if the store is still open in more than just the literal meaning of the word. in fact, he wonders if this is the reason he's getting greeted in the first place, to be politely sent on his way — ah, that's also familiar but strange to him at the same time. a part of him prefered the french for their directness, even if one had to admit there was elegance to this, too.

John Singer Sargent

Basil: He's my ARTISTIC INSPIRATION

Lord Henry: haha so you love him gay style got it

Basil: NO I APPRECIATE HIS BEAUTY IN AN ARTISTIC SENSE HARRY

Then then out of nowhere, he's being ripped from the dream. He blinks rapidly, his glasses askew on his face. He doesn't place his location immediately, too wrapped up in his dream. He nearly tells Henri to leave him alone and let him sleep. But before he can make such a fatal error-- fatal in his eyes only-- things fall into place.

the words also suggest that percy barely realises what this is about — then again percy always took a while in the mornings to be able to make sense of the world. that didn't mean anything. basil took another, slower, more pensive look over him, but the truth remained. he was lying in a stain of blood.

basil would look cute, probably. it was only whenever the other speeded up to the nurse whom was pushing him that reality kicked back in and he felt his stomach gurgle, like it was disagreeing with something dorian ate, despite there being nothing in there. maybe that was the problem, after all, however. there was an uncomfortable gnawing feeling beginning to settle in his stomach and he looked from jade, the nurse, nervously to basil with both his hands furling into fists on his thighs. just try to ignore it, is what dorian thought, just try to ignore it; but whenever they went over the ramp that signified them entering the hospital and the bright lights hit him, ooh... it felt like someone was twisting his intestines up into a knot and that was when he whimpered. it didn't help that right after, it felt like his blood was quite literally chilling his body, causing him to shake.

jade nodded at what basil had told her and gave him an emphatic smile, knowing what was definitely going to come first now and that was making sure that his fever was treated (because dorian felt hot) as well as his sleep deprivation. getting a doctor's attention to help facilitate the distribution of meds would be necessary, and luckily for her, she was able to mouth to a doctor nearby that she needed him asap. ❝ okay. thanks for telling me that, dear. it seems like i just got the attention of doctor leitner, so he should be joining us in the first room on the right back there in a second, ❞ jade gestured to the set of double doors that led to the nurse's station inside of the hospital as well as all of the patient rooms. dorian could feel basil squeeze his hand from beside him and without a moment to lose, he looked towards him with a tired look in his eyes.

❝ mm... i don't feel good, basil, ❞ dorian's speech was slurred as he spoke, reflecting the fact that he indeed wasn't in the best health right now (to say the least) and wiped off some sweat gleaming on his forehead with the side of his hand. jade uttered a soft 'alright' in response to what basil had said and soon, they were off, as dorian was being wheeled into that first room she mentioned previously before one could say 'jack robinson.' doctor leitner was apparently following behind, because he came into the room shortly after and introduced himself to basil by holding his hand out to him for a handshake. this was while jade helped dorian stand up and sit on the edge of the hospital bed, ❝ hi, i'm doctor leitner, and i'll be overseeing the care of your friend here. i would, ideally, like to hear from him himself about what's happening so i'm just going to ask him a few questions while jade takes his blood pressure. but, uhh, if there are any things that need filling in... would you be able to answer some questions about him? ❞

what proceeded was the doctor asking dorian some questions like what his name was, what his date of birth was, and why he was there. to which he answered, ❝ yeah. i haven't been able to sleep for, like, four days and i've been seeing some things. think its because i... might have something going on up here, ❞ dorian lightly 'booped' the side of his head a few times and looked between dorian, then to basil, before saying, ❝ well, we're glad you're here, dorian. i'll go ahead and take your temperature, ❞ as expected, once the doctor took the ear thermometer out of dorian's ear canal, it read about 102 so he had a fever; and his blood pressure was up. the doctor said he would be right back with some things for dorian, the nurse taking a moment to drape a blanket over his shoulders to try to comfort him.

the doctor asks if he may, later, possibly, ask him any questions for clarification, and basil finds himself hesitating, before nodding. "any way that i can help." he does avoid the doctor's gaze, though. furrowed brows hiding the eyes that drop to the floor and wonder — how much is there that he could tell him? that they've known each other for a century, that they have reconnected recently, and he'd found, heartbreakingly, that dorian was unwell. that dorian was always unwell, even if he never said so, or never fully explained it. that dorian may look a boy, but he's really an old man by now, a godly creature walking amongst mortals while his soul lives inside a painting basil forever immortalised. over the years, he'd caught himself wondering how conscious the painting really was, if it could feel the emotion it displayed, if it could feel its ruin — or if it were as heartless as a pristine silver mirror, a trick of light, of thought, and nothing more. who knows where that painting resides now... he wouldn't want to know, he would feel simply wretched even speaking of it in the other's company. still, the memory of it haunts him. and in the other's living breathing presence, he can tell that it haunts dorian's very life too.

they do a preliminary examination. explore all that both basil and dorian already know. that he's tired, hungry, dehydrated, sick from his stomach, and delusional. the painter almost feels like laughing. all of this was apparent the moment he'd set his eyes on the boy. and yet, none of it mattered, for its root lay someplace other than just these immediate symptoms. and even after dorian rests, even after his fever lessens, and the physicality of his body turns to normal, again, even then they will still have all the other things to uncover. a century of things, tangled up in the pit of his stomach into the disorder the boy himself had suspected but never addressed. he sighs, closing his eyes. it's good that they are here. it's good that dorian is seeking treatment, or at the very least immediate attention.

somewhere along the way, he was forced to let go of dorian's hand and now he himself feels like the ground has gone from under his feet. he finds himself navigating the room as if it were a labyrinth, trying to get out of the doctor's and the nurse's way, but still say somehow within dorian's eyesight, even if he's not sure how reliable the other's vision is, currently. "you'll be alright, dorian." he says, quietly. almost moreso to himself than the other. how could he hope that the other would hear him over all that was happening around him?