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thesecretsantaofdoriangray · 6 years

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Two Birds in Flight

My (@thisblogislit-erature) gift is for @queersandcommies! One of the things you wanted was “Something in London where Dorian is nice to Basil,” so I wrote this. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you like it!

Word count: 2,007

Sunlight streamed into the studio through the open window, illuminating the pages of the, admittedly, rather dull novel that Dorian Gray was only pretending to be interested in while his friend worked on his newest masterpiece.

Dorian raised his head and watched as Basil Hallward delicately swept his brush across his canvas, an entire forest sprouting from the tip of the paintbrush. Despite only knowing him for a couple of weeks, Basil had begun to invite Dorian over nearly every day while he was painting, and even though Dorian had come to admire Basil’s skills immensely, he still had not grown completely comfortable with basically doing nothing in the studio while Basil worked. But as long as his company made him happy, Dorian did not mind too much.

Dorian stood, placing the book down, and crossed to the piano. He passed his hand over the smooth ivory keys, sat down, and began to sift through Basil’s collection of music, finally settling on a selection of Liszt’s compositions.

He started off quiet, so as not to startle Basil, watching to see if he had any reaction to the music. Basil’s concentration did not break from his work, as Dorian expected. He never understood why Basil was always so insistent on his presence while he was working, since he never paid attention to anything other than his art. Perhaps he really did enjoy Dorian’s company as much as he said he did. His adoration was still something Dorian had not quite gotten used to. His grandfather had been distant at best, cruel at worst, the Radleys, his current guardians, left him to his own devices, and everyone else he considered himself close to really did not know much about him besides any of the awful, twisted rumors about his mother that they might have heard and foolishly believed. Basil’s attention was unprecedented, but not entirely off-putting. Even, perhaps, a bit … pleasant. Yes, Dorian admitted to himself, he really did like Basil’s friendship towards him. It was definitely something he could get used to.

He played the final notes of Liszt’s piece, the soft ending chord fading as he reached to turn the page for the next song.

“That was beautiful, Dorian.”

Dorian turned and saw Basil looking at him, a smile on his face. “I am not used to music being played while I paint, but it was quite lovely. Almost as lovely as yourself.”

Dorian laughed, stood, and strode over to Basil. “Stop, that cannot possibly be true. Have you finished your picture yet? As much as you like my being here, I cannot entertain myself by reading dusty old novels and playing piano for hours at a time when I know there is someone perfectly capable of entertaining me himself right here in the room.” He sat down on the bench next to the artist.

Basil shook his head at Dorian. “It is the truth, Dorian, and you should know it.” He turned back to his picture, brushing the most delicate leaves onto the top of a tree. “And you know I have to get this painting finished by the end of the week. I have no time to entertain anyone, even you, despite how much I want to. I do want you here, however, because you … inspire me, shall I say. You give life to my art. Without you, my art would be nothing. I would be nothing. I apologize for boring you, but please know that I need you here, or else … I might as well be dead.”

Dorian hesitated, then laughed. “You are so dramatic Basil! Sometimes I think you would have suited the theatre better than painting. Then I remember that, in a way, are they not the same thing? Or, at the very least, closely connected?”

“How do you mean?” Basil asked, most of his focus still on the picture.

“Well, they are both art, despite being different kinds of art. Still, in painting you act out a life you want to live through a stagnant medium, and in acting you paint the life you are told to live through a wandering medium,” Dorian rambled, not fully aware of what he was saying, transfixed by the small strokes of the brush against the canvas.

Basil stopped and looked at Dorian, his usually warm copper eyes darkened with … was that suspicion?

“What?” Dorian asked, suddenly defensive, that horrible feeling he used to always get when his grandfather would accuse him of something he had nothing to do with creeping back into his chest. That tight, hot feeling of indignation mixed with shame.

“Nothing, it is just … that sounds so much like something another friend of mine would say,” Basil said, his voice hesitant.

“Oh? Who is this other friend of yours?”

Basil scoffed, turning his head back to the picture. “No one you should ever concern yourself with, Dorian. You are too good to associate with him.”

“And you are not?”

“I am used to his poisonous personality and theories. Someone like you, someone so pure, should not even be in the same room as him, let alone start a friendship. I am sorry I spoke of this friend, and I ask that you forget I ever so much as mentioned him. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Dorian, a bit disappointed at Basil’s insistency, but trusting nonetheless, replied, “Yes, yes, of course, if you are so adamant about it. My curiosity is piqued, however. If I ever do get the chance to meet this mysterious friend of yours, I am not sure if I would be able to turn down the opportunity.” At that, Basil furrowed his brow and tightened his lips. “Oh come now, dear Basil, I am not being serious. Since you don’t want me to meet him, I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Basil took his brush away from the picture and contemplated it for a moment. “What do you think of it so far?” he asked, swirling his brush in a glass of water and cleaning it off on a paint-stained cloth.

Dorian gazed at the painting. The limbs of the trees stretched out, tangling together and reaching towards the heavens. The verdant grass was swept to one side, pushed down by a breeze frozen forever in the paint. The sky was the color of a shining aquamarine, dotted with wisps of clouds. He pointed to the top right corner of the canvas.

“I think you could add something right here.”

Basil stared at the spot for a moment, then dipped his brush in the same dark brown he had used for the trees. In a couple of short, precise strokes, he had given life to two birds, flying above the treetops.

“Is that the right ‘something’?” he asked.

Dorian smiled. “It is the perfect something. Why only two, though?”

“Well,” Basil said, turning to meet Dorian’s clear azure eyes, the same color as the painting’s sky, “there are only two of us, are there not?”

Dorian’s face grew warm and he ducked his head, trying to hide his smile, his heart fluttering like the birds’ wings would have, if they had been real. “Is that what you think of us as? Two birds in flight?”

“Yes,” Basil nodded, “and I hope neither of us ever lands.”

~~~

Two weeks later, Dorian arrived outside of Basil’s door, a near daily tradition now. As he waited for Parker to let him in, he drummed his fingers on the package he held impatiently.

Ever since that day when Basil added the two birds to his painting, Dorian had been consumed with the desire to get the perfect gift for him. After all the kindness Basil had given him, he felt like he had to give some back in the slightest way. He had agonized for days over what would be the perfect item, and as soon as he had decided on it, he felt as if the day it was ready could not have come soon enough. He had scoured London for the best person to make it, and would not accept it until it was the perfect embodiment of what Basil’s kindness had felt like to him.

Parker opened the door and led Dorian to the studio, like usual. Once he entered, Basil stood up to greet him as he took off his hat, his gilded curls falling over his forehead.

“Good afternoon, Dorian,” Basil said with a smile. “Parker brought our drinks just before you arrived. Would you like to go out to the garden?”

“That would be wonderful,” Dorian replied, taking the drink Basil handed him.

Once outside, they sat on the bench on the opposite end of the garden from the giant flowering lilac bush, the heady scent drifting towards them on a soft breeze. After taking a sip of his drink, Basil commented, “I finally got someone to come down and hang up that landscape in my room. I am glad I did not give it to Agnew. I needed something on the wall in there. It is strange how, despite being an artist, I have very little art on the walls of my own home.”

“Why didn’t you give it to Agnew? You were offered a great sum of money for it.”

Basil shrugged. “The money is not what is most important to me anymore. I am paid now in memories, most of which contain you.” A red blush crept into Basil’s cheeks as Dorian tried to fight back his smile. “You were what made that painting good. I didn’t want to give it up for something I already have.” The two looked at each other and smiled. Basil’s eyes drifted down to the package sitting in Dorian’s lap. “May I ask what you have there?”

Dorian’s smile grew wider. “It is interesting that you brought up that painting, because … well, I had wanted to get you something … to thank you for being a wonderful friend … anyway, here you go.” He placed the package in Basil’s hands.

Basil slowly tore open the paper and slid out a leather-bound book. He turned it over and gasped lightly.

“Two birds in flight!” he exclaimed softly. He lifted the cover and flipped through. Each page was an empty white sheet, ready to be filled with drawings.

“Oh, Dorian, it is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you so much,” Basil sighed, clasping the book to his chest and smiling at Dorian.

Dorian smiled back. “I am happy you like it. I just hope you know how much our friendship means to me.”

Basil’s smile softened, and he placed his hand on top of Dorian’s “I certainly hope it does. It means more to me than you will ever know.”

“What do you think will be the first thing you will draw in here?” Dorian asked, tracing the wing of one of the birds.

Basil’s eyes followed Dorian’s finger, then traveled up his arm and finally rested on his face, taking in each detail, as elegant as a Greek sculpture. His mouth curled in a small smile. “I think I have an idea.” He looked back down at the sketchbook. Images of Dorian dressed in the costumes of the ancients filled his mind, and he longed to spill them onto the pages. “Yes, I have some ideas. But for today, all I want to do is be with you.”

“I like that plan very much,” Dorian assented. Across the yard, the lilac bush rustled, and two birds burst from the top of it and soared into the sky. Dorian leapt up from the bench. “Just like us!” he cried, nearly spilling his drink in his excitement.

Basil laughed, clutching the book and watching Dorian’s sparkling eyes and flushed, happy countenance. Dorian turned to Basil, beaming at his friend’s joy. No, he thought, I don’t believe either of us will ever land.

#dorian gray #basil hallward #oscar wilde #the picture of dorian gray #writing #submission #thisblogislit erature #queersandcommies

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balaenabooks · 6 years

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Thanks for tagging me, @thesheepthewolf !

The Game: answer the questions, create your own 11 questions, and tag 11 people.

1. What is the best book you’ve read so far this year? The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum (reread and currently two books into the series), and Yugioh by Kazuki Takahashi (first time reading and currently a little less than halfway through the series). I enjoy both of these series for similar reasons, for the lovable, endearing characters, and the zany, wacky adventures with some occasionally dark and twisted scenes to spice it up.

2. If you could ask any author (living or dead) one question, who would it be and what would you ask? I would ask Charles Dickens about what endings he had in mind for The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

3. Would you ever want to have a book of your own published? That would certainly be a fun and interesting experience, but all I’ve got are a bunch of half-baked ideas, not stories.

4. What do you do to get out of a reading slump? I don’t really get reading slumps. If a book is not working out for me, I just put it down and read something else. I use the Popsugar Reading Challenge if I need help picking out the next book to read, and if I’m behind on my Goodreads Book Challenge, I pick up a manga or a picture book.

5. How do you feel about book-to-screen adaptations in general? The two mediums rely on totally different ways of telling a story, so it’s pretty much impossible to completely and accurately translate a book to a film. So long as the adaptation is true to the spirit and ideas of the source material (like Lord of the Rings), or if it can stand on its own as a good movie without the book’s help (like Jurassic Park), it’s fine by me.

6. If there was a fire and you only had enough time to grab 5 books from your shelves, what would you take? The Neverending Story by Michael Ende, Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum, Watership Down by Richard Adams, and Bambi by Felix Salten.

7. Do you listen to music while you read, and if so, how do you decide what to listen to? I like to listen to lofi hiphop or chill music while I read because it’s pleasant to listen to, but not too distracting. I just pick a random playlist on YouTube or Spotify.

8. How much of a role does a book cover play for you? Pretty covers certainly catch my attention, but I always do some research first before actually buying or checking out a book...unless it’s a pretty collector’s edition of a beloved classic, then I’m all like GIMME GIMME GIMME.

9. Do you have any “chicken soup books” (titles you return to when your feeling low or ill)? What are they? I like to read HP Lovecraft when I’m sad. I don’t know why.

10. What do you like to snack on while reading? I don’t usually snack on anything while I’m reading. I just find it distracting for some reason. I do like to drink tea while I’m reading, though.

11. If you could only (re)read the same book or series for the rest of your life, which one would you pick? I don’t think I could ever do that willingly, but if it was life or death I’d pick One Piece by Eiichiro Oda. The series is INSANELY long and still ongoing, so I’d probably be old as the hills or deceased by the time I got to the last volume...unless (it’s very likely) the series would continue long after I was dead, so I’d still be reading the series as a ghost.

My questions:

1. Think of a book or series that you read in the past. Has your opinion of that book or series changed since then or stayed the same?

2. Think of a character that you read about in the past. Has your opinion of them changed in retrospect, or stayed the same?

3. Do you listen to audiobooks? If so, when and/or where?

4. What was the first book that you read and enjoyed on your own?

5. Do you read comic books? Graphic novels? Manga? If so, what’s your favorite?

6. What was the last book you read that was originally written or published in a different language?

7. Are there any books you’ve read that have changed your perspective in a big way? A small way?

8. Do you like to read outdoors? If so, where?

9. Do you play videogames? If so, what console(s) do you have? Do you play on a PC?

10. Do you read ebooks? If so, what ereader do you have?

11. What do you think constitutes a “classic”?

I tag anybody who wants to try this, and also @godzilla-reads @thisblogislit-erature @tinynavajoreads @booktineus @blackcatno7 @lamia-zarzis7 @captainbooksnob @thebookishdragon @soggywarmpockets @pokebecher @novelknight

#you don't have to do it if you don't want to #this is just for fun #books #booklr #book tag #booktag

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