Title: Traveling Abroad
Pairing: Dorian Gray/Tom Sawyer
Summary: Dorian takes Sawyer with him as he travels to Paris to meet an old friend.
Warning: Slash
Rating: K+
I'm so glad that I finally finished this. I started it over a year ago. Didn't think that it would be so long, and when I did the final word count, I thought that it would be best to go ahead and just make it two chapters, to split it up some. Technically though, this is still simply a really long oneshot.
First person perspective. Dorian's point of view. Because it is disturbingly fun to write. Disturbingly, I say!
Chapter One: Gay Paris
.:o:..:o:..:o:.
We've never traveled abroad together before, not since the League that is. I've funded Tom on his petty little trips; whereas, I rarely depart the comfort of London, seldom even my own home. He is not as content to sit in the darkened house, reading or amusing himself in ways a proper gentleman does. No, he would rather chase tigers in Africa. If I didn't know any better, I would swear he had once again picked up the trail of following in old Quartermain's footsteps. Though, he claims to have been there before (prior to knowing of the old fool), having great adventures in an air balloon, to which I have no choice but to question with doubt. Sometimes it is so very hard to know when he is telling the truth, and that assertion is rather… farfetched.
I hate it when he tours Africa, always bringing back souvenirs, always bringing back tattered clothes- shirts I've spent a pretty penny on, completely destroyed- and always, always bringing back a terrible scent of dirt, sweat, and animal. I don't let him within a meter of me until he has taken a long, fragranced bath. Honestly, I despise his trips to that continent so much that I one time ordered him a ticket on a boat to Spain- under the guise of it being an African ship, of course- just to show him that yes, there were other places out there in the world. He sent me a telegram four days later. Apparently, he didn't think it as funny as I.
I apologize. It appears I've digressed. I simply cannot pass up the chance to speak of, or mock really, Sawyer's unexplainable love for a place where civilization is nothing more than a dust covered idea. As I was saying though, I rarely depart London. In fact, when I announced to the boy that I would be leaving, he was so intrigued that he agreed to come with me before I had even asked. Actually, I don't think I was going to. I doubt he will enjoy this trip as much as I. It is France, after all. Paris, to be more exact. City of love and I can already feel my stomach churning at the idealistic drivel.
I step off the boat in a rush. I suppose he got a bit of cabin fever and merely wants to step on dry land again. However, running from our room before even finishing to pack up his things is unacceptably maddening. Now I have to chase him down, an increasingly difficult task because I keep losing him in the bustling crowd. The delusion I live under that his boyish curiosity will one day fade is exactly that, a delusion. When I spot his matted blond hair at last, it is several paces away, and he is conversing with one of those crooked salesman known to loiter around the docks and swindle travelers. I can see now that I will have to take away Tom's pocket money.
I grab the boy's shirt collar and sigh loud enough so that he may hear me over the roaring crowd. "We have a schedule to keep," I growl, now taking his hand in mine, much like I imagine a mother would her child, so that I may not lose him again.
"A schedule?" he asks me and I can hear the snickering in his voice. "Who goes on vacation and makes a schedule?"
I figure it is best to tell him straight away, so that he will not complain later. Turning abruptly, I pull him close, so as to make myself heard. "I ordered a carriage because I am not walking around all of Paris, Tom. They should be here to meet us soon and our luggage needs to be ready and waiting so that we can make it to our first stop on time." His brow lifts in an unasked question then, and I know that it is whether or not I intend to make him haul all of the luggage to said carriage. Clearly, he has learned much about me in these past four years because that is exactly what I expect.
"And where is this first stop, Monsieur Dorian?" he asks, crossing an arm across his abdomen and completing a mock bow. Now he's just making fun of me. I almost laugh though when a considerably large and hurried man slams into Tom from behind and almost knocks him down. Helping the boy steady himself, I hold him by the shoulders and try to eradicate my smirk at his little episode.
"I've made an appointment for us both at a popular tailor." I see Sawyer's shoulders, eyes, and very being sink at the idea of being fitted for clothes, remaining stationary for long periods of time not his strong suit. However, I will not be seen with him if he does not comply. He can stay in the hotel for all I care. "If you're not wearing the latest fashion of Paris," I explain, though I know he is barely listening, "your wardrobe is outdated by at least four months."
"And is that why you brought us here?" he questions, rolling his eyes. "To shop?"
"Shopping is merely the first item on our agenda, a necessity so that we do not stick out like sore thumbs. If you had listened any of the five times I told you on the boat, you would know that I am here to visit an old friend. He recently acquired a villa in the city. While here, I also thought that a visit to the famous Paris Opera House wouldn't hurt my dwindling touch with high society. Perhaps while we're in this city," I add this in simply to goad him on, "you'll see what practiced manners are like. Maybe you'll even pick up on them."
Whatever witty remark he was going to reply with is lost when I catch sight of our carriage resting far from all the chaos of passengers still disembarking. I wave off the words that never even make it to Tom's lips and walk back towards the ship to retrieve our luggage, not happy that we are now behind schedule.
Our reservation at the garment maker's is given away, though we are only ten minutes late, and I am forced to bribe the man so that we may make it out of here today. It is not as though I mind too much though; I simply take the money out of Tom's pocket as it is his fault. I let the irony of the fact that he received this money from me in the first place die as his pocket falls limp and the lips of the receptionist grow into a crooked smirk. We're shown into the salon moments later.
Tom squirms and avoids the hand that tries to measure him, unacquainted to the process of a custom fitting. I find the whole procedure nothing more than a brilliant excuse for him to finally stop wearing his generic clothing that hangs from his chest and his legs in loose folds. I'm even almost tempted to throw away those clothes once he is out of them.
I see something akin to a blush spread out across Tom's face, and it is followed by pleading eyes that beg for a rescue as the man does his inseam. I offer him a reassuring smile, though it may come off as anything but considering how pleased I am to finally have my lover in decent clothing. Clothes that he will not be allowed to dirty and certainly won't be permitted to wear on some African safari.
When he finally steps down from the small platform, it is with a huff. He is not happy with me, but that is nothing new. I rise from my seat so as to get my own measurements done with, and as I pass him I see just how tired Tom looks from the trip here, despite the energy he always seems to be abundant with. Perhaps I should have made the appointment for tomorrow. However, there's no use considering such a thing now, so I step up to be fitted.
I pay for our clothes, five suits each, and am assured that they will be ready by mid-afternoon tomorrow. With the amount I have just put down, I would expect no less.
My plan to visit my friend can wait until tomorrow. Tom looks like he is about to fall asleep in the carriage. I've almost forgotten what it's like to be tired, but the blond nodding off beside me provides a small memory of it. "Just ain't fair," he mumbles into my shoulder, now using it as a pillow.
"What's not?" I ask, shutting the curtains to the carriage's windows before pulling him closer to me. "That even though you did nothing exhausting during the ship's voyage, you are still on the verge of sleep?" I run my hand through his hair absently, not out of affection but simply because I want to. He takes it as a loving gesture anyway and leans into the touch like a cat to the warm and gentle hand of its master.
"No," he responds, and I must wait through his silent yawn for the answer. "It's not fair that you're not tired." He treats my curse as a blessing, and I do not speak up to voice my disagreement. After all, there are the moments I enjoy because sleep is not demanded of me. I'm loathe to say it, but this is one of them. I do, though, envy his ability to fall into sleep so fast, to beckon it to him at a moment's notice. At night, when I do decide to slumber, it is not such an easy task for me, and I find myself doing exactly what I am now.
Already, he is gone from this realm, that of consciousness, and I am left behind to watch him, observe him with no questions or comments. His lips are parted scarcely and a quiet, shallow breath escapes them. The blond, wavy strands of hair are in his eyes. They continue down his shoulder and now onto mine. Perhaps while we are here, we can do away with this tangled mess he calls hair. I'm not insisting it be cut, no, simply given some shape or order. I like to run my fingers through his hair too much to let it be gone.
The boy stirs slightly and now his arm rests in my lap. I allow my hand, the one which isn't imbedded in his hair, to run over the invading palm, my fingers traveling lightly over the rough skin. If my roving fingertips disturb him in any way, it is not visible upon his face, so I continue. His fingernails are short, almost down to the quick, and the small bits that remain are nothing more than a temple for collected dirt to proclaim sanctuary within. It almost crosses my mind to hold him down in the hotel and clean them with a scrub brush. I think I might, actually. Now if only the task was easier done than said. I may have the benefit of muscles that do not tire easily, but this boy always wins out in the end in terms of strength. For that I blame my weak frame that was here long before my portrait was but a brushstroke.
I turn Tom's hand over in mine and see the dark, but healing, knuckles that came from a dispute a couple of nights ago aboard the ship. "If you want to kiss me, wait until we're back in the cabin," I'd argued futilely, always futilely. His later defense was that he thought no one else would be up and above deck so late at night. But wasn't that why I warned him in the first place? Just in case?
The man was rude, his speech was slurred, and he had probably been kicked out of his room for his vulgar attitude after the consumption of alcohol. Yes, the liquored mindset of the man is not an uncertainty in this equation. I could smell him several yards away, forget the overpowering stench of his breath when he was in my face, in my coveted personal space, pressing an accusing and insulting finger into my chest with a heavy jab. His hateful and offensive words, the terms he used, fell upon my ears as but nothing. The power of a single individual, a stranger at that, has long since left my realm of concern. But to Tom, who has lived only a fraction of my life thus far… Well, I suppose he took it personally.
He swung at the man with his fist and later said that it was because he was protecting me. My hero. I momentarily considered this cretin wise when he stayed down, barely moving on the deck floor. I admit though that I have been wrong before, and now I have been again. The man soon wobbled back onto his feet, determined not to lose a fight to a- I'll leave his word choice out. Admittedly, I wanted to throw the brute overboard and be done with it all. We were so close to the banister, and a drunken man taking a fall provides no suspicion towards foul play. However, I allowed Tom his fight, his reclaimed honor at its triumph, and only watched, no more than a mere spectator leaning against the very handrail I would have thrown the offender over.
Memory of that night once again banished from the forefront of my mind, I run my fingers over the unyielding silver of the ring on Tom's hand. Not a wedding band, no, of course not. It is only the illusion of one. Don't think me a romantic because it was not my intention when I gave it to him, even if he may have taken it that way. As I've said, the boy travels a lot- even if not to another continent or country, than perhaps simply down the street, but out of my sight nonetheless. I've seen the looks he gets when he is within my presence- though I must still take credit for a good amount of the earned looks myself- and can only imagine these women's flirtatiousness when I am not there to usher Tom away. So you see, it is not out of sentimentality or a promise of a life together that I gave him the ring. I simply want my things to remain just that, mine. I've found that this small, silver band, this tiny circle, is an excellent way of 'marking one's territory', so to say. I only wear a matching one so as to belay any suspicion from Tom.
My hand untangles itself from his hair and moves as a ghost down his jaw. I find a noticeable layer of stubble that is normally completely absent on his smooth, boyish face. Too hasty this morning? Eager to get off of the boat already. I know I was.
The carriage jerks suddenly and the coachman's words only reiterate something I already know from the settling horses and the still cabin: "We're here."
The hotel is lavish, grand, and, unfortunately for my wallet, expensive. No matter. Price has rarely been a problem since I began playing the stock market, or as Tom calls it, "easy money". True, perhaps, but that is only because I make it look easy. After so many years of watching people, governments, and businesses of all kinds, monitoring what stock will do well is child's play to me at best, cheating at worst.
I duck back into the cabin and shake Tom's shoulder. His nap is over now because I will not pay the coachman more money simply to let the boy finish out his slumber. Bright eyes catch the evening sun, and when I am content that they will stay open, I return back to the sidewalk, watching as our luggage is pulled off the top of the carriage. Tom joins me- a deep yawn in his throat- soon afterwards. He reaches for a suitcase before I stop him, gesturing at the bellhop standing by the door, eagerly on his way to help. Of course, Tom assists anyway, loading the luggage onto a cart as if he is being paid for it. I choose to ignore it, telling the coachman to return tomorrow around lunch.
Pulling Tom up from the sidewalk and through the doors, we walk to the check-in counter where I announce our reservation on a room with two beds. It doesn't matter that only one will be used. I am only glad that the boy knows to keep his mouth shut for once. After all, he'd almost let slip on the boat that, "One bed's all we need, so why pay extra?" I suppose the hurried hush he received from me had been enough to tell him what I intended though. Every morning we ruffled the blankets of the unused bed, as if there had been an occupant, and awaited housekeeping to tidy it back up. I may not care what others think, but if it threatens to upset my way of life, I would rather step around the puddle, so to speak. Perhaps Paris is more accepting of our private deeds than London, but why chance such a thing? Why risk it?
Our room is on the seventh floor, and I am grateful because I am already imagining the view. My heart may be but a shadow, but I can still appreciate, can I not? I can still await to see the look on Tom's face when he glimpses the city best described as a moving painting for all its beauty.
"Are we just sitting this stuff down?" the blond asks from behind me, following my lead on the steps. "Don't you wanna go see your friend? Although, I gotta admit, I thought I was your only friend." There's a smile on his face. I hear it in his mirthful voice.
"Hah hah," I remark dryly. "Who said you were my friend anyway? Last I checked, you were nothing more than a temporary amusement who burns through my money and keeps me company in bed." Cold. Perhaps too cold. The comment is said though, and while my time may not move forward, it does not move back. The words cannot be unsaid. I worry only because I know he will remember this, remember it and take it as an icy stab to the heart. So I console him as best I can. Falling back, we walk together in step and I look him in the eye. We are equals now, and I find it better than any apology for the demeaning remarks. "I thought you would like a rest before we go. The Count can wait."
"A count?" he questions, and even though I know he does not care for titles or the prestige of the upper class- coming from a place that has no such thing- I notice slight intrigue in his voice. "So he's a pretty important guy then?"
"A very important man," I answer, and it is true. "You will probably never meet a wealthier soul, save kings, no matter how long you may live. He is a learned gentleman and his manners are faultless. We met years ago at a party in London. Of all the people there, I was attracted to him the most because only I could see what he thinks to be hidden." Tom's eyes are almost wide with interest now, and so I feel the need to torture and keep him in suspense. We are at our room and I make a big show of fumbling with its key.
Finally, he asks, blurts out really, "So what is it?"
The key is in the door now and I turn it with a smile. "He is heartless," I say, opening the entrance into a suite that is covered in the rich orange of a setting sun. "He gives gifts, he smiles, and he will entertain with grand stories that almost seem impossible, but you believe because he has bewitched your senses with his amiable charm. Yet his heart… is a block of ice. And if you are stupid enough to have cursed yourself by being on a list he calls 'enemies', then may God have mercy on your soul." I pause, dramatic effect maybe, and take in the expression on Sawyer's face like a sponge to water. He appears almost horror stricken that I willingly take him to this man's abode on the morrow. "Our carriage returns at noon tomorrow, so try not to sleep in late."
Tom shakes the fright from his form in a way that is almost comical and enters the room at last. "You seem to be a pretty big fan of this guy," he comments, and if I must pin an emotion to the sentence, it would be jealousy.
"You've nothing to worry about Tom." The door is closed at last and I am allowed to kiss him as I like, not sweet, nor caring, but still tender and soft. I pull away but my hands remain on him, in his hair, on his face. "Any flattery or emotion I put into describing the Count is mere narcissism. He reminds me of myself, you see." And perhaps that is why I consider the man my friend, one of few. "You I enjoy too much to possibly need another." It is true. Of course it is true. Even still, the boy seems to contemplate as to whether or not it is meaningless sweet talk. I think he remembers that pointless charm is not a trait of mine because his face lights up as the words finally reach him, seconds later. What a tragic boy I have created when a word of loyalty is as sweet as a poem of love.
"Come over here," I say, leading him to the terrace, though he looked like he had wanted to kiss me in that moment. When I reserved this room, I put special emphasis, and slight threat, on getting a suite with a balcony that faced the city. And that is what I show Tom now.
The hour is right, maybe even so precise as the very minute, and the sun hangs in the air finely, its rays stretching into the sky for one last hurrah before it leaves the City of Lights to provide its own illumination. Every color is present on the horizon as the clouds hang within it like pastels in an artist's toolbox. In fact, the view of the sky from here is so wondrous that I almost forget there is a city beneath it. But it is there in all its glory, a proud capital showing its riches to travelers. The buildings stretch on forever, until they become one with the sun, and the colors they present are even grander and more diverse than those of the sky. There is noise in the streets and it leaps from building to building, floor to floor, until it reaches us, and what you think would flaw the atmosphere of this breathtaking city only enhances it by reminding one that it is a real place.
It is only my remembrance of this town from before that allows me to tear my eyes away from it. When I have had my fill, I turn to Tom, who is still taking in the city as if he were a beggar set before a grand feast. He is mesmerized by all his eyes land upon, and I can almost see the eagerness that is boiling inside of him to explore every inch of it. Today is not the day for that though, and I feel the need to bring him back to the hotel room before he runs outside and I am unable to stop him. I dare not have a repeat of the ship so soon already.
"We will be here for two weeks," I remind him, a gentle hand massaging his shoulder. "Perhaps more if I feel the need. Now, come inside so we may unpack." He is almost loathe to do it, and I know now that I will find him on the balcony often, if not in the very streets themselves. Removing my coat and my vest, I place them over an armchair, anxious for the new Parisian clothes that await me tomorrow. "You've been to Paris before, is that right?"
"Um, yeah," he responds slowly, his gaze still drawn through the window and outside. "Briefly, and no view like that one that's for sure. But, I mean, it was night, and I was just a little distracted down there in the dark." What I intend only as a quaint smile at his remark soon bubbles into a light chuckle, and I know Tom is happy. He loves it when he can actually make me laugh.
Despite what he may say though and how he may praise the view, I know that he would give it up- with little persuasion- for just a little of the excitement he had on his first short-lived visit here.
.:o:..:o:..:o:.
He has fallen asleep again. Actually, I made him go to bed. The boy was walking around with his eyes half closed and a yawn on his lips every other minute. And now I sit upon our bed, book in hand and his head on my lap. Though I had planned on a nice dinner in an expensive restaurant, it can wait. After all, it's not like Tom is properly equipped with the right manners to eat correctly just yet. Maybe it is better we have skipped this meal.
My eyes aren't tired but, at the same time, I feel like they should rest. As luck would have it, my most current chapter in the book has just ended, excellent stopping point. I will confess now that I am not a Mark Twain enthusiast. The only reason that I started reading his works was to learn more about Tom's America that this man writes so much about. Closing my book, I none too gracefully move the boy off of me and onto his own side of the bed. I believe I will try for sleep as well.
Sorry if it seems like I skipped around some. It was intentional, though I wish there had been a better way. I simply like to write different things about their relationship as I think it would happen. (I do so enjoy playing with them. Obviously.) And aside from writing short, pointless vignettes, throwing them into long stories at the best available opportunity is my best shot.