The Shackles of Dorian Gray
Basil opened the wooden door with a nervous turning of the handle, not sure of what he will see as he walks in. Fortunately, Dorian's position in the armchair was unchanged. He was strapped with precision by his arms, legs, and head, against the soft velvet. He wasn't strapped so tightly it would hurt – Basil would never want to cause such a thing – but enough so the boy could not escape. After what happened only recently that day, he wouldn't take any risks.
Dorian met the painter's eyes with a glassy, predatory look in those beautiful blue eyes. The outburst had long past, but those irises were seething with that same anger, as if he desperately wanted to pounce. Basil was relieved no harm could come to him, but he still approached Dorian with a terror in his stomach and a cautious walk.
He expected the younger man to speak first, so waited with his hands behind his back. But when no words came, Basil heaved a sigh and looked to the floor, seeing the dust crowding the old, wooden boards.
"You know I didn't want to do this to you," he started.
Dorian chuckled humourlessly behind pursed lips, with a shake of his head as he directed his gaze away. He was looking through the window, into the night, as if something of value lay out there for him.
Basil studied him with a kind of sadness. Why had he even bothered coming here? He knew he couldn't get through to the boy. Not like before, when nothing had changed. Perhaps he still saw a flicker of goodness in the man who was now trapped in his own home, with a set of teeth that clenched together like a canine's. Basil was tempted to give up and walk away, but something in Dorian's unchanged beauty kept him rooted to the spot.
"Believe me, Dorian," he said, gently, "I wouldn't have done it if I'd had another choice."
"Oh, Basil, my friend," the boy sneered, still not meeting his eyes. "You had a choice. And you chose this."
"What would you have done in the same situation?" Basil asked desperately, trying to keep his voice calm. "You know exactly what you tried to do, and that's… that's simply not like you, Dorian. I had to protect you as well as myself."
"No one protects me now, Basil – least of all, you. Did you stop to think, for one second, that this is your fault? And, even worse…" Basil felt the shivers running down his spine as Dorian's eyes met his again, full of fire. "… you do this to me?"
"Dorian-"
"You keep me prisoner like some circus animal? Caged and ready for battle? Is that what you want, Basil?" His last words came out in an enraged snarl, his teeth bared, ironically similar to the circus animal he was describing. Basil looked at the straps around his wrists, and began to feel more vulnerable as he wondered how long the material would hold him for.
"I won't harm you, Dorian. You know that as well as I do."
"Of course." Dorian smiled so his teeth gleamed, flicking his blonde curls out of his eyes. "It's not in your nature, Basil. You couldn't ever… not even with one touch, you couldn't possibly… h-hah." He laughed again, sweat shining on his forehead as he took a few breaths. "I wish I envied you, Basil. I really do. But you haven't seen the thrill like I have. Your incapability to lay a finger on me is your weakness. You don't know how to open your mind. It's… it's rather like Henry says, you know–"
At that point, Basil raised his voice. "I'd much rather we didn't talk about Henry."
The younger man sent the painter that chilling smile again, like he knew every single thought running through his head. "Jealousy, Basil? Is that what I can smell?"
"A mere sense of right and wrong is what you smell," Basil asserted, an authority in his voice he barely recognized. "I should never have introduced you to that man."
"And what more could you have done, Basil? What makes anything you say more creditable than his? Look at me, Basil. Look! At! Me!"
He was thrashing again, and Basil's heart did a terrified flip when he noticed the belts around his arms growing looser. Without quite knowing what he was doing, Basil stepped forward, trying to ignore the snarls from Dorian, and pinned the strong arms down as forcefully as he could. He wished the boy would stop moving as his hands struggled to keep him down, but he could barely use his own strength against him when he was in this state.
"Stop this, Dorian!" Basil shouted, more like a plea than a command.
"What will you do? You've already chained me up like an animal! You think it makes me weak but we know who's the stronger one here."
"Why are you like this? If you hadn't done what you did, you wouldn't be in this position! I wouldn't have had to put you through this!"
Quite without warning, Basil was frozen in his movements as one of Dorian's slender hands clutched his wrist, holding him in place. He met the blonde man's gaze, and found himself locked in it. The blue eyes were hypnotic, despite their malicious glimmer, and Basil was reminded of the strokes of his brush as he recreated them on his canvas, all that time ago. He felt an unwanted rush of admiration as Dorian blinked at him, showing that pool of colour all too generously.
"You wonder why I put that knife to you?" Dorian asked softly.
Basil tried to break free of his grip, pushing on the lacing fingers, but to no avail.
"You started all of this. I told you that, Basil. You act like I'm to blame, but this is only more proof that it's you at the centre. It's time to stop blaming everybody else."
"I am doing no such thing," Basil snapped, still wrestling against Dorian's grip. He was so focused on breaking free, however, when he didn't notice the blonde's second hand reaching for his waist, and holding that in place also. Basil again felt that stubborn shiver running across his limbs as the contact was made, and he realised how close Dorian's fingers were to his skin, pressing against the thin barrier of his shirt.
"I… I simply… wanted to protect you."
"Really?" Dorian's whisper was centimetres from his face.
"Yes," Basil whispered back. For a moment, he forgot the situation they were in. He forgot his muse was a prisoner in his house. To Basil, they were together in a quiet place, comfortable with each other. He could say anything he wanted to – anything he might have been holding back for what felt like centuries. "You have no idea how much I cared for you. But everything changed, everything was all wrong and… I couldn't do anything until it was too late."
"Is it too late?"
Basil was almost afraid of the way Dorian's hands now moved. They started to grab at the hem of his shirt, revealing the skin beneath. His fingertips were tracing his hips, pressing down on him, with surprising tenderness.
Please stop it.
"Perhaps you can atone for all your misdeeds, Basil. You would if you could, wouldn't you?"
"That's not the same as-"
"Untie me."
"No."
"Come on, Basil," Dorian purred into his ear. "You never wanted to have me like this."
"Of course not."
"So start. Atoning."
A kiss was pressed against his earlobe, warm, wet, and eager. Basil's body went still at the contact, with no idea of how to proceed. He shouldn't be tempted. Not now. He's not the same person as he was before.
"Dorian-"
Before he could beg him to stop, the younger man's lips gently met his own, sucking and biting against them, and Basil found himself lost in the act. He bit on Dorian's lower lip, trying to taste him, make his scent a part of him. He found himself growing hungry. And yet, somehow, he managed to pull himself away.
"No."
He pushed Dorian away by the shoulder, turning his back on his captive. The young man chuckled behind him. "You think you're high and mighty? You've just revealed yourself to me, Basil. Don't pretend."
"I will come back in the morning."
"Yes, you will," Dorian called after the painter as he went to the door and opened it. "And the next morning, and many mornings after. When will it end? What do you plan to do with me in my own home?"
Basil could have stopped in his tracks there and then. He could have reconsidered everything he was about to do, released the boy from his bonds, taking back the act he'd committed, and give himself a chance to be forgiven in due course. Where would this go? If he was honest, he had no idea. This was an opportunity to turn things around.
But, after some hesitation, Basil walked out, sparing the blonde last look, taking in the alluring blue eyes that seemed in need of something more… and closed the door behind him.
"How long will Master Gray remain ill, sir?"
"I'm not certain, but you must trust I will take care of him until he recovers." Basil sipped from his tea as Victor placed the last of his lunch on the table. He was sitting in Dorian's admittedly comfortable chair on the seventh day of living here.
The young waiter, he noticed, was glancing over with a curious, almost fearful gaze as he finished his duties, then quietly left the room, like a deer running from prying eyes. Basil wondered if the man felt uneasy with him, before realising that, of course, that would be the case. How often was he without his master, and without his routine? Honestly, he wasn't sure how long he would have to deal with this change.
Basil glanced at the ceiling. Sometimes he would hear a muffled groan from the room above, or the scratch of a chair legs against wooden floor. Occasionally a trail of dust would seep out when he heard these noises, and he made a mental note to check the floorboards when he had the chance. But his bigger worry was the person occupying that room. He would often visit him, making some futile effort to comfort him, or bring him out of the curse he'd been brought under. Maybe, one day, he would glimpse the boy he once knew so well, not whatever it was that now sat in chains. The chains he had provided.
It was true, despite the circumstances, Basil would imagine caressing the boy, kissing his gentle lips, and sometimes acted upon these imaginings during his visits. He knew it was wrong to do such a thing, after everything they'd been through, but what else was he to do? Make him suffer more? He had to show his compassion, all he was doing was protecting him, reminding himself of these facts every day.
For a long time, he was sure he would remain here. How many days, exactly? Even he couldn't be certain.
He glanced at the clock, and started counting.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.