Another night is just another title for the game of trickery Oscar liked to play.
Long after Constance, his loving, trusting and most naïve wife was at bed, and even longer since his two children were as well, he put on his best suit and as silent as a mushroom he did disappear away into the streets lit by moonlight.
He often did ponder on what this mask he called a family really meant to him, his wife was sweet but he had long since mastered her eyes, her touch, the crushed silk dress she wore and the corset that was under it. It was all for naught, she was as beautiful as a painting done by the most marvelous artist that could ever had existed but he wanted nothing more from her then he might want from a painting.
Alfred was a different story, no perhaps the same story, yet a better part of the tale. Spoiled and reckless with the personality of a child, but if Oscar merely placed a hand upon his prefect cheek all his faults could melt and be thusly forgiven. He was more beautiful then any man who subsisted, graceful as a cat and clever as one too. He was everything Oscar dreamed of but the cruel reality that tore them apart was something he couldn't face.
This was another night they could see each other, even if it only was for a short time in the dead of the night, it was something.