They haunted him, the ruthless whispers which seemed to float from the darkened allies and pubs and seep into the cracks of his own studio. What once was a refuge, a sanctuary from the world around him now felt like a prison, a cage locking him away with the rumored tales of the beautiful boy who once was his. Stories of prostitutes, of gambling, of thievery, of murder—no! Basil closed his eyes, trying to bring to mind the mental portrait he was so terrified of one day losing. Blonde hair which glistened as though eternally resting beneath the newly born rays of dawn, creamy white skin free of the cresses and lines of sin and age. Basil clung to the image of Dorian as he was twenty years ago, when he stood before him, free of woe and sorrow, his lithe arm hung so carelessly over the mantle as he allowed the painter to capture him as he was: filled with youth, ignorance, beauty. He tried to remember Dorian only in that single moment of time, but, as much as it pained his heart to admit this, he found that moment fading into the depths of his mind with each passing day. He felt the gossip jeered through the streets cloud his once perfect image of the beautiful boy; Basil could not help but image Dorian with lines of sin caressing his flawless skin, with a hypocritical scowl forming on those shapely, rose colored lips. Please, Basil found himself plead (plead with who? Basil could not say), Please, do not let the rumors be true.

His studio, once brightened by the sun which streamed through the uncovered windows now was forever plagued by darkness, by a dim rainbow of dried colors splattered upon the wooden floor, by unfinished portraits which sat like the withered memories of an old and weary man. As he gazed through the tattered remains of his studio, Basil could not help but recall that day twenty years ago when he had allowed the innocence of Dorian Gray to fall victim to the corruption and vice that was Henry Wotton. How he cured himself for not insisting that Henry leave before Dorian entered, how he longed to reached through the dusts of time and pluck out Dorian moments before his eyes were set upon Henry, thereby preserving the virtuous being the world had lost. Basil chuckled now at that idea: the world losing such a virtuous, pure child without even comprehending it. How many other young, beautiful boys were lost to greedy, grubby fingers of men like Henry? How many men like Henry began life as men like Dorian? Too many, Basil guessed. Far too many.

But they didn't matter. Not to Basil, anyway. They did not matter because those boys, those other faceless souls lost to sin and evil were not the one that he had lost so many years ago. They were not Dorian Gray. They meant nothing. Basil closed his eyes again, bringing back the image of Dorian. Yes, He told himself. Just stay here. Just stay in this moment of time.

Was this obsession? Perhaps. But Basil had accepted this long ago, for how could he not? He was obsessed with Dorian Gray. He needed the boy in his portraits, even if not his image, basil craved his presence, his sprit, his soul. He needed Dorian in his life, for without the boy, the painter was nothing. And he knew it. Basil did not need Henry to remind him of the descending spiral his art had taken the past two decades—he knew. He knew his talents as a painter had drifted from him the day Dorian left, for what was an artist without his muse, his passion. Henry was wrong about one thing (at least): He claimed, long ago, that Basil lacked the passion of other men, but had the romance. This was wrong. Basil did have passion. His passion was in his portraits, his thoughts, his desires, for each of these things had one repeating variable throughout: Dorian Gray. With every blind, every second of darkness, the image of Dorian from that day twenty years ago flashed before his eyes; with every moment of silence, the soft, gentle whisper of the boy echoed alongside the callous rumors against him. Where they true? Please, Lord, let them be false. Let them be the drunken words of envious, pitiful men.

He needed the portrait. He needed the portrait he had made of Dorian Gray, so he could always see Dorian as he was, as he was meant to be. Many years had passed since Basil was last blessed to lay his eyes upon the face of Dorian, and feared not only the truth behind the rumors, but the consequences of every sin upon the once untouched body of the beautiful boy. But even if Henry's promise was correct and time and sin and taken their vengeance on the gifted boy, Basil would at least have the portrait to grant him some ounce of solace, of comfort. Again, Basil could feel his heart ache for its disbelief of the boy he once cherished, once worshiped, once…

Basil found that he could not complete this thought. He never could. Perhaps it was because he had been too wrapped in his work to ever truly feel the thrill or pleasures of love. Perhaps the intimacy he felt from Dorian was simply the closest he had ever allowed himself to feel. Or perhaps what Basil felt for Dorian Gray was what countless painters, countless poets and writers and musicians referred to when they referred to love. Even now, after twenty years of daunting on this idea, on the idea of Dorian Gray, Basil did not know.

All he knew was that he needed the picture of Dorian Gray.