When Alan wakes up, his head is still resting above Dorian's lap, who is sat on his bed. They are both fully dressed, as they have been in all their previous meetings.
"Sorry…" Alan tries to apologize, "just very tired lately with all the…"
"I know," interrupts him Dorian, and smiles tenderly from above. "I know, baby," and he soothingly strokes Alan's dark locks. Alan does not even know why has he felt the need to explain himself to Dorian.
They often kiss, despite the all-in-all platonic character of their relationship; in theaters and isolated parks and empty classrooms. Dorian is often seen in the university, and everyone seems to know him, but he does not study nor work there. Or everywhere else, people say. An orphan, they say, sole heir. Does not know what to do with all his time and money, so he spends it preying on young, innocent students.
Alan is already more faculty than a student, really; and he might be young in years, but does not feel innocent. Dorian seems to disagree; the names he calls Alan by—"my little one," "my baby"—the scientist does not think he would have tolerated from anyone else. Dorian's own age is one detail which nobody seems to agree about, and he himself has evaded the question, the one time that Alan dared to ask him.
But he has been a few times in Dorian's home, and it was lavish indeed. Alan's dorm room is small and spartan; apart from the absolutely necessary furniture, it contains his books, his laptop, his backpack, his violin, a few CDs, and nothing else. He was reluctant to show it to Dorian, embarrassed by the comparison; but his friend had insisted, and Alan felt that he owned him the courtesy. Dorian did not show any sign of disappointment.
Dorian looked at him in puzzled amusement, a few days before, when Alan refused to share a joint with him. "So, you don't smoke or drink?" he asked him. "Let me guess, you also wake up each morning at five o'clock for a workout session, and are a vegan." He repressed a laugh, or so it appeared.
"I have beer with friends every weekend," replied Alan, not sure why did the topic make him uncomfortable. The rest of the guesses were true. "What is so funny about it?"
"Nothing is; you are perfect," explained Dorian, smiling widely as if it made any sense. "So, never had a girlfriend, never had a boyfriend…?" he asked later, out of nowhere.
"Just prefer to focus on my research."
Dorian nodded and got silent for a while. Finally, he asked "Alan, are you a religious person?"
Alan arched his eyebrows. "What?"
"Well… I just find it a bit curious that an intellectual like you; a scientist… I would have expected you to be more… more…"
"More liberal?" asked Alan dryly.
Dorian shrugged. His comment had wounded Alan's pride. Again, he was not really sure why, or why did he keep declining Dorian's advances, for all it mattered.
Alan supposes that he and Dorian do not quite qualify as a couple, despite, indeed, lacking any experience in the matter. And yet, their meetings have become frequent (Alan's inexperience has been a matter of choice; he does occasionally get a look from some girl, reminding him that he does not lack options. But as with his room, he prefers a spartan lifestyle).
"I like you very much," tells him Dorian now. He is inclined against the bookshelf, looking at Alan's CDs. He picks one and reads, "Seasons in the Abyss." "Nice," he comments, "didn't know you liked Slayer."
"Surprised?"
"No, it suits you. Let's play it."
They do. The sun is setting, and the light in the room is dimmer and greyer. Against it, Alan's white face shines as silver coin. Dorian has been lucky to find him.
He climbs on the bed and kisses the boy's plush, dark red lips. He reaches tentatively with one hand under Alan's worn t-shirt, and this time, his friend does not resist. "Baby, do you want to…?" Dorian whispers. The air is heavy with violent drums. Dorian's slender fingers play with Alan's belt.
Alan nods, his lips pressed tightly. Dorian's are skillful around his cock, and do everything Alan wants, an instant before Alan himself realizes. He fleetingly wonders how many men has his friend sucked.
Dorian complies with Alan's request to undo his ponytail, and let the lush hair fall over his shoulders in a long, golden curtain. Soon, he is sat above Alan's thighs, smiling contently. His legs are spread as he pours lube over the youth's palm, and he tilts his head back as Alan starts to finger him, so Dorian's hole is warm and moist once his cock is finally inside. The music is now slow and morbid, strangely sensual, and Dorian whispers commands and excited obscenities. When the orgasm arrives, it does like soft, delicate sea foam.
Alan falls asleep shortly after, his head comfortably lent, this time, over Dorian's chest. Dorian caresses the curve of his boy's smooth, round cheek. So ephemeral and unaware, as he himself used to be until one morning in Basil's garden, a million years ago, before fate had led him to cross paths with Henry; before defeating both nature and the man's bitter prophecy. And now, Henry is long buried, and he is here.
Henry, the one man he has ever loved, would either charm or shock everyone by telling them that black was white and white was black. But he is gone, and has left Dorian alone in those strange times, in which everything is some dim shade of grey. The sins of the flesh have been degraded from evil to dull "open mindedness"; God, once his sworn enemy, is now dead; and piety's place has been taken, not even by reason, but by bland "spirituality." Dorian himself, once a devil or an antichrist, is merely a spoiled rich boy.
And Alan, his baby—he has enough demons of his own. Dorian will let him sleep.