Cruel Time
by Jiasa Stormcloud
Disclaimer/Notes: The Picture of Dorian Gray and all characters in it were created by Oscar Wilde, not myself. I make no money off of this. I gain only my own amusement. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
It had been ten years since the portrait was painted. Ten years, nearly to the day. Dorian lay back on the divan with a lazy smile, glad for the moment to be off of the crowded streets and away from the summer heat. They would go to the club soon, and then to the opera, and Lord Henry would avoid his wife while Dorian charmed a rather defenseless girl named Elizabeth. She would look at him from behind her fan and tell him in the hushed, grave voice she saved for these moments how deeply her father disapproved, and how it made her like him all the better. It was going to be a lovely evening.
For the moment, he waited. Lord Henry stood in front of the mirror, a cigarette dangling half-forgotten from the corner of his mouth. His jacket lay draped over a chair, and his waistcoat was only half buttoned.
"Time passes too quickly, Dorian," he said, finally crushing out the cigarette.
Dorian propped himself up on his elbows, frowning slightly. "Does it?"
"It does. It steals away one's youth almost before one has had it." He finished buttoning the waistcoat and shrugged on his jacket. "You haven't noticed it yet, of course. You are still very young. You look precisely as you always have. Sometimes I think you always will."
Dorian started, alarmed. "What do you mean by that, Harry?" He knew he had gone quite pale. The portrait was hidden. There was no way anyone could know, and yet somehow he found himself going cold. There was always a chance, some dreadful chance that some mistake had been made . . .
Lord Henry turned to look at him with a lift of the eyebrows. "I mean nothing at all, Dorian. What would I mean by it?"
"Nothing," Dorian said. "I was only curious, Harry. I wondered what would make you think a thing like that."
"Ah," said Lord Henry, "it is really very simple. Time is always so cruel. It destroys everyone it touches. But I think it should be ashamed to mar you in such a way, and so it might leave you unscathed. I like the thought, don't you? It's like something out of the old Greek myths."
Dorian laughed, laying back once again. "I have had enough of Greek myth, Harry," he said. "Adonis! Narcissus! I wonder if there is some curse on the name Dorian Gray that makes it so difficult to speak."
"I should hope not," Lord Henry said, "or most of London would be cursed by now. They are very fond of your name, you know."
"I know."
Lord Henry peered critically at his reflection, straightening his necktie. He scowled suddenly, and brushed long fingers over some newfound crease near the corner of his mouth. "Too soon," he murmured softly, and sighed.
Dorian watched him for a moment, and said, "You're not old, Harry."
"No," said Lord Henry, turning away from the mirror. "But I'm not young."
