Disclaimer:The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

Warning: This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

Author's Note: I don't know if it's noticeable but at this point in the story I watched the movie 'Wilde' with Stephen Fry and Jude Law and it was definitely an inspiration for some things. You may not be able to see any connection at all but either way watch the movie if you haven't. Spectacular casting and acting.

Chapter three

The Funeral

"Oh, Harry! Good thing you are still here. There is something I want to talk to you both about."

Rody threw his coat over the back of a chair and sat at the foot of Basil's bed, facing both Basil and Harry, who was sitting next to the bed.

"Most dreaded words in the English language," Harry muttered. "Well, what is it?"

"I spoke to the police inspector today," Rody informed them. "There is no trace of Dorian. That… bothers me a lot."

A quick grimace crossed Harry's features at the mention of Dorian's name before dissolving as if it had not existed.

"Well, dear boy, it bothers all of us but I don't see what can be done about it."

"A few things could be done!" Rody disagreed. "First of all… Basil, we have to destroy the portrait."

There was instantly a look of horror on the painter's face.

"Destroy it?" his voice was still very quiet but full of alarm. "But what will happen to Dorian? He said that picture was his soul. One cannot live without a soul."

"All the better," Rody muttered.

Basil tried to shake his head but winced at the action and stared imploringly at Rody instead.

"You wouldn't. Not you. Or am I cursed to misjudge all of my friends?"

Rody gave him a helpless look.

"Oh, Basil… You always believe the best of people and that's the most wonderful thing about you, but it shouldn't be at the cause of your own safety! I want to be what you think I am but at the same time… What kind of person would not hate the man who has hurt someone they love? What kind of person wouldn't want them dead?"

"One like you."

Rody sighed and stared at his hands for a few moments.

"All right, yes. I admit you are right. I don't want Dorian dead. But that fact makes me feel ashamed, if anything! Do you know how valuable you are, Basil? For what he did, I should want to rip him apart. And if I don't… It's like I am betraying you."

"Rody, that's ridiculous. So far you are proving to be the only person who has never betrayed me."

"But, my dear fellow," Harry addressed Basil with disbelief in his voice, "you don't mean to tell me you still care for Dorian Gray after what he did to you!"

"I pity him, Harry, and so should you. I cannot simply erase from my memory the Dorian Gray I once knew. I see now that I made too many allowances and forgave too easily but I cannot want him dead. You both have to promise me! I could not bear it if any more of my friends proved to be capable of murder. Especially because of me."

"Because of you?" Harry asked in astonishment. "My dear fellow, what have you to do with any of this? I'm afraid it would rather be because of me…"

"You already apologized, Harry but it's unnecessary. I know I blamed you for the whole thing but I see now that Dorian's choices were his own. What I meant was that if you want me to be well, you would do better to give me some piece of mind. Don't hurt anyone for my sake; it will only cause me pain."

There was a brief silence. Then Harry nodded.

"If that is what you wish, I give you my word that I will not lay hands on Dorian himself or the portrait, unless it is to save someone's life from direct danger."

"I promise, too," Rody said. "But then I have to insist on my other suggestion. I am afraid that if Dorian learns you are alive, Basil, he might come back to finish what he started. Therefore… I want to hold a fake funeral."

Basil's brow wrinkled.

"A fake funeral? You want to pretend I'm dead?"

Rody nodded.

"We can say there were complications and you eventually died from the wound. I have spoken to the doctor. He won't contradict us publicly, as long as the police know about it. Then when you are well enough, we can leave London. I will hire a house in the country. We can stay there until Dorian is caught or at least until you have fully recovered."

"Extreme as that may sound, maybe it is a reasonable precaution," Harry said slowly. "But you have to leave someone here to manage your finances. The price of your paintings will rise to the skies once people hear you have been murdered."

Basil gave him an exasperated look.

"Always the cynic… Then you can manage them. I care very little about that now."

"So we can do it?" Rody asked.

Basil's forehead creased in thought again. Faking his own death was a strange thought. But simply disappearing, leaving everything behind was so horribly tempting right now that he could hardly resist the urge. He had been trying hard to look at the situation clinically and not give way to his emotions. But even being across the street from Dorian's house upset him more than he cared to admit. And wherever he went in London, something would remind him of Dorian. He wanted to get away.

"So be it," he said at last.

For once, Lord Henry Wotton was disgusted with his peers. The rumors had started right after the news of Basil Hallward's death had reached London's upper class. The painter's body would not have even grown cold (had the news been true) before all of his art, character and actions were put under the microscope. His relationships with Dorian and other men (Lord Henry himself was not mentioned, at least not to his face) were dissected and criticized as if they were a controversial work of fiction and not part of a real person's life.

If Harry had been angry at some of the comments, then Rody had been positively livid. He had told Harry that the sooner they could move to the country, the better, before he lost his temper and punched someone at the dinner table.

Then there was the funeral.

Harry felt slightly paranoid. As he stood in the middle of the cemetery on that unusually clear and sunny day, he could not shake off the feeling that Dorian was watching from somewhere. He kept looking around and barely paid attention to what was happening.

That was until Rody stepped forward to speak over the coffin.

It was a little known fact that Roderick Lewin wrote both poetry and prose. Aside from a few funny verses in mockery of interesting public figures that he had recited at parties, none of his friends had ever read or heard his works. As rumor had it, he sometimes sent them to people he didn't know. For unbiased opinion, perhaps.

Harry had never thought much of that little hobby, just as he had never thought much of his painting, which Roddy himself admitted was simply a way for an averagely talented but very rich young man to waste his time. Today though, almost as soon as his young friend opened his mouth, he knew he had been ignorant on more than one account.

Rody took out a piece of paper and unfolded it, lowering his eyes to read it. Then he seemed to decide he didn't need it and fixed his unwavering gaze on the small crowd instead.

"I don't know if it's for better or for worse that Basil has never heard this, but I thought that all of you should. Some of you have been asking me about my opinion regarding your recent… discussions about Basil's life. Well, if there is any doubt about where I stand, this should clear it up. This is what I have to say to you and to Basil.

We always search for definitions

That we will later redefine.

We wonder if there are conditions,

We wonder where to draw the line.

And being wrong's the price of learning

And there are always things unlearned

But we cannot stop lighting fires

Just because we once got burned.

We always look for absolution,

We're often absolutely wrong.

There's always more than one solution,

More than one place where we belong.

And maybe I could do without you –

That only makes my love more real.

It starts with what I know about you

And ends with what you make me feel.

You can't put beauty in a frame

Or true love in a box

Society will praise some day

The things that now it mocks

And I won't choose to freeze my heart

For fear of being judged.

Tomorrow they will seek from us

The kindness the begrudged.

Misunderstanding love and passion

Is maybe our worst mistake.

May it be clear with this confession

That you can have this heart to break.

But if you have the love to love me

And honest kisses to return

With their sacred imperfection

Two suns will shine, two worlds will turn."

The last verse was met with absolute silence. People stared as Rody put the paper back in his pocket and threw a yellow rose on top of the coffin. No one dared say anything.

Harry stared too but for a different reason. There had been such genuine emotion in Rody's voice that for a moment he had almost believed Basil was really dead. He shook the feeling off quickly and took a look around the stunned crowd. He would have to come up with a way to break the silence soon.

Victoria beat him to it. She walked up to Rody and kissed him on the cheek.

"That was beautiful, dear. I'm sure he appreciates it, wherever he is."

The spell was broken. People started nodding their heads and smiling sadly, as if there was a universal agreement to forget what had just happened. But Harry knew they would remember. The poem had been a statement. A brave and maybe even dangerous one. Rody had never cared too much for public opinion, but until now he had not done much to put himself in people's mouths either. Well, Harry though, this had finally done the trick. With a bang. It was a pity Basil wasn't here.

"Yellow roses mean friendship," Harry said to Rody while they were leaving. "Why not a red one?"

"Friendship is more important than love," Rody answered. "And lasts longer."

After the funeral, Rody went home, resigning himself to the fact that he would have to wait till evening before he could see Basil. It would not do for people to catch him paying a visit to a dead man.

He spent the rest of the day pacing his room restlessly and picking random objects up just to put them back down again. When it was finally dark he caught a hansom to the doctor's house.

Basil blinked in surprise as Rody marched into his room, stopped in front of the bed and just stared at him for a full minute.

"What's wrong?" he asked finally.

"I just buried you today," his friend answered in a tight voice.

"Oh," Basil considered this for a moment. "So, was the ceremony any good?"

He had thought about it and decided that humor was the best policy in this case. He was hoping to get Rody to see things that way too. Especially since his friend looked more distressed about the situation than he himself had been.

It worked. Rody blinked at him before bursting in relieved laughter.

"It was beautiful," he answered as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Were there flowers?"

"Yellow roses."

"No poppies?"

"They were too sad to come."

"I see. Poor things, I've put them through a lot lately. And what did you say about me?"

Rody hesitated for a moment.

"I… said that you were a nice fellow, although a bit unimaginative when it came to painting."

"Unimaginative?"

"Meaning that you only ever painted what you saw. When you were trying to make a portrait of a young woman, you always ended up with a young woman and not an old man, as I might have done. Which was less interesting. But I loved you anyway."

It was Basil's turn to laugh, which caused a coughing fit.

"Oh, Basil, I'm sorry!" Roddy apologized, torn between worry for causing his friend pain and joy for seeing him laugh for the first time in a while.

"Mr. Lewin, please don't try to kill my patient," the doctor who was just entering the room chastised him.

"It's not a bad way to die – laughing," Basil observed.

"Not a bad way to live either," said Rody with a smile.

Lord Henry put down his book as he became aware of his wife observing him carefully.

"Is there anything you want, my dear?"

"You looked rather distracted at the funeral today," Victoria remarked with a carefully neutral tone.

"Well, Basil was a good friend of mine. You could hardly expect me to be myself after such a tragedy."

"I wouldn't. But you didn't seem to be stricken with grief, Harry. You were much more shocked when you first heard that he had been stabbed. For God's sake, I was there with you and I thought you might faint! You went pale as a sheet. And then two days ago, when you told me of Basil's death, you seemed completely unaffected. Or rather, you seemed to be acting affected. Acting badly. Today was the same."

"I don't know what you mean."

She stood up, walked to his armchair and, to his surprise, kneeled on the floor in front of it, taking his hands in hers.

"Harry, whatever rumors may say, and whatever sins you may commit behind my back, I know I did not marry a heartless man. And, in spite of what you may think, I know you. That is why I will ask you a question. I know I may be gravely disappointed by the answer but I have to ask. And I beg you to answer me truthfully. Harry… is Basil Hallward really dead?"

Lord Henry opened his mouth, closed it, considered… and for the first time in years decided to trust his wife with one of his secrets.

"So, Rody Lewin really recited that poem in front of all those people?" George Greenaway asked, seemingly unable to decide if he was disapproving or impressed.

"He did indeed. Just as I recited it to you."

"Oh, that must have been the talk of the month at least!" Lady Weatherby said excitedly. "I have no idea how I have missed such a thing! Do you think you could write the poem down for me?"

"Lady Weatherby!" Irene Greenaway shouted indignantly. "You plan to show it to everyone you know, don't you? Such things are only meant to be read by appreciative eyes. I found it profoundly beautiful."

"Then you shall have a copy of it," the storyteller said unexpectedly, taking a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handing it to Lady Greenaway.

The young woman took it tentatively, looking at him in wonder.

"Sir, we never asked you…"

He interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

"I know what you want to ask me. But, with your permission, I will tell you after I finish the story. Don't you want to find out the ending?"

"Certainly!"

"There is one thing I want to know – if you can answer my question at all," Lord Greenaway said. "What happened to Dorian Gray?"

The storyteller was silent for a moment. Then he turned to the portrait of the young man and pointed at a particular place.

"Do you see it? You have to look carefully. It has been repaired but you can still notice…"

"I believe I can see something!" Lord Greenaway exclaimed. "It looks like it has been torn with a knife."

"Stabbed," the storyteller corrected him.

"So Mr. Lewin broke his promise?" Lady Weatherby suggested.

The storyteller shook his head.

"Roderick Lewin was not a man to easily break a promise, especially one given to such a dear friend. Basil should have known that, yet he did suspect him for a time. But something else entirely had happened…"


End Note: Puh-leeease, let me know what you think. Not because I don't like my own story but because it's just so wonderful to read comments on one's story. Not to mention you'll read the next chapter a lot sooner if you review.