*Basil Hallward/Henry Wotton. Some stuff in their Oxford days.
(Also posted on AO3 in both English and Chinese versions.)
“Now, Henry and I are no longer friends,” Basil told their immediate friends the next day.
Before he had even finished, Henry walked into the room, putting his hand on the future artist's shoulder as if it belonged there. “What a dreadful way to announce it—we are in a relationship.”
Under the knowing or shocked stares, they met each other's eyes and laughed. Lord Henry strolled to the window, then turned to survey the room with an air of quiet triumph. He struck a light on his dainty silver case, and wondered why this had not happened sooner.
For two years, they had talked and argued in debating halls, at dining tables, and in each other's rooms. They had torn each other's ideas apart. (Later, Basil found that Henry never really believed anything he said; he just liked to play with thoughts.) Yet they never knew they shared common ground in physical satisfaction—or rather, in how little they understood its importance. They were quite willing to experiment together.
Henry was not used to doing things instead of saying them, so Basil led the way. Had any shallow, prying eyes peered at them, they would only have scrutinized repeatedly what happened in that one hour, even though that was the slightest gain the pair received from each other.
Two faces were closer than ever, but their voices would blend together until the words were lost. They would not, and could not, take those words outside that room—not to the dinner table, nor the debating hall, nor the court. The world knew the rules of sin very well, but it knew nothing of how to define it. So the doors, the windows, and every crack that might spill a secret had to be closed.
Big thanks to @vee-adein for the title and some brilliant suggestions!
Their bond isn't necessarily romantic; it's more of a connection where they explore sexuality together. I haven't tried to define exactly what they are to each other.
Hi! I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your TPODG content—your character insights and art have been such a huge inspiration to me. Your work actually sparked an idea for a short piece I just finished writing!
I’ve linked it here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/85859296) just in case you're curious, but please don't feel any pressure to read or reply to this. I just wanted to share the love and say thank you for being such an inspiration! :D
I need you to know how absolutely ecstatic this made me i couldn't believe it when I read it 😭 you're an excellent writer it's bananas that my embarrassingly passionate ramblings gave you inspiration for your own piece. Art is truly beautiful.
Here's a little sketch I did of them, inspired by Agnus Dei because wowwwwie wow short but intense dear not to spoil anything but the biblical reference went craaaazy
Please everyone gooo read and give love to this fanfic and this author, simply magnificent writing. waaaaah !!
During a certain Christmas, the two are at Henry’s home in Mayfair.
*Basil Hallward/Henry Wotton. Ambiguous relationship.
Set during the Oxford era—before Henry’s marriage.
(Also posted on AO3 in both English and Chinese versions.)
The room seemed to tilt. A wave of nausea hit me, and I coughed, as if to expel the burning scent that clung to my nose and lungs. The cigarette fell onto the silk bedspread.
He leaned over me, deftly stubbed it out, then settled his arm back against my side. This close intimacy remained unshaken by the series of struggles my body made.
“Harry,” I said with difficulty, “if you intend to continue—if we’re going to keep holding on like this—I fear I shall be sick right here.”
He scoffed, then obligingly moved the arm that pinned me, and our legs, which had been intertwined, drew apart. I shifted slightly so he could slide out the other arm I had been resting my head on.
“You had better sit up, Hallward. I would hate for you to choke to death on your own vomit—especially not in my home.”
“Especially not at Christmas, in your bed.”
Perhaps he didn’t hear me, for he soon left the bed and returned with a fine silver basin. Afterwards, he wiped my mouth with a damp handkerchief. The faint scent of roses in the water was just enough to clear the lingering scent from the air without provoking fresh nausea.
“Thank you,” I said, with the most sincere gratitude I had expressed in our two years of acquaintance.
Quite unlike him, he did not light another cigarette or pick up a book or paper. Instead, he turned off the light and returned to bed. Wordless, we did not attempt to read each other’s brows, eyes, or lips; yet our limbs found each other again, cheek to cheek, like lovers. I almost believed this was a formal beginning—or that I had, at least, found a certain phrase for it: When I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised.
I did not realize I had spoken the verse aloud until he remarked, oddly—and seemingly without mockery, a rare thing— “Because ‘His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should embrace me.’ Is that it?”
Only then did I notice how inopportune, yet how fitting, my association was to how we were now… and he showed no inclination to pull his hand back.
“I have quite enough siblings, Basil. No need to remind me, in this manner, why I spend Christmas in Mayfair and not elsewhere.”
That was also why I had come here. And how did you know I did not intend to set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm?
But I said no more. Neither did he. For we both knew this was mere verbal sparring, and we were now too weary to have any interest in using it to adorn or strip each other’s acts.
Even in the gloom, I sensed all of him. His head now rested perfectly against my shoulder. The thought came so naturally that I shifted a few inches toward him—until no space remained between us—and drew him into a deep embrace.
