thesecretsantaofdoriangray

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A reminder that I will NOT be running an Oscar Wilde Secret Santa this year. If you wish to take it over, feel free, and if you want to use this page for it I’ll give you moderator privileges. 

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Super late with @chyrsoprases ‘s secret Santa! It is me! I runner out of time and I could just ménage a cartoonish style of Dorian and Basil…wait for more,it will come!

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Sorry for the poor photo quality, I couldn’t scan it because I glued a canvas to the paper. A normal, vaguely experimental painting session for Dorian and Basil.

To @ask-basilhallward

Happy, happy holidays, and a joyous new year.

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Here’s Basil Hallward and Dorian Gray having a conversation :) 

Here’s a drawing of Basil and Dorian for everyone! Happy holidays!! From @goodluckgabe

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Happy Holidays! Just don’t go… stabbing anyone now 

From @starriekoalas to @myhamsterisademon

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from melbush to sanderinautumn

@melbush @sanderinautumn

The fireplace crackled comfortingly, contrasting the ivory-white snow which was drifting downwards outside. The entire room was dim but had a warm orange glow from the fire. The entire place seemed homely, despite canvases littering the open planned room.

Basil Hallward sat alone in his studio, his face shadowed and highlighted by the flickering light of the flames before him. An empty glass hung loosely in his hands. He stared blankly at the fire.

Unsurprisingly, he found himself thankful for the heat that was given off, shielding him from the freezing elements outside. Basil glanced around. Around a dozen canvases were in various areas of the room, all different sizes and different paintings. There was one stood on the easel in the centre of the studio. A countryside scene was half-finished upon the canvas, the freshly done paint glistening as the light hit it.

Sighing heavily, he discarded the glass on the wooden side-table next to him. Slowly standing up and straightening out his jacket. His footsteps broke the eerie quiet (aside from the noise of the fire) as Basil made his way over to the easel. The paints were still laid out on the table next to it. One of the paintbrushes still lay carelessly in some emerald green paint, the wooden ends of the brush beginning to get sodden in more paint than it already has staining the sides.

His eyes scrunched shut and his hand held his forehead. Stress was a feeling he seemed to be often facing recently, yet he didn’t seem to know why. There was no perplexity or problem to deal with, yet he felt overcome by stress and overworking. Again, there was no reason for overworking himself. He had no deadline, no requirements to meet, yet he was making his own for no reason whatsoever. If anything, he was just stressing himself out more.

Basil reached out and grabbed the paintbrush, the excess cold paint pressed against his palms. He ignored it. The tip of the brush pressed lightly onto the small half-painted branches of a tree. The green automatically changing the bare winter branches into something you would see in spring when everything is in bloom.

Painting inspiration came in waves. There were dry periods, when no inspiration came. During those times, he felt lazy, doing nothing because when he tried to paint, nothing good came from it. However, there are periods of fantastic inspiration. Days where he only puts down the brush to eat and sleep. Weeks where the entire studio will have paintings laying around and new paints will have to be brought. Already finished paintings will be covered over with white paint for a fresh start.

Ever since he had met and become friends with Dorian, dry periods were scarce. It was often that other painters Basil met would talk of their muses. An opinion that he retained throughout the majority of his life that it was stupid, that it would never work for him. That view had seemed to fly out the window. Inspiration had been constant, the wave system he was used to was changed.

Basil glanced to the window. If you managed to see past the darkness, the snow could be seen slowly falling. A smile made it’s way to the surface as he stared outside. His mind wandered often when alone, so much so that he forgot everything around him. As much as he disliked the cold, the snow did have some sort of odd charm to it. With a small smile, he washed his brush and dipped it in white paint. He began to paint the snow.

-

message; hi! sorry if it’s not the best but i tried haha, hope you like it! merry christmas :)

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Dorian Gray (x)

Basil Hallward (x)

happy holidays from @basilhallward to @goodluckgabe

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This is for @icestorming From @chyrsoprases

I’m sorry I couldn’t figure out a way to incorporate Lord Henry but I hope you like this!! Happy Holidays! ♥️✨🎁

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to necuratu from basiilhallward!

merry christmas @necuratu! You’ve been a wonderful pal & i hope you like this candid of basil painting! from @basiilhallward (via my main blog url!)

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Here is my (@sunflower-and-honey) fantastic submission ! It’s not much but it was made with heart :)  I’m the secret santa for @likeapaintingofsorrow

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For @madvictoriandoll from likeapaintingofsorrow

                Juliet and Ophelia [Sybil Vane/Hetty]

The night has fallen completely on the little theater of the East End, in which the dreadful representation of Romeo and Juliet have occurred. The theater was empty, the candles blown, the decor taken away… Only soft, broken cries were still audible. Sybil Vane was huddled in the backstage, her forehead resting against the leg of a fake Greek statue. She has stayed in this position for a while now, sobbing quietly on her fate, her lost love and her broken dreams. Dorian’s words were dancing in circle in her head, each syllable seeming to cut her heart deeper.

You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even stir my curiosity… You are shallow and stupid…  I wish I had never laid eyes upon you!

A great shadow crept into Sybil’s heart, as her sobs quietened. The pain was almost too great to bear, now she felt… febrile. She threw a desperate look around, her eyes wandering between the bits of decorations and other accessories around. Everything seemed so dull to her now, so fake and shallow. She was no more than a girl in a ghostly world, she thought, her limbs shaking by a great emotion. She had realized how false all her roles have been. She had lost the only person who made her life, her romance have a sense. Was there anything left for her to live at all?

Suddenly, she shuddered.

A few quiet but heartfelt claps were sounding behind her. Sybil turned around slowly, haggard. There was a young girl, about her age, who stood few feet away from her. She had long red hair, tied into a messy bun. Her dress was simple and mend multiple times, which was a sign of her just as simple origins. Her blue eyes, shining at the moonlight, were fixed worriedly on her. She was sporting a hesitant smile as she said:

“I… uh… It was a beautiful play.”

Sybil stood up, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand:

“Please, don’t mock me.” she whispered, feeling her poor fragile heart trembling in both hope of fear. “I know how dreadful I’ve acted.”

The girl pried her eyes away, apparently uneasy, but then she took two step forward, and said in a voice on which there was a curious fervor:

“I cannot pretend I understand the beauty of tragedy or the art of acting… I must admit, it is the first time I ever see a play. My parents and I are living in a little village, there’s not much occasion for us to see such an art. I’ve been lucky to come along my father to sell our fruits and vegetables in the market today, so I could see you on stage.” She paused, gathering her courage to tell the other girl her thought. “I think you’ve… stumbled across a few words, and some of your lines were sounding a bit off, it’s true but…” her cheek flushed pink slightly. “When you were looking at your public, you were like transfixed!” her voice had a slight tremble. “It was clear, for me, you knew what you were talking about. You might not have been Juliet tonight, but you were still the actress. There was a girl underneath the costume, and I saw her. I saw she knew what love was all about the moment she looked at the loges! She was a kind Venus, a daughter of Psyche, and she stood right here before our very eyes! I’m sorry…” the red haired girl suddenly said with a faint blush. “It must be odd for you to hear. It wasn’t my intention. But since I had the chance of speaking to you, I thought you had to know that.”

She stopped talking at once, looking at Sybil through her eyelashes, as if she half-expected the actress to throw her out this instant. But the young girl was far too astonished for that. She rubbed ungracefully her wet cheeks. Her heart was soaring, as if the girl had poured cold water on her burning heart. She sniffled as discreetly as could be, and a timid smile appeared on her lips:

“I… I’m not… I mean, you are much kind, but I’m not… as great as you seemed to believe. I’m not all those good things you’re describing me.”

The girl stayed silent and, for a fearful moment, Sybil thought that she had driven her away. But the girl stood still, her eyes squinting as if she was caught in some hard thinking. Finally, she shrugged lightly and asked quietly:

“Would it really matter if you weren’t?”

“What do you mean?” Sybil questioned, feeling quite nervous at the answer she might get in return.

“Even if you weren’t… all the things I described you, would it really matter? You would still be yourself, wouldn’t you? And, from what I’m gathering of our conversation, I think this is more than enough for people to love you. Don’t you think?” the girl told her.

At those words, something magical happened in Sybil Vane. She felt the same way as someone waking up from a nightmare: her heart was still feeling tight, she was still seized by fear and insecurity, but her surrounding seemed real, and it gave her such a comforting feeling of belonging. Without even realizing what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around the other girl’s neck, hugging her tight, and cried. She cried until all pain was left. She cried until she felt in peace with herself again. The girl, in the other hand, looked a little worried by this sudden outburst, but she finally hugged her back softly, allowing her to sob in the crook of her neck. She caressed gently her brown silky hair, hoping to sooth her this way. Finally, when Sybil was calmed, she broke the hug but kept holding the other girl’s- whom, she decided, must be her angel- hands in hers.

“I’m sorry.” The young actress whispered, her frail figure shaken by a wet giggle. “I went through a lot tonight.”

“This is alright.” The girl assured her, smiling. “I’m happy if I could help sooth your pain, whatever it was all about.”

Sybil pressed the girl’s hands softly, laughing a little more soundly now, and admitted in a steadier voice:

“It is… a long story. Let’s say you were right to believe I knew what love was all about. Or rather, I thought I knew…” she trailed off, her heart twisting faintly at the memory of Dorian, her beautiful, exquisite Prince Charming, the night the two of them had met. “But now, it has vanished and I don’t know what to do! I found the reality of love, rejected all the pretenses of theater because of it, and now I understand my love will love me no more…” she suddenly released the girl’s hands, and hugged herself without thinking, as if she was cold all of sudden. “I suppose I’m… not so much of a Juliet, after all.”

“I don’t see how it is a bad thing.” Said the girl, smiling encouragingly at her as she approached her hand from Sybil’s face. The young actress shivered as tanned rough fingers came caressing her cheek. “Perhaps it just means you are not made for tragedies, that’s all.” She grabbed Sybil’s hands, pulling them almost excitedly, as she spoke with an excited hopeful voice which made Sybil’s heart stir pleasantly, much to her surprise. “It maybe means you have a life of joy, laugh and wonders ahead you! Maybe it means you are no slave of Fate like Juliet! You have your life back into your own hands now! No longer will it belong to your Romeo. No longer will it be linked to Death and Sorrow. Today, your life is yours anew! Tonight is not a night for tears. Quite the opposite: tonight, life is good!”

Sybil kept quiet a moment, letting the weight of those words entering her soul. Then she smiled- it was nearly a grin really!- and pronounced slowly, each words tingling with hope:

“I think you might be right…”

“I’m sure I am.” The girl answered rather jokingly, and it was all it took to convince the young actress right away.

She looked at the red-haired girl as if it was the first time she saw her, then turned down her gaze shyly. She was feeling strange, full of hope, joy and wonder, it was suddenly making her shy. The girl seemed to feel the same way, because she immediately let go of her, her face turning red. She laughed nervously. Her little moment of eloquence had passed, and in face of the actress who had touched the depth of her soul earlier, she quite didn’t know what to say. As the silence lingered on the room though, she decided to talk, and she haven’t even decided yet what to say that the words crossed her lips naturally:

“My name is Hetty, by the way!”

Sybil stared at the girl a few seconds… then she let a great laughter leaving her chest. All at their talk that they’ve been, they have even forgotten to introduce themselves:

“And mine’s Sybil! I’m very happy to meet you! Truly, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t appeared to-night. I was in such state!”

“Don’t thank me! I’m all too glad to have met you!” Hetty replied quickly, mentally slapping herself as she realized with what eagerness she has spoken. “Well, I mean…”

She didn’t have time to cover up for her saying that Sybil rested her hands on her arms, a pretty little smile lightening her face:

“I’m all too glad to have met you too.”

At these words, they fell into silence again, but this time, neither of them tried to break it. It felt strangely comfortable for them to simply stay in each other’s company. Their silence spoke now more than a hundredth words, so they didn’t mind at all.

Suddenly, a great cry boomed in all the theater, startling the two girls at once:

“Sybil! My child! My child! Are you there?!”

It was Sybil’s mother, who was looking in the dark for her daughter, looking all worried and disheveled. Before the young girl could make a move, she was pulled into a tight hug by her mother, who was checking on her frame any traces of injury:

“Oh my child! I was so worried! It’s been hours and you weren’t back! I thought something dreadful had happened to you!”

“No, mother. Quite the opposite.” She added, looking at Hetty with a strange sparkle in her eyes.

“Oh…” Mrs. Vane said with a look of understanding. “Should I assume this “Price Charming” of yours has come tonight? What did he say? He wasn’t too disappointed in your acting, I hope?”

Hetty took a worried step toward Sybil, afraid this question could bring the young actress to verge of tears, but she quickly relaxed as she saw her face hardening, her eyes shining for the first time with a fierce anger. She could tell Sybil was still beyond hurt about her fiancé’s betrayal, but a part of her, awoken by Hetty herself, started telling her how awfully Dorian had treated her tonight. She was building back a bit of her strength, no matter how fresh the wound was.

“He let me know he was.” She answered, her voice clipped, her fist closed tightly. “I think our marriage is no longer in his priority, actually.”

Sybil’s mother was aghast, to say the least:

“He has broken off his engagement with you? Over one bad acting night?”

The young actress nodded sharply, not feeling necessary to add any precision on the matter. How was she supposed to explain her mother that her Prince Charming hadn’t fallen in love with her, but with the characters she was playing, after all?

Mrs. Vane tilted her head, her eyes widening in revulsion and anger. Mother and daughter looked at each other for a long moment, Sybil waiting for Mrs. Vane to find the right words. If she expected her to be angry, however, she still startled when she heard her mother raising her voice. It has been years Sybil hadn’t actually heard her yelling.

“What in heaven is wrong with that clod?!” she erupted. “One does not simply watch their fiancée giving a bad performance and… and… call off the whole engagement! This is uncalled for! This is horribly thoughtless and vain! What a bloody git!”

“Mother!” Sybil cried, baffled. She had no memories her mother had ever used such language.

Mrs. Vane didn’t look ashamed the slightest:

“I’m sorry, dear, but I’m telling you things as they are!” she carried on hotly, resting her hands on her tights to give herself more composure. “No man should step away from you for one bad representation! It’s not right to hurt you, to break his promise, while all you did was one mistake! How is he even concerned with that mistake, anyway?! Is he the actor?! Did he put himself in your shoes? Thought and took into account your feelings?!  I think not! Your fiancé is one foul man, for sure!” she stopped suddenly, pale as death, as an unpleasant thought came across her. “Dear Lord… A chance we’ve discovered that before the marriage!” she murmured, remembering with some dread how thrilled she had been when the young gentleman started paying attention to her daughter. Now she felt like she had been pushing her precious Sybil into the hands of a demon!

Sometimes, one look is worth more than any conversation and, when Sybil locked eyes with her mother again, she immediately understood how her mother was feeling. She opened her arms, and the old woman hugged her:

“I’m so sorry, my child. So sorry.”

“I loved him…” Sybil gently reminded her, a sadder light appearing in her eyes. “And I thought he loved me too, for who I was… It wasn’t your fault, and neither was it mine…” she glanced at Hetty almost unconsciously, waiting for her approval. The young girl, who had tried to makes herself little from the beginning of their little scene, smiled encouragingly at her and gave her a small nod, in which Sybil found the strength she needed to continue. “We’ve both been deceived, that’s all.”

The two women stayed embraced a long moment. Then Mrs. Vane gently broke apart from her daughter, and looked at Hetty for the first time since she entered the room, as if she had just remembered her presence:

“I do not know who you are, my girl, but I must thank you for staying with my daughter on times of troubles. Clearly, she needed at least one soul to keep her company. From the bottom of my heart: thanks you.”

“O… Oh, it was no trouble at all.” Hetty mumbled faintly, her face heating up as she took a sudden interest for the floor.

Feeling her heart stirring again ahead such display of shyness, Sybil shook her head fondly and did the first thing her whole being commanded her to: she stepped to her and gave her a sweet kiss on the cheek. The poor Hetty could imagine her cheeks going yet through several shades of red again!

“All the same, thanks you.” Sybil murmured, her lips stretching into a cute little grin. “I’d like to… if it’s all the same to you, of course… I’d like to… see you again. Tomorrow. I’ll be Imogen, and however bad I might act, I think I need your presence to go through the play. I can’t explain why. Myself, I find it confusing, but this is something I know nevertheless. Will you be there?”

“Of course!” Hetty replied almost eagerly, smiling shyly in return. “Nothing would make me happier than seeing you again tomorrow. I will probably be a little late thought. The work at the farm take long sometimes.”

“If you promise you’ll be there, then I’m not upset the slightest.”

The young actress hesitated a moment, then she yielded in her first impulse and, touching Hetty’s cheek with the tip of her fingers, she went on tiptoe and kissed her cheek again. Hetty felt herself turning red again as she hugged Sybil quickly one last time. When the two of them broke apart, they were smiling:

“I suppose it is only goodbye then…” Hetty said, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. She took a step backward toward the exit. “I’ll meet you tomorrow, Sybil, be sure of it.”

“I trust you.” Sybil told her sincerely, waving her goodbye as the young woman turned around and left.

Mrs. Vane looked at her daughter, astonished. There was something about the light of hope which was glistening in Sybil’s eyes that simply stunned her. She felt, more than she knew, that Sybil had met someone important in her life. She went closer to her daughter, her throat feeling strangely tight, and patted gently her arm as to bring her back on her:

“Let us go, child. It’s getting late, and I want to have you rested well enough for tomorrow. Will you be alright?” she inquired, worriedness obvious in her eyes, but Sybil waved off her concern pretty quickly.

“I don’t know if “alright” would be the adequate term, mother. But I think…” she touched her arm lightly, feeling the ghostly contact of a hug warming her skin through her sleeve. Then she smiled. “… From this day on, life will be good.”

THE END

Ps: I hope you didn’t mind the numerous spelling and grammar errors. I tried to be careful but since I’m rather bad at this, it’s probable that some have made it passed my vigilance. I hope it didn’t spoil your reading and that you’ve liked the story in itself, for all sappy as it was XD.

A Merry Christmas to you !

@likeapaintingofsorrow @madvictoriandoll

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Two Birds in Flight

My (@thisblogislit-erature) gift is for @queersandcommies! One of the things you wanted was “Something in London where Dorian is nice to Basil,” so I wrote this. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you like it!

Word count: 2,007

Sunlight streamed into the studio through the open window, illuminating the pages of the, admittedly, rather dull novel that Dorian Gray was only pretending to be interested in while his friend worked on his newest masterpiece.

Dorian raised his head and watched as Basil Hallward delicately swept his brush across his canvas, an entire forest sprouting from the tip of the paintbrush. Despite only knowing him for a couple of weeks, Basil had begun to invite Dorian over nearly every day while he was painting, and even though Dorian had come to admire Basil’s skills immensely, he still had not grown completely comfortable with basically doing nothing in the studio while Basil worked. But as long as his company made him happy, Dorian did not mind too much.

Dorian stood, placing the book down, and crossed to the piano. He passed his hand over the smooth ivory keys, sat down, and began to sift through Basil’s collection of music, finally settling on a selection of Liszt’s compositions.

He started off quiet, so as not to startle Basil, watching to see if he had any reaction to the music. Basil’s concentration did not break from his work, as Dorian expected. He never understood why Basil was always so insistent on his presence while he was working, since he never paid attention to anything other than his art. Perhaps he really did enjoy Dorian’s company as much as he said he did. His adoration was still something Dorian had not quite gotten used to. His grandfather had been distant at best, cruel at worst, the Radleys, his current guardians, left him to his own devices, and everyone else he considered himself close to really did not know much about him besides any of the awful, twisted rumors about his mother that they might have heard and foolishly believed. Basil’s attention was unprecedented, but not entirely off-putting. Even, perhaps, a bit … pleasant. Yes, Dorian admitted to himself, he really did like Basil’s friendship towards him. It was definitely something he could get used to.

He played the final notes of Liszt’s piece, the soft ending chord fading as he reached to turn the page for the next song.

“That was beautiful, Dorian.”

Dorian turned and saw Basil looking at him, a smile on his face. “I am not used to music being played while I paint, but it was quite lovely. Almost as lovely as yourself.”

Dorian laughed, stood, and strode over to Basil. “Stop, that cannot possibly be true. Have you finished your picture yet? As much as you like my being here, I cannot entertain myself by reading dusty old novels and playing piano for hours at a time when I know there is someone perfectly capable of entertaining me himself right here in the room.” He sat down on the bench next to the artist.

Basil shook his head at Dorian. “It is the truth, Dorian, and you should know it.” He turned back to his picture, brushing the most delicate leaves onto the top of a tree. “And you know I have to get this painting finished by the end of the week. I have no time to entertain anyone, even you, despite how much I want to. I do want you here, however, because you … inspire me, shall I say. You give life to my art. Without you, my art would be nothing. I would be nothing. I apologize for boring you, but please know that I need you here, or else … I might as well be dead.”

Dorian hesitated, then laughed. “You are so dramatic Basil! Sometimes I think you would have suited the theatre better than painting. Then I remember that, in a way, are they not the same thing? Or, at the very least, closely connected?”

“How do you mean?” Basil asked, most of his focus still on the picture.

“Well, they are both art, despite being different kinds of art. Still, in painting you act out a life you want to live through a stagnant medium, and in acting you paint the life you are told to live through a wandering medium,” Dorian rambled, not fully aware of what he was saying, transfixed by the small strokes of the brush against the canvas.

Basil stopped and looked at Dorian, his usually warm copper eyes darkened with … was that suspicion?

“What?” Dorian asked, suddenly defensive, that horrible feeling he used to always get when his grandfather would accuse him of something he had nothing to do with creeping back into his chest. That tight, hot feeling of indignation mixed with shame.

“Nothing, it is just … that sounds so much like something another friend of mine would say,” Basil said, his voice hesitant.

“Oh? Who is this other friend of yours?”

Basil scoffed, turning his head back to the picture. “No one you should ever concern yourself with, Dorian. You are too good to associate with him.”

“And you are not?”

“I am used to his poisonous personality and theories. Someone like you, someone so pure, should not even be in the same room as him, let alone start a friendship. I am sorry I spoke of this friend, and I ask that you forget I ever so much as mentioned him. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Dorian, a bit disappointed at Basil’s insistency, but trusting nonetheless, replied, “Yes, yes, of course, if you are so adamant about it. My curiosity is piqued, however. If I ever do get the chance to meet this mysterious friend of yours, I am not sure if I would be able to turn down the opportunity.” At that, Basil furrowed his brow and tightened his lips. “Oh come now, dear Basil, I am not being serious. Since you don’t want me to meet him, I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Basil took his brush away from the picture and contemplated it for a moment. “What do you think of it so far?” he asked, swirling his brush in a glass of water and cleaning it off on a paint-stained cloth.

Dorian gazed at the painting. The limbs of the trees stretched out, tangling together and reaching towards the heavens. The verdant grass was swept to one side, pushed down by a breeze frozen forever in the paint. The sky was the color of a shining aquamarine, dotted with wisps of clouds. He pointed to the top right corner of the canvas.

“I think you could add something right here.”

Basil stared at the spot for a moment, then dipped his brush in the same dark brown he had used for the trees. In a couple of short, precise strokes, he had given life to two birds, flying above the treetops.

“Is that the right ‘something’?” he asked.

Dorian smiled. “It is the perfect something. Why only two, though?”

“Well,” Basil said, turning to meet Dorian’s clear azure eyes, the same color as the painting’s sky, “there are only two of us, are there not?”

Dorian’s face grew warm and he ducked his head, trying to hide his smile, his heart fluttering like the birds’ wings would have, if they had been real. “Is that what you think of us as? Two birds in flight?”

“Yes,” Basil nodded, “and I hope neither of us ever lands.”

~~~

Two weeks later, Dorian arrived outside of Basil’s door, a near daily tradition now. As he waited for Parker to let him in, he drummed his fingers on the package he held impatiently.

Ever since that day when Basil added the two birds to his painting, Dorian had been consumed with the desire to get the perfect gift for him. After all the kindness Basil had given him, he felt like he had to give some back in the slightest way. He had agonized for days over what would be the perfect item, and as soon as he had decided on it, he felt as if the day it was ready could not have come soon enough. He had scoured London for the best person to make it, and would not accept it until it was the perfect embodiment of what Basil’s kindness had felt like to him.

Parker opened the door and led Dorian to the studio, like usual. Once he entered, Basil stood up to greet him as he took off his hat, his gilded curls falling over his forehead.

“Good afternoon, Dorian,” Basil said with a smile. “Parker brought our drinks just before you arrived. Would you like to go out to the garden?”

“That would be wonderful,” Dorian replied, taking the drink Basil handed him.

Once outside, they sat on the bench on the opposite end of the garden from the giant flowering lilac bush, the heady scent drifting towards them on a soft breeze. After taking a sip of his drink, Basil commented, “I finally got someone to come down and hang up that landscape in my room. I am glad I did not give it to Agnew. I needed something on the wall in there. It is strange how, despite being an artist, I have very little art on the walls of my own home.”

“Why didn’t you give it to Agnew? You were offered a great sum of money for it.”

Basil shrugged. “The money is not what is most important to me anymore. I am paid now in memories, most of which contain you.” A red blush crept into Basil’s cheeks as Dorian tried to fight back his smile. “You were what made that painting good. I didn’t want to give it up for something I already have.” The two looked at each other and smiled. Basil’s eyes drifted down to the package sitting in Dorian’s lap. “May I ask what you have there?”

Dorian’s smile grew wider. “It is interesting that you brought up that painting, because … well, I had wanted to get you something … to thank you for being a wonderful friend … anyway, here you go.” He placed the package in Basil’s hands.

Basil slowly tore open the paper and slid out a leather-bound book. He turned it over and gasped lightly.

“Two birds in flight!” he exclaimed softly. He lifted the cover and flipped through. Each page was an empty white sheet, ready to be filled with drawings.

“Oh, Dorian, it is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you so much,” Basil sighed, clasping the book to his chest and smiling at Dorian.

Dorian smiled back. “I am happy you like it. I just hope you know how much our friendship means to me.”

Basil’s smile softened, and he placed his hand on top of Dorian’s “I certainly hope it does. It means more to me than you will ever know.”

“What do you think will be the first thing you will draw in here?” Dorian asked, tracing the wing of one of the birds.

Basil’s eyes followed Dorian’s finger, then traveled up his arm and finally rested on his face, taking in each detail, as elegant as a Greek sculpture. His mouth curled in a small smile. “I think I have an idea.” He looked back down at the sketchbook. Images of Dorian dressed in the costumes of the ancients filled his mind, and he longed to spill them onto the pages. “Yes, I have some ideas. But for today, all I want to do is be with you.”

“I like that plan very much,” Dorian assented. Across the yard, the lilac bush rustled, and two birds burst from the top of it and soared into the sky. Dorian leapt up from the bench. “Just like us!” he cried, nearly spilling his drink in his excitement.

Basil laughed, clutching the book and watching Dorian’s sparkling eyes and flushed, happy countenance. Dorian turned to Basil, beaming at his friend’s joy. No, he thought, I don’t believe either of us will ever land.

[thesecretsantaofdoriangray]

From @necuratu to @melbush

[thesecretsantaofdoriangray]

To my dear friend,

Flowers surround me everywhere I go,

            Yellow chrysanthemum in the garden – the daffodil in my studio

            - The chamomile in my tea

Yet whenever you visit,

            Only then I find their beauty.

  Pure, like a narcissus – that is what people sigh when seeing you.

            Made out of rose petals

Beauty, like the amaryllis – that is what they moan.

            Forever young

                        Forever perfect.

I don’t think they mean it.

            But they simply do not know better

Whatever beauty you have - it cannot be described by a mere flower.

Flowers -

             They wither

                      They dry out,

But they can be kept.

Put a rose in a vase and it will never try to get away

- It with be happy until its final flower hits the table,

                      But you are not the same

I have tried to treasure you

And though my vase might not be as pretty

 - Perhaps that is why your petals never fall

          You slipped away.

My dear friend,

            If my paint could not make you see what I see –

When you are near me

              My words will not even come close.

So – as this letter ends up on the pile

            Of poems you will never read

                    Paintings you will never see

Know that I have faith that you will find it

A vase

Much prettier and better suited for you than mine

And whilst your final petal falls on their table

Know that even then you were beautiful

              More beautiful than my daffodil hoped she could be

Forever yours,

Basil Hallward

To @basiilhallward, from @sanderinautumn

It was a blast meeting you- it really was! I hope you have a splendid Christmas and every day after. I also hope you can forgive my amateurism in both painting and poetry, but I felt that a present like this would suit you! hehe.

With much love, Sander

[thesecretsantaofdoriangray]

@gray-skinned - Wishing you a very merry Christmas and a happy new year!

From @queersandcommies

[thesecretsantaofdoriangray]

From @thepalaceofsans-souci to @basilhallward

Merry Christmas! This is a stupid little podcast thing I put together with a friend about Basil and Dorian celebrating Christmas together in a slightly AU version where they don´t get to know eachother during the spring as is implied in The Picture of Dorian Gray but rather at some point during the autumn. I´m sorry about the sound quality!

[thesecretsantaofdoriangray]

Dearest thisblogislit-erature.tumblr.com

First of all, happy holidays!

I hope your festive time will be great and that you’ll have a charming new year’s eve!

I hope you’ll like this small gift and have a wonderful christmas!

With  love, Gabriel (@gray-skinned)