Thank god I'm pretty

my ego would fall right through the cracks

"He's perfectly charming to look at, for a young man at least."

Dorian Gray knew precisely where this comment he was not supposed to hear was directed. He could, after all, feel the eyes upon him with the same sense as if the speaker had chosen to reach out and touch him. Ordinarily this would leave him altogether unbothered, if not even a little flattered that discussions about him took place without him having to even be involved. Normally he was quite content to place the part of the vacuous, lovely little thing that was kept about for the same charm as a caged songbird might be, going so far as to accommodate for this impression. As far as impressions went, this was one of the more pleasant ones, not that he often bothered himself with those that were less pleasant. He did not need to hear about his own scandals, he knew them already and so hearing about them held the same sense as knowing the punchline of some tired joke before the first word to it was even uttered. 

But evidently this was no ordinary, normal instance because the words had stung like a barb. The thorns of a rose that he had mistakenly brushed when he foolishly sought to admire it. 

Was that really all he was? A perfectly charming thing for others to look at for as long as he was young enough for it to mean anything? What a sad thing that would be! What, then, would they think if they knew he was so terribly old? That he had already, in his tragically short life, lived so many lifetimes and found himself older than he ever should be? Would they see no use to him? No point in keeping him around once he was no longer young enough to be worth being kept around, after all. 

Lord Henry had once said life should be lived in a way that left a person jealous of nobody and everybody intolerably jealous of you, and he would like to think he was living the ideal well enough, but he could not help but wonder if it was to last. If there might be a time where there was another, another wretched boy being crushed by the awful, accursed weight of his own youth, who might come by and leave him feeling jealous of a life that he was convinced he adored and despised in tandem. He wondered, too, if he was even to last as long as that before he was discarded for someone - something - that was more becoming and new. 
He was lovely now, and that was what he was. Lovely. But how long could one's loveliness last when he was already so old?

Somebody touched his face. 

Oh, yes of course, he had been right in the middle of a conversation, hadn't he? What was it that they were talking about, he could not recall. Not with the woman's hand upon his cheek as it was. Not with his ears ringing to no end. 
He would quite like the woman - who was she? He was sure they had been previously introduced at some function or another before that night, though he could not recall her face from any others. Not that he showed this. No, it was always easier to feign an acquaintanceship with people until the moment he could recall if he knew them or not, saved some of the awkwardness of meeting a person - to move her hand away from his face now. Right now, in fact. It had lingered far too long and even through her gloves he knew her hands were clammy and gnarled with age and he didn't want her to touch his face. But of course he did not express this out loud. 
He never did, and they never heard that in his silence he was screaming at them to stop touching him. But, for whatever fortune there was to be found, the part of his mind that was screaming for affection - love me love me love me lovemelovemelovemelovemeloveme - was far louder than that of which hated the way this affection landed - go away go away go away goawaygoawaygoawaygoawaygoaway - so he could keep his smile looking wonderfully sincere, and that was all that really mattered. That he could smile and look lovely while he was doing it.

Dorian missed every single word that had been said to him, but that was okay, everyone knew that he was just a lovely little vacuous creature who would exhaust himself in the task of forming any thoughts of substance so nobody would expect anything more of him. 

She still hadn't moved her hand, but that was okay. If it were asked of him, he would, in that moment, sink to his knees and let her worship him as some god of a long forgotten religion. But was it not the pious who were expected to be upon their knees to worship? What a funny world it was that things could be so easily turned on his head like that!

Somebody brushed his shoulder, the hand lingering long enough to suggest this was not a mere accident. He wasn't sure he knew who the man it belonged to was. He knew a great many people in a great many contexts, and to see one out of the other was often enough to strip a person from any recognition they might have held. He still couldn't hear anything - but could the chaffinch understand the chatter of the humans beyond the bars of his gilded cage? - but he was grateful for the distraction as it meant his face was freed. 
He had wondered why it was people so often touched his face, he was sure it brought a grimace to his face every time so he did not understand why they didn't see it and simply stop. Or maybe they did see and just didn't care. Neither were particularly pleasant notions so he decided it was best to push them far enough from his mind that it did not settle upon him long enough to cause anything to stain his face and strip him of any use he had to anyone.

Yes, it seemed pushing the whole matter from his mind was the best course of action he could take if he wanted to be able to enjoy what had already set out to be a tedious evening. If he could not find anything worth enjoying in the company, he might have better luck in finding it in the bottom of a glass of fine wine. Or the next. 
Fortunately he never needed to think too much on this, as it seemed he had some wonderful ability for his glass to be returned to full any time he happened to turn away from it long enough.
He was hardly worth being kept around for the sake of conversation, so there was no fear in losing that through intoxication. 

This worked for the most part, thought that was more for the bliss of a wine-haze clouding over anything too unpleasant in the way of thoughts well enough to let him almost trick himself into thinking he really did enjoy the conversation. That each tinkling laugh and beaming smile were anymore real than those shown upon stages all around the globe. Like he wasn't going utterly and hopelessly mad with every second that passed, with every touch, fleeting or otherwise, from those around him.

Perhaps they were all so inclined to keep him around and clasp at him because he served as a reminder of the youth that they had lost. A reminder and something to try and steal back at the same time. He was sure someone had  admitted this to him once.

"Harry," the blond had said, fidgeting with one of the rings that twinkled upon his dainty fingers as he settled down beside the elder hedonist when the majority of the guests had trickled out from the function, leaving only those of any particular interest to them to linger, "Why do you all keep me around?"

Lord Henry Wotton offered the lad a peculiar look but he did not reply right away. Instead, he brought his cigarette to his lips, savouring the drag as a hung man might each gasp he could win, releasing the smoke in a swirling cloud. Dorian would have wondered if he was being ignored, but he did not repeat the question. 

"My dear boy," the man remarked after several prolonged moments of silence, "There are only two reasons we keep anybody around," he paused for a moment, but did not wait for the other to need to press him to elaborate, "Because they are lovely to look at, or because they are decent enough at conversation that we can forgive them for not falling into the former category."

"And which am I?" came the reply.

Now, Lord Henry did actually reply to this, but Dorian did not hear him. There had been a certain shape to the smile that crossed the elder's face, or perhaps a twinkle in his eye before he even began to speak that sent the world back into its horrible ringing again, and so he could not hear even if he tried. A ringing that seemed to mirror a haze just in the corners of his vision. Of course he knew what the answer would've been. 
Regardless of what answer he had been offered, he was still left feeling worse for it than he would have felt if he did not think to ask at all.