You may paint my portrait and buy me champagne / But don't kiss me

:(

Lord Henry Wotton had once said that people fool themselves by claiming they were in love when a far more appropriate term would be that they were in lust, or even more likely they were bored and trying to find a way to pass the time until they were granted the luxury of other entertainment. Of course Dorian Gray believed him. He always did, but this was something he knew rang true, for it was something he was sure he always knew in one form or another. 

He could not quite recall when it was that he realised that love, the true love written so prominently in works of poetry and embedded into the heart of literature was a foreign sensation to him. Of course, he could imagine it if it was written well, but the mark of a good writer often was that they could make a reader experience something they never had before. Dorian had, likewise, never experienced a winter at the peak of a mountain, but he could imagine that he could feel the bite of the chill nipping at his skin as he thumbed through the pages as the summer sun streamed in through the arched windows of the sitting room, bathing the room with cosy light. He could suppose his understanding of love was not dissimilar from his understanding of this. An experience that was not his own, but one that he could borrow for a time and experience through the words of another. 

Perhaps he had known that his heart was simply not designed to love as the tragic girl clutched at the hem of his coat as she wept, declaring her love for him on the same breath she begged him for forgiveness, and all he felt about the pathetic display was an annoyed repulsion. Perhaps it solidified in his mind when the same voice that had offered such gentle words of affirmation and promises of love from one man to another dripped with hatred, spitting curses and accusations and all he could do was laugh, laugh at the fact the tragic creature before him thought he ever truly cared about him like he had claimed he had. Perhaps, even, this had been proven way back when he chose to follow the smoke-clad hedonist out of the studio even as the artist's protests rang in his ears, the curiosity guiding his footsteps out with a skip to his step in the pursuit of something more, something exciting and new. 
Each heart he broke, each life he ruined on a whim, each cruel world and mocking curl of his lips all reminded him of the same thing. Dorian Gray was not a creature that was designed to feel love. 

When, Dorian wondered, his hands stilling, did playing the piano start to leave him so melancholy?
It was absolutely dreadful, and not at all becoming of a gentleman. With a sigh slipping through his rose petal lips , he shook his head to try and shake away the sombre thoughts before they had the chance to settle. A second sigh accompanied his rise from his seat before he hummed the song he had been playing in order to bring it to its conclusion. It would have bothered him tremendously if he had not finished the song. 

So what if he could not love anybody but himself? Others loved him, and that was far more important. Lord Henry had once said that he was something divine, something make to be worshipped, and that felt more important that some silly little thing like love. To give the world the esteemed privilege of knowing him, of thinking he could find himself fond of them for a moment, of appreciating him wholly and completely. It did not make him heartless, in fact he rather thought it was the most selfless thing he could do, to let others think he cared about them, that he was capable of caring about them at all. 

He caught his own reflection in one of the numerous mirrors that joined the opulent decorations adorning this house, meeting the sapphire gaze of his glass-housed twin with his own. A smile, beautiful as ever, graced his features with such a smooth efficiency that it would put into doubt the sincerity of it all had anyone but Dorian himself seen it. Of course he knew of its insincerity, but he rather prided himself on it. On the way he could craft himself into anything and anyone he needed to be at any time, any place and for anyone. 

Dorian knew just the thing to ease his mind. He was sure he had simply been sitting around the house in his own company for too long. This was not always an issue, of course, as he rather liked his own company when he found himself rather liking himself, but unfortunately in the rare instance in which he found his own presence just far too much he found himself getting lost in his own mind. One's own mind was a terrible thing to get lost in, especially if one were to prioritise the perfection of their external world over maintaining their internal wellbeing, much as the lad had done.