in the shadows of ignored truth

sorrows

The idea had been playing in the quiet corners of his mind, quite uninvited as was often the case, but it had been quite easy for the artist to ignore right until the very moment in quick it made itself impossible to ignore. It struck poor Basil Hallward all at once, like a bolt of lightning on a humid summer's evening or the bundle of things hidden away in a cupboard until it chose the worst possible time to all come tumbling out at once, and with it came a strange wave of something not quite dissimilar from nausea to crash over the artist all at once. He found, to his immense horror, that he could not recognise the man that sat before him, stirring another sugar cube into his tea, distractedly watching somebody walk by the little table they had claimed, as if, Basil rather catastrophically concluded, he'd have preferred to be anywhere else in the world than sitting where he was.

"Do you know him?" Basil attempted, kicking himself for his poor attempt at starting a conversation.

"Who?" came the airy reply of his companion, before immediately answering the question for himself with, "Oh yes, him. I cannot quite recall, possibly?"

"Possibly?"

"Oh Basil," Dorian Gray replied with a laugh, "Don't look so troubled, it truly is not so very serious. Possibly I knew him, possibly I did not. Really, I meet so many people nowadays I can hardly be expected to remember each and every one of them."

The smile that curled across the young man's face was not one that Basil could recall seeing on his face before, and he would have once considered himself well acquainted with the finest nuances of the fellow's face. The way his nose wrinkled charmingly when he laughed, the flush that rosied his cheeks when he was excited about something, but the artist supposed he had long since handed away this privilege. There was as strange disconnect, a coolness lurking behind the smile that seemed almost practiced, refined away from sincerity to present something pretty for whoever it was being turned towards. Gone, it seemed, were the days of clumsy grins and shining sincerity.
And it make the artist feel really quite ill. 

The artist brought his own teacup to his lips, as if the warm beverage might hold some relief for his growing discomfort that was so determinedly threatening to overwhelm him. This was, tragically, not as successful as he had hoped it would be as the beverage came across as terribly flavourless to his tongue. He knew with a strange little bit of rationality, that this was of no fault of the little cafe, but rather an additional cruel trick of his mind that seemed far too determined to rob him of even those simple little pleasures that one Lord Henry Wotton had harped on about being so fond of on enough occasions to float about in even Basil's mind.

"I do hope that you have not invited me here just so that we might discuss other people," remarked Dorian after several moments too long of silence, "I'd much rather them wonder about me than have to do the same in return." 

"No, no of course not," came the reply, the artist attempting to debatable success to salvage the conversation, "I had simply hoped to ask something of you, Dorian?"

"Nothing terribly serious, I hope?" the lad returned, "You look serious. Truly, my dear Basil, there is nothing so very serious in the world that you need to look so serious over. You've already made me say the word far too often since we've sat down and they've yet to even bring out my cake."

Basil was quite sure he had heard almost the exact same words uttered from Wotton's own mouth, the imperfect mimicry seeming worse somehow coming from a place outside of the fellow that uttered it. He hated to think of just how much rubbish the hedonist had filled Dorian's head with, and worse than that, the ramifications that undoubtedly had on the younger man's life and worldview. 

"It is nothing so very severe," the artist assured the young man, "I had simply hoped that I might ask something of you? I know it is-"

"Basil," the blond interrupted, "You seem to be stalling. Are you nervous? You appear to be nervous."