ART FOR ART'S SAKE [BxB]

• adore beauty, despise perfection •

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: adore beauty, despise perfection

It felt as though a shadow was following Corey as he walked the short distance from Dorian's house into town. Maybe the dread was beginning to creep up on him in the form of a dark, foggy cloud — it was now only millimetres away from pouncing, claiming him as it's victim. That was, of course, the dread of seeing Arthur. He was scared about what he might do or say or imply. He was terrified.

But maybe the metaphorical shadow following him wasn't dread. Maybe it was shame. The shame of what he had done the previous night. What he had done with Dorian, cooped up in Mrs Wilson's study. He was ashamed that it had felt so good, guilty that he wanted to do it again, despite telling himself it was a mistake. They were meant to be taking things slow — not handing out handjobs the second they got a little tipsy.

But maybe the shadow was merely his hangover, lurking stubbornly at the back of his head, squeezing his brain and slamming it against the inside of his skull. No amount of paracetamol could fix it, it was adamant on hanging around to worsen his mood to the point of misery.

When he entered the small teashop, the bell above the door chimed playfully and he groaned internally. He was in that all too familiar mood — the one where he felt so wretched and dreary that no one else was allowed to be happy, not even a bell. If the sun shined, he prayed for rain, and if a child laughed, he'd crave the sound of a sob ripping through the soul of a lonely person who had learnt the true realities of life.

Arthur's dark eyes darted up as he entered, and a menacing smile tugged at his lips. A predatory expression crossed his features but it was only seconds before his mask went straight back up. He smiled, "Heya, Corey. Just on time."

Corey spared a glance at the pink clock in the corner. It was almost half past nine — he was thirty minutes late. "Hi."

"I'm just setting up. Come here, grab an apron." He gestured him over. Corey reached for one of the black aprons hanging on hooks behind the till, and slipped it over his head. "Here, let me help you with that." Arthur offered hastily.

"No, it's okay, I think I've got it—" He stopped dead, his words catching in his throat. Arthur was suddenly stood behind him, his whole body pressed flush against Corey's back. He grabbed the strings attached to the apron and pulled them tight around Corey's small waist, making him yelp in pain.

And as if nothing had happened, Arthur was stood beside him again, smiling brightly, "Right, let me show you the ropes."

Corey was on edge the whole day, flinching at the sound of Arthur's voice and trying not to stand too close to the older man. He quickly learnt that working at a teashop wasn't the most exciting job. They received few customers and everyone ordered the same thing. The only reason he wasn't bored out of his mind by five o'clock was because he had to remain alert every minute of the day, scared about what would happen if he let his guard down for even a second.

Arthur would continuously make him feel uncomfortable; brushing past him, pressing up against him, touching him, murmuring in his ear, making inappropriate jokes that made Corey's skin crawl. Once they'd finished closing up, Corey discarded his apron, punched out and practically ran out the door, preparing for his twenty minute walk home.

Home.

Dorian's house.

It was funny how quickly things can change. How one minute it was the house of the boy he resented. It was just a place he was forced to visit to work on a project. And now it was his home.

And Dorian wasn't the boy he thought he was.

From day one, he knew Dorian was wearing a mask of sorts; something plastered over his face, over his entire identity. It concealed his secrets with false optimism and unfaltering smiles. It was impossible to be happy all the time, to not have anything to complain about. No one could do that, not even Dorian Price.