ART FOR ART'S SAKE [BxB]

• rené descartes •

CHAPTER THIRTY: rené descartes

Corey dreamt soundly as images of beauty drifted past his consciousness. He dreamt of Dorian's eyes and calloused fingers. He dreamt of mud stains and tattered uniforms, faded from years of use. He dreamt of dripping taps and dying plants, black ink smudged over white skin and the fresh smell of a new tennis ball. Pencil shavings and crumpled paper, fragmented words and half completed poems. Rusty typewriters and long forgotten libraries. Unread books and memories of authors destroyed by their own alluring intellect.

He dreamt of Dorian Gray. A novel that disgusted Victorian society — it had held a mirror up to their faces and forced them to confront the terrifying reality that they themselves had created. Because that's what all good literature did. It made people find fragmented pieces of themselves in characters, in words, in perfectly crafted sentences. It awakened them to the oppression they had created; the hate and the discrimination. It all traced back to civilisation, the destroyer of mankind. Corrupt and ruined and impure.

Great storytellers recognised the dangers of living a civil life, and they challenged it. But they weren't understood — they were just punished for stating the obvious. Because people didn't appreciate mirrors. They pointed out their flaws and their imperfections. Humankind would much rather live in constant oblivion than rip the mask off their own face and view the monstrosity that lurked beneath. Their naked soul, exposed for the world to see.

But just like everything else in this disorganised world, the existence of a soul was debatable. As one ancient philosopher once preached, the only thing we cannot doubt is that we are doubting. Corey vaguely traced the concept back to René Descartes, but he couldn't be sure. To him, the mere existence of doubt meant that everything around us may not even exist; we may be trapped in a stimulation, a dream, a fantasy crafted by the mind.

To Corey, the existence of a soul was something he had spent many hours theorising about. Perhaps we were merely our physical selves, made up of bones and matter. Our brain was the mind and the mind was the 'soul'. Or perhaps there was more to it than that; perhaps the bundle of emotions, senses, experiences, memories all merged together to create the concept of the 'self'. And maybe that was the soul. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just us, as we are, untouched by any supernatural forces.

Corey wasn't sure he believed in a soul, but he liked to think it existed. A force buzzing warmly in his chest, living with him for eternity. An entity which lived prior to his birth and will continue to live long after his death. An eternal cloud of him, of everything that made him into what he was.

His mind tugged back to Oscar Wilde's novel. A book about a beautiful young man who sacrificed his entire existence for eternal youth. He watched his soul grow and decay on a dusty canvas while his porcelain skin and scarlet lips remained fresh with adolescence. Despite the precedence Wilde gave to youth and beauty, his story held true understanding of the soul. That decay happens within, no matter how old you are or what you look like. If Corey's soul was displayed on a canvas, he wasn't sure what he would see. A mess of black and white, lacking colour or light. Scars and scowls and sour expressions.

Dorian's soul would be beautiful. Not Gray — the other one. His Dorian. It would be bright and vibrant and playful. Scars of trauma shadowed by happy smiles and a shining personality, gleaming even in darkness.

Corey still didn't know how he had ended up with Dorian — someone so happy. They were like the sun and moon, day and night, smiles and frowns, laughter and tears. Complete opposites, and yet, Dorian has chosen Corey. And Corey decided that as long as Dorian wanted him, he wouldn't question it. He was comfortable and he was happy, that was all that mattered.

When his eyelids fluttered open, he noticed he was alone again. The bed was growing cold and the clock told him it was almost three o'clock. He groaned, rubbing his stiff neck as he pulled on a pair of boxers and a random jumper that was laying screwed up on the floor. When he found both the kitchen and the living room empty, Corey headed towards the back door, peering through the glass.

Dorian was sitting on the wet grass, wrapped up in a coat and scarf, smoking a cigarette. A neighbour's cat was purring languorously, rubbing its soft face against his knee while he scratched it behind the ear. The garden was just a small plot of heavily neglected land. The grass was browning with death and weeds crept up the rotting wooden fences that guarded the perimeter. There was a small shed at the very bottom of the garden, protected by a rusting padlock that hadn't been unlocked in years. When Corey pushed the sliding door open, Dorian glanced up with a smile.

"Hey, babe." Dorian greeted, stubbing his cigarette out on the sole of his slipper. "Did you sleep okay?"

Corey wrapped his slender arms around his slim torso, shivering as the cool breeze threw knives at his exposed flesh. He collapsed onto the ground beside Dorian, who flung an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into his chest. "Yeah." Corey yawned. "How long have you been out here?"

"Only about ten minutes. I needed a fag, I was gonna come back to bed." He explained. "How are you feeling?"

Corey shrugged as the unnamed cat purred noisily for attention. He ran his fingers through its silky fur therapeutically. "I'm okay." He said honestly.

"You sure?" Dorian pressed. "It doesn't hurt too much? Because I can grab some paracetamol if—"

"Dorian." Corey dropped his head onto his shoulder and shifted closer, craving warmth. "I'm fine — seriously."

Dorian rose his hands in surrender, "Sorry." He apologised guiltily. He hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath, "Hey, Corey?"

"Hm?"

"Do you wanna be my boyfriend?"

"Only if you'll be mine." He teased.

Dorian laughed under his breath, "Deal."

They sat in silence for a moment, stroking the cat and listening to the leaves rustling in the wind. "Did you mean what you said?" Corey whispered, his words almost getting swept away by the violent weather.

"I wouldn't lie about being in love with you." Dorian whispered back, pressing his lips against Corey's cool forehead. "I'll say it again if you don't believe me. I'll say it a million times if that's what it takes. I love you, I love you, I love you, I—"

"I love you too." Corey's cold fingertips grazed Dorian's cheek before he pulled his lips down to meet his, kissing him hard and fast. "You taste like fags."

Dorian laughed and tackled Corey to the ground, the wet grass staining their clothes, the mud clinging to their sex-stained skin. A storm was brewing around them; the sky darkened and clouds grew heavy with rain. The trees swayed in the wind, the leaves shook violently and suddenly they were soaked from head to toe. As rain poured from the grey clouds looming above them, they continued to kiss. They were trapped in a bubble of bliss as the world whirled around them.

Their hair was sticking to their foreheads, their clothes clinging to their damp skin, their ice cold lips locked in a fierce frenzy. The heat of their love kept them warm in the icy air that surrounded them. The rain turned to hail and little pellets of ice began to invade their moment of happiness. They were being attacked by winter's bullets, but nothing could separate them. Dorian tried his hardest to shield Corey's body from the attack, but that only resulted in Corey earning grass stains and mud smears as his hair became tangled with dirt.

The sky roared aggressively as thunder sparked the sky; the grey fog was jolted with electricity and the darkened clouds lit up with a flash. Dorian wordlessly pulled away, his shaggy hair dripping with water as he scooped his boyfriend up into his arms. Corey yelped in surprise and quickly wrapped his arms around Dorian's broad shoulders, letting the other boy carry him back into the warm glow of the house. Once they had escaped the storm, Dorian shut the sliding door behind them and the pair gazed out at the garden being wildly tossed about by the wind. The cat had disappeared long ago.

They shared a shower, pulled on soft, fuzzy pyjamas and snuggled up in front of the TV with hot chocolate, praying they wouldn't get sick.