Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dorian Gray, for once in his life, was not busy. He surveyed the outside silently, considering the overcast skies, the same color as his name. Clouds hung low, disguising much of it, but it was there. In late November, the trees were dead or dying, mangled branches twisting around themselves. He shook as a strong gust of wind passed outside and he snapped the window shut, sipping from his wineglass. With nothing to do, he felt like a stranger to the outside world. I should go somewhere, he thought. Somewhere full of people.

But as quickly as the thought had come, he was interrupted. 

“Sir, it seems someone’s waiting for you outside.”

Dorian paused. His glass nearly fell to the floor and shattered, but he gripped it tighter as he hopped up from his chair, brows furrowing in confusion. He had not invited anyone. He turned to the servant addressing him and with a curious smile that didn’t meet his eyes, he nodded curtly and fanned him away. He was in no hurry to greet an unknown visitor, albeit he was curious, and thus each stride was languid and patient. When he finally reached the door, he heaved it open and leaned against the doorframe with the romantic aura he always surrounded himself with. 

But what Dorian was met with was a round, scruffy face and a broad-shouldered build clad in a familiar brown overcoat. His hair was freshly washed and for the first time since their initial meeting, it looked soft to the touch. His eyes, sunken, with an unspoken vulnerability lingering in every glance, caused Dorian’s heart to jolt. His skin prickled with desire as Ethan’s brows furrowed in pleading. With his velvet blouse buttons undone, chest bare and clean-shaven, he felt far too vulnerable—but then perhaps the only time he ever had felt vulnerable was with Ethan. And now, in that one fateful moment, words failed him and his usual smug and flirtatious demeanor did not present itself to him. He stood up straight, clearing his throat. Why, after all this time, was Ethan here? He was alone, standing at the bottom of Dorian’s staircase, looking up at him like he’d rather have been anywhere else. He seemed startled—it seemed he had hoped he’d have more time to dwindle before working up the courage to knock. Ethan fiddled with his hat anxiously, and Dorian felt something swell in his chest that he couldn’t quite name as he watched.

His throat was lodged shut and his chest constricted, and neither man spoke. They gazed at one another, Dorian in awe and Ethan with an air of shame and guilt that Dorian had recognized the moment they’d met. His undeniable frown and hunched stance, like he was abruptly made aware of how much space he took up and who all could perceive him, is what had made Dorian pity him in the first place—why they had even begun their momentary (and now long gone) love affair. Bittersweet longing overwhelmed Dorian’s overcast brain, and he extended his long fingers towards Ethan, bracing himself for Ethan to turn his back and leave him behind. 

“Ethan?” He pleaded.

But instead of running away, Ethan glided up the stairs, hesitantly and confidently all at once. The closer and clearer that Ethan became, the more unusual characteristics Dorian took note of. Though clean, he was visibly tired, and his under eyes were painted purple. Stray cuts littered his face. His right hand, the one not gripping his hat, shook as it took hold of Dorian’s and the sensation of his cool silver rings over Ethan’s soft palm made Dorian himself shudder. Both stood still, avoiding each other's eyes and instead opting to carefully examine the way their hands fit together; for Dorian, this was far more dangerous. Ethan’s hands were bigger than his, and Dorian reminisced on the way they’d engulfed his entire face, and before that, his throat. He fought the desire to press his companion's hand against his cheek now and instead let the pad of his thumb rub Ethan’s absentmindedly—but this was a step too far. Ethan slipped his hand out of Dorian’s and nodded at the doorway, silently asking permission to enter. There was no malice in his actions, not even a trace of annoyance, but Dorian couldn’t help but take it to heart. Ethan’s fingertips entwined with his had caused him to feel the most whole he had since their absinthe-induced night of passion. 

“But of course,” he agreed, leading Ethan into his quarters. 

The minute they entered, however, Dorian found himself jittery and uncomfortable. The final and only time Ethan had stepped foot in his place was when Dorian had patched his wounds after a late night outing gone wrong and in turn, had been fucked ruthlessly into the early hours of morning. It didn’t feel right to bring him back here, but somehow nowhere else seemed safe either. So he sat on the very chaise longue where Ethan had undone him, and urged his company to join him. Ethan stood still and averted his gaze. 

This wounded Dorian further, sunk the dagger deeper. Biting his tongue, he replied. “We are two very confident and assertive men, Mr. Chandler. Surely you can explain to me why you’re here.” He kept his tone stern but loving. He held no grudge against Ethan, but he couldn’t handle the anticipation. 

“Mr. Chandler?” Ethan murmured. 

Dorian was, for the blink of an eye, confused—that was, until he remembered, violently and jarringly, the way that he’d whispered Ethan’s name as they’d entangled, the way he’d said “my Ethan” as though he was taking ownership of him and their relationship. Just as quickly as he had been Mr. Chandler, he was Ethan. 

He forced a smile, all teeth, and shoved his hands in front of him, motioning for Ethan to settle down. “I didn’t mean it like that, Ethan. It was a sign of respect.”

But Ethan wasn’t listening. He collapsed onto the chaise longue before Dorian knew what he was doing, and he dropped his head in his hands before rubbing his hands over his beard. “Dorian, I didn’t know who to come to.” He paused, squeezing his eyes shut and slowly tracing one of the cuts across his temple with a wince. “It had to be you.”

Dorian’s heart raced and his eyes narrowed. “Why me, Ethan?” he dared to ask, a hint of mischief, and perhaps hopefulness, on his breath.

Ethan paused, looking sad and distant. Far, far away from the chaise longue and instead in the dismal land created inside his head. Dorian knew the feeling all too well. 

“With you, I can be someone different,” Ethan admitted.

Dorian’s own words hung heavy between them as Ethan repeated them and he fought the urge to reach out and take Ethan right then and there—it would hardly be appropriate with him in such a disheartened state. 

“Shall I pull out the absinthe? Or some whiskey, if you’d prefer?”

To Dorian’s shock, Ethan shook his head solemnly. He curled up around himself, legs pulled close to his chest like a small child, but his expression was that of a man older than his 30’s.

“What’s troubling you?” Dorian inquired, nudging Ethan’s knee with his knuckles. “You know I am not a stranger to oddities and sins.”

“But you likely will be to mine,” Ethan responded, accent thick and voice low. His eyelashes fluttered lazily against his cheeks, and Dorian watched as a stray tear descended down into the hair above his lips in a small rivulet. 

Without thinking, Dorian lifted his hand tenderly and swiped it away, the sensation of Ethan’s coarse mustache lingering on his hand as he pulled back. “This isn’t like you, darling,” he whispered. “It’s as if you’re a ghost of my Ethan Chandler. That American charm is all worn off.” 

At these words, Ethan lifted his head ever so slightly, and Dorian could have sworn he saw a light flicker in the murky pools that were his pupils. But the fire burnt out of them just as fast as it had ignited. When he opened his mouth to speak, all that escaped him was a shaky exhale. “I…“ he began helplessly. Dorian dropped his hand to rest on the troubled man’s thigh and rubbed his leg encouragingly. With contempt for himself, he realized that it was absolutely impossible to keep his hands off of Ethan. The gruff man was magnetic, even as he fought tears of anger to keep them from dripping onto Dorian’s expensive pillows. 

The room was drowned in silence, leaving them both to think. Dorian about Ethan, and Ethan about something only Ethan knew. Dorian felt left out. They sat in their self-made tranquility for many moments, and if it was 2 minutes or 20, Dorian didn’t know. 

The quiet was eventually filled by the sudden and gentle taps of rain against the windows, incessantly falling. With each pitter patter, Ethan stirred, inching closer and closer to Dorian. Dorian didn’t dare do so much as twitch, not a single muscle spasming. He waited. And waited. And waited. And when Ethan was finally so close that Dorian could feel his breath against his exposed collarbones, he spoke. It was barely even a whisper. If there had been any noise more than the downpour outside, Dorian would not have heard it. But he did. 

“I think I’m killing people.” 

The hushed response was slow and laced with unmistakable fear. 

Dorian was not easy to surprise. As he’d told Ethan, he was not unfamiliar with sins of all kinds, though he mainly meant his own. In his eyes flashed his portrait upstairs, unknown to Ethan or anyone else for that matter. Everything he’d done etched painfully into the painting, his gnarled and twisted soul trapped inside. 

But killing? Was it the same, or was it not? On a technicality standpoint, he’d given up his humanity and sense of self. Was that not in itself a form of murder? 

“What do you mean you think?” he began, wanting to press on but unsure how else to address the situation. His grin remained plastered on, as always—he wouldn’t let Ethan know he was shocked and risk making him feel worse.

“I…don’t know. I had this episode where I couldn’t remember anything. And when I woke up, I found myself splashed with blood. And these…” He prodded at one of the minuscule gashes on his nose, shivering. It wasn’t quite scarred over yet, but not fresh, either. It must hurt, Dorian thought mournfully. “They’re everywhere. I don’t know if they came from me, or from—from the people, or person, I…” He trailed off again, a defeated whimper finishing his sentence. Slowly, methodically, he shed his coat and vest and lifted his shirt. 

Dorian’s eyes widened and his hand faltered on the American’s thigh as he took in his chest and abdomen. Scars and fresh cuts alike were scattered across him and combined with his chestnut brown freckles, they looked like the streaks of shooting stars. Like a meteor shower on display. Dorian wanted to kiss those scars, to lean in and lick a stripe up Ethan’s middle. To strip him of his clothes and see if more little lines, some criss-crossed into white X’s, some thick and some thin, awaited him on Ethan’s thighs. Instead he met Ethan’s eyes, asking without words for him to fill in the blanks.

“When I woke up, I was in a place I’ve never so much as heard of before. And the next day in the papers, someone was dead. Maybe multiple, I don’t know, I can’t—I don’t remember. Dorian, I’m a killer.” He growled viciously, more to himself than anything, an inhumane sound rumbling deep in his throat, and yet Dorian still couldn’t come to see him as a demon of any sort. Or, he supposed… an animal.

“When we spent the night together,” Ethan spoke again, “I had them already. I don’t think you noticed. But it wasn’t so bad. They hadn’t scarred, at least.” Dorian had noticed, but had made the assumption they’d come along with his other injuries accumulated at the bar fight. Now he knew better. “It wasn’t as bad, because I wasn’t sure yet. But now I know—I’m a villain. No one should have to look at me, or touch me. I should be locked away to keep people safe. I denounce torture to Vanessa, and all the while I’m on rampages around town tearing peoples throats from their bodies.”

Dorian felt perverted. Here Ethan was, spilling his heart out to him, feeling safe enough to face Dorian as tears glistened on his pink cheeks, and Dorian was feeling downright ravenous. The image he’d rendered in his mind’s eye of a feral Ethan bounding towards him, drawing blood from his willing neck and maybe even ripping skin, filled him with unbridled lust.

He swallowed his longing. “Ethan, forgive me for saying so, but you could not intentionally harm a butterfly. You’re innocent, you’re soft. You’re caring.” 

Ethan was looking at him in a way that suggested he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. 

“Well, I am a different case,” he teased. “I’d hardly say I didn’t deserve your harshness. And I enjoyed it, which makes all the difference from your, ah…victims. Do not blame yourself for becoming something out of your control.”

Ethan considered this, extending his legs so he was no longer curved in on himself, and instead let them dangle loosely over the edge of the chaise. The toes of his boots made contact with Dorian’s ankle and treacherously, Dorian moved closer still. Now Ethan’s head was inches from his shoulder and Dorian desperately searched his expression for anything other than melancholy. “Ethan?” he tried again. Same as when he’d arrived.

And miraculously, Ethan succumbed. Dorian felt the thump of his forehead against his clavicle and delicately, he slid a hand through Ethan’s mane of hair, pressing his face closer.

“You’re warm,” Ethan muttered into his skin. Dorian liked the way he said “warm”—like a true westerner. Extra emphasis on the ‘a,’ twisting it into an ‘e.’ 

“You know I’m warm,” he said. “Unless I was cold last time around?”

Ethan huffed out a laugh and rotated to look up at Dorian. “Dunno what you felt like last time. Other than good. The alcohol really got to my brain,” he admitted.

Dorian nodded. “Something’s still wrong,” he said. He sensed it.

Ethan groaned and lifted his head, but Dorian’s slender fingers on his neck forced him back down. 

“It’s only…I don’t know. Why am I sitting here and whining in your ear? What do I expect you to do?”

“Console you. And I’m flattered, might I add, that you entrusted me with that task. Is it working?” And he meant it. Dorian Gray wasn’t exactly the poster boy for therapy or comfort of any form—except maybe the sexual kind. He was a tease, and he liked to be cut open just to watch it close up. He lied, cheated, and fucked without feeling. Yet something about Ethan left him in a caring sort of trance. Ethan was his Achilles heel, and the thought frightened him. Mainly because relationships were unattainable for a man of his condition and his reputation. But, he told himself, this is about Ethan.

There was a pregnant delay before at last, Ethan settled on “I think so.”

“Is there anything in particular you sought out upon your arrival?” Dorian meddled with the hair at the nape of Ethan’s neck. He wasn’t entirely sure what answer he was hoping for. 

Ethan’s throat bobbed against Dorian’s chest as he gulped and he stretched his hand out, grasping Dorian’s thumb and rolling one of the flat, chunky rings around in his fingertips. “Am I beautiful, Mr. Gray? Even with my…condition?” 

The question choked Dorian up once more. Was he beautiful? Ethan was more than beautiful. He was rugged perfection, his figure the only portrait Dorian had ever been truly enraptured by. His body had slotted against Dorian’s like a paintbrush spreading across a canvas, soft, pristine, of his own creation. His voice echoed through Dorian’s hallways and bed chambers like the howl of a wolf come midnight on the full moon. God, was he beautiful? 

“When you spend your whole life looking at the faces of people—thousands of them,” he began, eyeing the honey of Ethan’s irises, “you know beauty better than you know your own wants and desires. Better than you know just about anything. And you, Ethan Chandler, are the most beautiful.”

And before he could prepare himself, Ethan’s lips latched onto his. They were hot and wet, and the rain still pounded in the distance, hiding Dorian’s needy whimper from anyone other than Ethan. Their mouths were loud against one another's skin—it was not a chaste kiss, nor was it a particularly skilled one, but as Ethan’s tongue slid inside Dorian’s cheek, he found he didn’t much mind. A harsh bite on his bottom lip caused him to arch up into Ethan as Ethan caged him against the chaise, on the prowl. 

“That was the best answer you could have given,” Ethan hummed into him. 

Dorian felt like prey, but he also, unusually enough, felt loved. Ethan enclosed him in a way that was safe, not scary. Like maybe he was keeping Dorian down so that he was protected, and not so he couldn’t escape. 

That thought alone made him buck up into Ethan’s large body, crescent nails digging marks into the back of Ethan’s neck. Ethan groaned into his mouth, gripping Dorian’s waist and holding it against his rocking hips. Dorian could feel Ethan’s everything as their bodies meshed into one, and if he wasn’t so smart, he might have tried to do something about it. But the pace was for Ethan to set, he decided. He didn’t want to be in control, not when Ethan’s hungry eyes were boring into him, passion flaring in them that hadn’t been there the first time they’d explored each other. 

“Your scars,” Dorian managed through whines, “lemme see.” He pawed at Ethan’s undershirt, the buttons done all the way up to his neck. He hated it. Ethan, understanding, undid his top and Dorian had the pleasure of watching his muscles span out as he stretched. He ran his palms down Ethan’s front the minute his shirt was discarded, and Ethan tried to lunge in again, but Dorian was busy. The freckle to cut ratio was fascinating. He was muscular, but chubby—no abs poking through, but the muscles on his arms made up for it. Dorian was obsessed. 

He knew what he needed to do. He hated to cut them short, but sex could wait—they didn’t have all night for what else he yearned for. “Sit,” he demanded, jumping off the chaise longue and tugging Ethan upwards.

Confused, Ethan shook his head and raked a hand over his mess of hair. “I just took my shirt off, Dorian,” he complained, but there was no weight to it. “Tease.” He rolled his eyes, but complied, propping himself against the cushion. “What are you doing, gorgeous?”

The pet name rolled off naturally, and Dorian reveled in it, in the smooth lull of his accent. Ethan was making it hard to stay focused, but he must. 

“Tonight’s been a whirlwind,” Ethan continued, talking more to himself than Dorian. 

“I agree,” Dorian mused as he fussed behind a maroon pillow resting atop one of the many chairs that were still spread around the room from a previous get together, and he hoped, selfishly, that Ethan pieced this together and found it in him to be jealous.

He came up seconds later holding a black, boxy item that clunked loudly as he fussed with it. A camera.

“Dorian, don’t be ridiculous,” Ethan said, covering his chest with a mauve throw he’d retrieved from the floor. “I’m…nothin’ much to look at on camera, I’m sure.”

“What have I just told you? Let me see you, please.” He licked his lips as he watched Ethan reluctantly shove the blanket aside. “Good, perfect…smile!”

Ethan grinned, his gapped teeth lighting up his face on the lens. Dorian snapped a picture and smiled back, beside himself. 

“Usually I have someone else do this, but there's no time to call someone down. It’s getting late.” He thought for a moment, before saying “Flex for me.”

Begrudgingly, Ethan flexed a meaty arm and smirked, clearly not taking Dorian’s photoshoot seriously. After the camera flashed, Ethan spoke. “Hurry up and get over here, before I carry you to bed myself.”

“I’m going to have the the most beautiful portrait made of you.” Dorian continued to hold the camera up, testing Ethan. He eyed the images he’d taken, beginning to find patterns and count clusters. “Is that a promise?” he joked.

But without warning, Ethan lifted himself from off the couch and began to hunt Dorian, moving rapidly towards him. Dorian screeched, breaking out into laughter and ducking out of the way, dropping the camera quickly and padding across the wooden flooring. But Ethan was faster. Before Dorian knew it, he was in the air, his stomach pressed against a large shoulder. 

“Don’t test me again, boy,” Ethan taunted. The bedroom wasn’t far, and Ethan knew this—he wasted no time, and once they reached the chambers, he tossed Dorian onto the bed like he was weightless. It bounced with his weight and Ethan loomed over him, all of the darkness from his face subsided. Suddenly he was sunny and no doom resided in his stare. It made Dorian’s stomach churn.

Ethan kissed his neck, holding his hands above his head. Dorian felt Ethan’s teeth sinking into him, marking him as his own. But something was pulling at him—between Ethan’s arrival, their kiss, the pictures… All signs pointed to lovestruck.

“Ethan,” Dorian mumbled, not thinking. “Ethan, can I tell you something?”

Gaze softening, Ethan lowered himself to be at Dorian’s side, cupping his face with a feather-light touch. “Anything.” He wasn’t playful anymore, instead concerned.

“I was sincere when I said I’m glad you came to me. I’m…I truly feel like this,” he gestured between the two of them, “is something. But I have secrets. And baggage. And you know how I am.” 

Ethan raised a thick, curious eyebrow and pinched Dorian’s hip with his free hand. “I just told you I think I killed someone. S’nothin’ I can’t handle.” He didn’t say more, but Dorian didn’t think he needed to. They were both men with secrets. Men with histories they’d yet to explore. 

Ethan dealt with traumas Dorian couldn’t so much as fathom, or even start to venture into. He’d never know what it was like in America. Maybe he’d never know why Ethan panicked at the gambling ring, and why the dog had sent him into a frenzy. Maybe he’d never even know the full extent of the story behind each scar he admired. But he didn’t need to know any of that when he was right there and so real. Ethan pressed a sleepy kiss to Dorian’s temple, likely tired from all of the pain and anguish he’d suffered through, and all of that faded into the background.

“Fourteen,” he said.

Dorian Gray had never been a lover. He didn’t know how to settle into something so unfamiliar, nor did he understand just how he’d trapped himself in the clutches of monogamy after so much time making himself alluring for the masses. 

“Whaddya mean?” Ethan said, sleep lacing his voice. 

He’d have to tell Ethan one day that he wasn’t necessarily normal. That he would be considered by many to be manipulative, cruel, or dangerous. But that moment wasn’t the time. So he returned the kiss, placing a small one on Ethan’s throat, and let himself be held. Even if just for the night.

“You have fourteen scars.”