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❦ Robbie didn’t think it proper to involve himself in the particulars of Oscar’s intimate relationships anymore. Ever since their own had been dismantled and laid to rest, Robbie had made a point of keeping his nose where it belonged, refraining from sniffing around in other people’s business, no matter how intriguing this business might have been. But in the time between their last romantic meeting and this sweltering summer day, Oscar had all but decried discretion. It came across in his public behaviour, as he paraded before countless waiters and society men the closeness with which he held himself to a young Lord Alfred ‘Bosie’ Douglas. Now it came across in even his private correspondence.
Robbie had been smoking, as was his custom, numerous cigarettes when the door rang. He’d crossed the room and opened it. There, panting from the heat, was the mailman, and he handed Robbie a heavy letter in a bright golden envelope without so much as a second glance. Robbie nodded at the man, bidding him adieu. His throat constricted as he closed the door with his foot and retreated off to the foyer.
He was careful opening the missive. Fingers trembling, tongue sticking out from between his teeth with remarkable precision, he sliced open the envelope’s top and pulled out the letter. It was thick and numerous pages long. Robbie set about reading it right away.
Over the five pages, densely-packed with hastily written prose, Robbie developed an intimate picture of how Oscar had spent his previous evening. What he discovered went as follows.
❦ Bosie had been irritable all of that day. The heat was awful to him; it sent sweat all over his pretty, pale brow. He’d been out in the quad of Magdalen, speaking tersely with a fellow student. ‘The middle class…’ Bosie had sneered, ‘I don’t understand them.’
‘Nor do I,’ said his attractive companion with a snigger. He had his hand on Bosie’s side; slowly he was dragging it up and down the line of Bosie’s ribs. Bosie delighted in this. Indeed, his breath hitched. He leaned into it. ‘They’re mystical creatures. Someone must write a directory on them, so the average man can better understand them.’
The lad said this with an air of authority, so Bosie was bound to disagree with him. ‘No,’ he pronounced, ‘directories are most vulgar… They rob a man of any true intellectual pursuit…’
‘So we shall spend the better part of our lives studying them ourselves, just for the infinitesimal pleasure of understanding what nonsense they speak?’
Bosie shrugged. ‘What else does the upper class have to do with their time?’
This was a rare, effective jab on Bosie’s part. It made the lad laugh. His ministrations, less discreet now, increased in concentration and fervour. Bosie shivered, as if a cold wind had sliced through the thick heat of June.
‘Might we take this somewhere else…’ murmured the lad, staring intensely into Bosie’s eyes. His lips were curled cattishly. His whole manner seemed to exude confidence. ‘Somewhere more private…’
Bosie had been just about to say yes, when a sharp cough interrupted them. He looked up, blearily, into the summer sun, to find an almost humungous figure blocking it for him. The outline was portly and familiar, and the flip of the man’s long hair made Bosie recognise him at once.
Perhaps the man expected Bosie to be shocked at this intrusion. Indeed, he was quite the opposite. Instead of shying away from Oscar’s eyes, Bosie seemed to lean into them. He let the lad’s fingers linger. A grin stretched across his handsome, delicate face.
‘Well, hello, Oscar,’ said Bosie, continuing to smile.
‘Hello.’ Not at all to Bosie’s surprise, Oscar kept his tone polite. Slowly, his eyes swivelled to the lad at Bosie’s side. ‘And who is this fine Echo, come to admire Narcissus?’
‘Echo?’ asked the lad, brow furrowing. His fingers stiffened on Bosie in confusion. ‘Do you mean to say I am a mere echo of Bosie’s beauty?’
This evoked a laugh from Oscar, who looked at Bosie in disbelief.
Bosie shrugged again. ‘He doesn’t know Greek mythology.’
‘Greek mythology?’ The lad shuddered, then laughed at himself. ‘What good are ancient sensibilities for a thoroughly modern man?’
‘They aid him in elevated conversation, for one,’ Oscar said, with every deceptive ring of kindness.
Not realising he was the butt of the joke, the lad relaxed again. His fingers resumed their slow dance up and down Bosie’s side.
This time, Oscar visibly stiffened. His lower lip protruded, as if in a childish pout. ‘I’m afraid I must fly. The horses of Apollo are pawing impatiently at the gates.’ He glanced at the young Douglas pointedly. ‘Bosie.’
Bosie found his feet. ‘I shall be Hyacinthus,’ he said, following Oscar out of the quad. He knew when and where he was needed.
Meanwhile, it had just seemed to dawn on the lad that he was being abandoned. He moved from sitting with a start, the colour draining from his face. ‘Bosie!’ he cried, stomping after the two of them. ‘Bosie, where are you going? What did Wilde mean?’
Bosie merely shook his head. ‘Do not help me, good sir! Save your own life — for it is Hades sweeping me away!’
To make matters more comedic, Oscar began to seize Bosie as if their flight was indeed an abduction, lifting Bosie a foot or so off the ground with an impressive bout of strength. Bosie blushed at this, and as his feet hit solid ground again, he felt in his gut a great, most pleasant stirring. At length, he glanced at Oscar, not sure what to say or how to voice it. All the cunning he’d exhibited in the quad disappeared as Oscar looked at him.
They were out of sight before the lad could ask any more questions.
❦ ‘And where does Hyacinthus wish to fly?’ asked Oscar, after they had been walking aimlessly for what must have been a half hour.
The heat was getting to both of them. Oscar’s temple was gleaming with plentiful, thick bunches of sweat. Bosie shifted uncomfortably in his suit. He couldn’t wait to get wherever they were going, if only to shed himself of these ridiculous, pompous layers.
‘Tite Street’s close, isn’t it?’ asked Bosie. He knew the answer, but because Tite Street was the site of Oscar’s home, and Bosie did not want to seem too eager, he did not wish to reveal this. Even still, his slanted, edged grin seemed to give his knowledge away.
Oscar, good man he was, continued to play along. ‘About a five minute walk. You are lucky, dear boy; Constance and the boys have departed for the day.’
Bosie grumbled quietly to himself. For a glorious week in time, he’d forgotten that Oscar’s wife and children existed. This reminder set him off significantly. ‘How wonderful,’ he grumbled beneath his breath. His blue eyes became dark and stormy.
Oscar leapt upon the boy’s bad mood at once, wrapping a liberal arm around Bosie’s slim, strong shoulder and pulling their sides flush. ‘And what shall we do at Tite Street?’ he asked desperately, eager to steer them away from such a dreadful topic.
Bosie brightened somewhat. ‘I think we shall spend the evening in marvellous repose,’ announced the young Douglas, keeping his eyes firm on Oscar’s face. He was searching for any shift in expression which might give Oscar’s internal thoughts away. ‘And we shall have… sandwiches, yes!’
‘Sandwiches?’ It took Oscar a moment to understand. And when he did, his grin was immediate. He held Bosie tighter to him, with a greater possessiveness. ‘If that is what my lord desires…’ And so they arrived at Tite Street. With all the mischief of a magician, Oscar unlocked the front door and guided Bosie inside.
The place was far from orderly. Over its years of inhabitance it had collected quite the amount of clutter, and this eyesore of an abode was just how Oscar liked things. He sidestepped antique furniture and odd ornaments in order to bring them both up the stairs and into his bedchamber.
And what a bedchamber it was! Separate from that of Oscar’s wife, it sported a somewhat large bed squarely in the centre of the room. In the far corner was a tall, gleaming statue of the god Apollo.
Bosie grinned when he saw it. ‘A self-portrait, I take it?’ He knew that above all else, Oscar adored being seen as a god.
Immediately, Oscar grew flush with pride. He puffed his chest importantly. ‘Why, yes,’ said Oscar, crossing the room to where Bosie stood. His hands were low on Bosie’s back, prodding, impatient to get the deed started. His whole body buzzed with anticipation. ‘Are you not an observant little Hyacinthus…’
Bosie clenched his teeth, and for a moment he leaned away from Oscar. He appreciated the admiration, but the suddenness with which Oscar applied it was too much too soon. He strode over to the statue of Apollo instead.
It was quite feminine in its composition. What with Apollo’s long hair and unrestrained curls, one would not have been able to classify the subject as a man had his phallus not been proudly displayed in all the holy glory of nudity.
With an impish grin, Bosie’s hands travelled down the planes of Apollo’s stomach before cupping mischievously around his small, well-shaped cock.
‘Is that what you have been longing to do?’ asked Oscar suddenly, reminding Bosie that he was not alone, that the man was indeed there.
He stiffened but did not remove his hand. ‘What?’ he threw out, still smiling. The warmth in his body, both from arousal and the summer heat, was unbearable now. Slowly and deliberately, he used his free hand to toss off his outer suit and begin to undo the buttons on his khaki waistcoat. ‘What do you think I have wanted to do today?’
‘Why, place your hand upon a man’s cock; or, perhaps, have a man place one upon your own.’
There was silence, thundering and disapproving — rare for Oscar, where he was usually so loquacious. In this moment, Bosie did not dare look at him. Something was wrong; he did not wish to find out what.
But then Oscar was speaking again, and, taking a step forward, from out of the centre of the room and into the corner in which Apollo — and Bosie — dwelt, he began to proclaim, rather delicately, ‘You were all but begging for it earlier, from that mousy boy at Magdalen.’
‘Oh, that bloke?’ Bosie almost laughed. In truth, he didn’t know the lad’s name. He hadn’t bothered to. He’d been after a good fuck, yes… but intimacy… that was something he never chased. Had never allowed himself to pursue, until Oscar had placed himself, quite forcefully, in Bosie’s path.
He wet his lips with an almost arrogant impatience. He could not understand what Oscar was getting at.
‘That bloke was eager, yes — but I was not,’ he said finally, as if his word alone would assuage Oscar’s fears.
He was right in doubting himself. Oscar continued to advance, every bit the roving tiger. It scared Bosie, almost. When Oscar became as intense as this, he began to resemble, in the smallest, most microscopic of ways, Bosie’s wretched father.
Bosie stiffened. He was waiting for the firm strike of the horse whip.
Instead, he felt a hand smooth itself upon his shoulder. Bosie was only in his undershirt and trousers now, and so Oscar’s palm touched lightly not on shirt fabric but the warmth of his skin. The sweat from beneath his underarms had leaked out onto his clavicle, and with an almost starved reverence, Oscar collected this up on his finger before licking it experimentally. Bosie was torn somewhere between arousal and fright. Never before had he seen Oscar behave such as this.
For all of their relationship, Oscar had posed them both as the consummate Greek lovers. There was to be sex involved — indeed, Oscar had been bold enough to try and broker such intimacy upon their very first visit months ago, a year earlier — but at its core, it was intellectual, æsthetic, platonic. Oscar was the elder man, guiding Bosie, the younger. All matters of impropriety and immorality were expressly prohibited.
But the way Oscar glanced upon Bosie now boasted nothing of ethics and æstheticism. Indeed, there was nothing artistic about it. All religiosity in his gaze was mislaid and blasphemous. Bosie recalled how moved he’d been in his old preparatory school by the singing in his church choir, and he felt that Oscar’s behaviour now was just as wretched, just as profane, as screaming in the middle of the final hymn.
And yet, he could not bear to part from Oscar’s touch. Something about it fascinated him. Perhaps it was the foreignness of it — never in all of Bosie’s boyhood romps had he been treated in such a way by another boy, never mind another man. In fact, the concentration with which Oscar’s fingers moved about seemed to leave on Bosie an imprint of the writer’s soul. It was as if, in this touch of skin, he had been stained by the very ink with which Oscar had penned his novels and plays. This moved Bosie immensely. Had he not first met Oscar because he had read The Picture of Dorian Gray some fourteen times running, without stop, without loss of concentration?
Slowly, Bosie turned to face him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. ‘You’re jealous, is that it?’
He tried to say this in jest, but his own arousal made the joke fall flat.
Even still, Oscar hummed appreciatively. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And that jealousy shall lead you to — what? A duel with the bloke next Sunday night? I’ve got a pistol, you know; every Douglas does; I can lend you one for the occasion if you so please — ’
‘I shall be dealing with pistols, yes…’ said Oscar, his mind clearly elsewhere. His hands paused for a moment, then resumed their movement, down Bosie’s chest to the hem of his undershirt. It was a thrilling repetition of the very same action Bosie had performed on the statue of Apollo.
With a contented smile, Oscar yanked up Bosie’s undershirt and lifted it over his head, baring his chest to the air and lamplight. Bosie let him. He did not say a word.
Still wordless — oddly so — Oscar’s hands continued to travel southward. They fell on the waist of Bosie’s trousers, at once reverent. Bosie waited for Oscar to close his hand over Bosie’s groin, to complete this fantastical, thrilling charade, but no such action came. Instead, he undid slowly, and with considerable concentration, the buttons along the front of Bosie’s waist.
A minute passed. Now the trousers were loose enough to step out of. Without prompting from Oscar, Bosie did just that.
Now he stood in nothing more than his flesh and blood. The air was picking mercilessly at his skin. So hot from his arousal and layers, this sudden chill was a shock to Bosie. Every inch of him erupted in delicate goose flesh.
Oscar stepped back, surveying the whole of Bosie’s body. Almost vainly, Bosie posed for him, trying his best to regain a handle on the afternoon. After a minute of silence, Bosie began to tremble. He had no idea what Oscar was about to do.
‘Sit down on the chaise, please,’ said Oscar, suddenly. There was a conviction in his voice that rose above mere wit.
Bosie’s brows furrowed, but he complied all the same. Much like the Apollo statue in the corner, the chaise felt quite a bit ancient and outdated. It was this antiquity and mystery which seemed to lend the room an exalted, romantic air.
With careful consideration, Bosie splayed out his limbs attractively. His legs parted wide, revealing his cock. He failed to bite back his grin. He was a gentleman, and above all, gentlemen were exhibitionists.
Oscar was biting his lip as he approached Bosie slowly.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Bosie in a bored tone. He lidded his eyes for effect, shoulders rounding. Just a little, he thrusted his hip forward, bringing his cock closer to the determined, approaching Oscar.
‘Something I have never done before,’ said Oscar with much delight. He stopped in his tracks now, not two paces from Bosie, and stared hungrily at the lad. His breath was ragged. It was as if he’d just exerted himself.
‘Will I enjoy it?’ This was always the first thing he considered when entering new experiences.
Oscar pursed his lips, debating within himself. ‘Immensely,’ he said after a while.
And then he sunk slowly and considerately to his knees.
Bosie’s breath hitched. What was Oscar doing? For a moment, he thought the writer was about to clean and kiss his feet, like a worshipper; but never did his eyes even glance in the direction of the floor. They remained fixed on Bosie’s face, as like birds confusion and desperation flitted across it.
Oscar placed each of his hands on Bosie’s thighs. The touch was possessive, sure of itself. An overwhelming warmth trickled from Oscar’s skin to Bosie’s.
And then, without preamble, Oscar bowed his head.
He swallowed Bosie whole.
Bosie choked at once. His whole body stiffened, and he fought the impulse to pull himself quickly back. No one had ever done this for him before! No one had ever thought of it…
Nor had Bosie, if he was being honest with himself. An act like this was designated to only the commonest of whores, and was leagues below anything a self-respecting gentleman at a private preparatory school would consider doing for a mate. Oscar had come from modest beginnings, and perhaps in his youth he had been exposed to this scandalous, damning practice, but he’d made a point since the publishing of Dorian Gray to never reference his poorer background again. He stashed it all away beneath yards of rich fabrics, songs of witty jabs, and oceans of smart-smelling cologne.
But, Bosie considered, Oscar had always had a self-depreciating streak to him. It had been part of what made Bosie so attractive to an otherwise obtuse, bloated figure. All his life he’d been surrounded by men who had absolute surety in themselves; Oscar had been a welcome change.
So perhaps this was just another one of Oscar’s marvellously dramatic stunts. Perhaps the scandal was what appealed so greatly to him. And, now that Bosie had sufficiently relaxed his muscles, leaning, just slightly, into the eager hole of Oscar’s throat, he could not help but admit he was enjoying the act as well…
A slight, strangled moan punched out of him. His mouth was ajar, his eyes slimmer than ever. ‘Oscar…’ he murmured, not knowing when he began to speak how the sentence would end.
Oscar was off of him at once. The chill of the air was unpleasant against Bosie’s slick cock, and he shivered at the sudden loss of warmth. ‘Yes?’ asked Oscar. His eyes were intent upon Bosie’s face.
Squirming on the chaise, Bosie bit his lip. His whole body was trembling. Why did he allow Oscar to do this? Why did he wrap himself up in such scandal, when he knew the horrible end which awaited him? And, far worse, why did it thrill and terrify him in equal measure?
He met Oscar’s eyes with some resistance. Hesitantly, he swallowed. His knuckles had gone white, as he’d been gripping hard to the edge of the chaise. Indeed, he could feel the strength of his fingers parting the ancient, feeble fabric of the chaise’s cushion, launching into the air wretched dust and perfumes which had for centuries been trapped by masterful stitching.
Bosie took in a breath.
‘Again, please.’
Oscar complied at once.
He was more eager this time, spurred on, no doubt, by Bosie’s obvious enjoyment. He worked his tongue around the rod of Bosie’s cock with surprising efficiency, knowing just how to lick and suck to get Bosie to moan. The lad’s whole body was on fire — his limbs were lax, as if he’d been divested of all his bones — his heart had never hammered so quickly nor so loudly in his proud, youthful chest. He threw his head back. A hideous, glorious moan escaped him.
His every nerve seemed to be alight. Oscar had a skill for exploiting the boy’s every weakness, and in this task, he used this well. When Bosie had grown too accustomed to the heat around him, Oscar lapped lightly at his sack. That had Bosie keening again. His toes curled in absolute pleasure.
‘Oscar — Oscar…’ He could form no words save for his lover’s name.
This pleased the man, who hummed contentedly around Bosie’s penis. The sound, in turn, sent vibrations through Bosie’s skin and up the delicate pillar of his spine. He moaned, grunted, gasped and arched, which served only to push his cock further into Oscar’s willing mouth. Soon his tip was bumping against the slim passageway of Oscar’s throat.
His throat! Bosie pinked to learn of his penis’ position. He had so often borne witness to Oscar’s use of this most favourite part of his — the chords that produced his clever wit and speech, gave them form which even a common man could comprehend and appreciate. His writing was sublime, but Oscar knew that without his diatribes, he was nothing. So he milked his voice for all it was worth.
But now… now, Bosie had the exclusive pleasure of disrupting that speech. Now, he had in his hands the power with which to make those chords break. He could thrust so hard, so savagely, that for days afterwards Oscar would strain to speak. He would have truly triumphed then!
But, to Bosie’s chagrin, the mere thought was enough to leave him completely undone. His whole body shuddered violently, his arse nearly slipping from off the narrow chaise, as a familiar high coursed through his bones and blood. He bit his lip, trying his best not to cry out. ‘My god — Oscar — !’ And with a strangled sob, he spent down Oscar’s throat.
Oscar swallowed his seed most lewdly, and removed his mouth with a ringing pop. He looked up at Bosie with curious eyes, licking semen from his lips. His cheeks were as red as a ruby.
Meanwhile Bosie remained panting, his whole world an indescribable whirl. He could not make out colour or shape; only feeling had any bearing on his blissful, youthful soul. He leaned back so that he was laying on the chaise, and with all the energy he could muster, he brought a hand over his face. He was sweating profusely — no, that moisture was tears as well. They leaked from his eyes, skittered down his cheeks. One landed unceremoniously on his tongue. With curiosity, he tasted the salt.
A minute or two passed. At last, his ears began to clear, and he could hear clearly now Oscar’s lusty, distressed pants. Bosie did not sit up, but turned his head in the writer’s direction.
It was clear, just from the man’s expression alone, that he was still painfully aroused.
Bosie could not help it. He grinned, then laughed. ‘Oh, Oscar…’ He spoke like a mother admonishing a misbehaving child.
Oscar was shaking now, at the very end of his tether. His hands were itching to move, but his mind prohibited all movement. More than anything, he wanted Bosie’s fingers on him. The ones that had so gratefully closed around the piety of Apollo would fondle him as well.
Bosie read this plainly from Oscar’s face. His grin faltered, but he restored it quickly. ‘C’mere…’ he muttered, and watched with a king’s pride as Oscar crawled on all fours to be closer to him.
They were practically nose-to-nose now. They shared breath with the proximity.
Bosie glanced down at Oscar’s crotch. ‘Take off your trousers,’ ordered the young lord, who was still grinning contentedly.
Oscar did just as Bosie said. It seemed as if his fingers could not move fast enough.
Soon, he was bared waist-down to Bosie. His cock stood tall and proud against his lower belly, gleaming with pre-cum.
Bosie’s grin broadened. ‘You want me that bad, don’t you?’
Oscar did not answer his question: ‘You drive me insane.’
This made the young lord laugh lightly. It was quite the victory if you could get Oscar to speak plainly, and dreadfully off-topic.
Gently, with his grin rounding, Bosie placed a hand upon Oscar’s cock and squeezed.
The reaction was immediate. Oscar did not go stiff as a rod but indeed seemed to melt at the feel of Bosie’s fingers. His whole body was limp, his head falling forward. His mouth had fallen open, and his eyes, as well, were alight with a fire that was quietly burning through the rest of his body.
Bosie quickened his fingers, intensified the pressure, anything to get Oscar to climax. The man was shaking now, practically deranged; Bosie fashioned himself a doctor, looking upon a terribly sick patient and giving him a miraculous cure.
Just a minute later, Oscar was spending all over Bosie’s slim hand. His eyes shut with a shout.
Bosie removed his hand at once, hoisting himself up so he was sleeping properly on the chaise again. His eyes fluttered closed, and the whole rest of him loosened from the exhaustion of the deed he had just committed. What an afternoon this had been! Bosie would not have been able to predict it during this idle hours with that unnameable lad in the Magdalen quad.
Eventually, as was inevitable in just about every social situation, Oscar found his voice and, like a foil, used it to fight the creeping silence. With a huff, he lugged himself up so that his eyes were level with Bosie’s. A hand began to lovingly stroke Bosie’s fine, rosy cheek. ‘I must say, dear boy, one day your wit will far surpass mine…’
Bosie couldn’t help but laugh at the randomness of Oscar’s sudden proposal. He held Oscar’s gaze with a grin. ‘And what makes you say that?’
‘Well, you needed but an invitation to eat to make me realise what precise carnal act you wished me to exercise upon you to-night.’
Again, Bosie laughed. He was more incredulous now. ‘What?’
‘You said you wanted sandwiches,’ reminded Oscar with a wicked streak of triviality. All this secrecy and hidden meanings were rapidly transforming Oscar into a character from one of his overblown plays.
Slowly, Bosie propped himself up on his elbow. Now their gazes were no longer level, and, like a bird, Bosie could survey Oscar from above.
‘What’ve the sandwiches to do with anything?’
‘Darling boy, you mustn’t play coy — ’
‘No, Oscar. I’m afraid I’m frightfully serious.’
Oscar’s brows furrowed. Just as Bosie had done, Oscar straightened himself in confusion and alarm. However, being on the floor, his eyes only came up to the base of Bosie’s throat. Bosie remained in his harrowed position of superiority.
‘You did not… well, I supposed you meant… when you said sandwiches — ’
‘When I said sandwiches,’ schooled Bosie, as confounded now as he was amused, ‘I said I wished to have those wonderfully small ones you served for me on my first excursion to Tite Street. You remember that afternoon a year ago, don’t you? I’d had tea with you — I was awfully devoted to Dorian Gray, and I’d all but begged my cousin to introduce me to its marvellous author.’ Bosie paused, as if to soak in the scene before him. Oscar was very much posed at Bosie’s feet like a beggar now, and this brought a gleam of amusement to Bosie’s eyes. ‘Anyway, between discussions of Shakespeare and Victoria, there was produced from your kitchen some delectable sandwiches. I’m afraid I’ve longed after them ever since, and I’d thought — perhaps — you would go through the trouble of serving them to me again…’
It was just then that Oscar did something quite miraculous: he blushed.
The incredulity of it all was too much for Bosie. He broke into a laughing fit, not very sure, otherwise, what he was to do.
‘My God, Oscar, you look as if you’ve just seen a ghost — or, perhaps, a lady in a state of undress.’
Quite quickly, Oscar shook his head, as if the action would wipe off any lingering sign of his embarrassment. This did not work, and Oscar’s realisation of this was evident when he swallowed.
‘When you said sandwiches,’ he began, wondrously stumbling over his words, ‘I thought you meant — why, I’d believed it was an allusion to… a man with his mouth full.’
Bosie’s laughter cut off sharply, as one draws a bow off of a violin mid-movement. Something wicked wheeled in his eyes. ‘The fullness in the man’s mouth meaning another man’s seed?’
Oscar did not say anything more. He did not need to. For the picture was now becoming radically clear to Bosie.
‘Ah,’ said the young lord after a while, smiling lightly. He was torn between disbelief and utter amusement. He decided on a middle ground: appreciation.
Gently, he placed a hand on Oscar’s shoulder.
The man shivered violently.
‘You’re amusing,’ began Bosie lowly, ‘very amusing. And when you’re amusing, you’re at your best.’
Oscar shook his head, as if he still could not quite believe the error he had committed.
Bosie soldiered on: ‘I shan’t say I’ll ever desire such a favour of you again. The scandal of it… no, it is too much for me, too much for a man of even my stature. You must understand — don’t you, Oscar?’
‘Yes,’ Oscar muttered, his eyes focusing on nothing at all. He seemed to be in some terrible, all-consuming trance. ‘I understand completely.’
‘Good man.’ Bosie patted Oscar’s shoulder once more, then removed his hand and brought it into his marvellous crown of golden, shining hair. He could feel from touch alone just how wrecked the whole afternoon had rendered his general composure and appearance. Stepping around Oscar, Bosie dismounted the chaise and walked over to the mirror on the other side of the room.
He examined his reflection with much interest. He was debauched, yes, but utterly glowing. It was as if he’d just received a most gracious gift from the hand of God Himself.
He turned to Oscar with a self-satisfied smile. ‘But I shan’t say, either, that I have not enjoyed this afternoon immensely.’
This lit Oscar’s spirits at once. In a moment, he was on his feet and crossing the room. Then he was rapidly approaching Bosie and embracing him from behind. His chin fit nicely in the nook of Bosie’s neck and shoulder. His breath banged along the bottom shell of Bosie’s ears.
‘You are my catastrophe, my romance, my doom — everyone says so — even me.’
And then he dissolved into a fit of wondrous tears.