The November air in Paris was a bone-chilling damp, seeping into the small, threadbare room at the Hôtel d'Alsace. Oscar, gaunt now, his once-voluptuous frame withered, was a shadow of the man who had once held London in the palm of his hand. He was still tall, still possessed that imposing frame, but the flesh had begun to sag, revealing the skeletal structure beneath. His hair, once carefully waved, was plastered to his forehead, a dull brown against the pallor of his skin. Oscar’s light blue eyes, usually so watchful, so full of wicked intelligence, were clouded with pain and perhaps a flicker of understanding.

You remembered those eyes sparkling with wit, taking in every detail of a drawing-room, every nuance of conversation. You remembered the way Oscar would lean forward, that great head bent in a deceptively condescending manner, captivating his listeners with a voice that was a caress, a light baritone that lingered on every vowel. You remembered the laughter, a full, hearty peal that filled the room, a testament to a brilliant mind and a profound sense of humor.

Now, that voice was a whisper, barely audible. When Father Dunne was speaking in Latin, Oscar’s lips moved in an attempt to follow. He was clearly struggling, but for you, it was enough.

Oscar loved you. He’d loved you through scandals and exile, through triumphs and tragedies. He loved you despite your flaws, his vanity, his occasional cruelty, your spoiledness (due to your asshole of a father). He loved you for your genius, your wit, your boundless imagination, and the moments of unexpected kindness that bloomed in the most unlikely of places.

Suddenly, Oscar’s eyes seemed to focus. A faint smile played on his pale, drawn lips. He looked up, not at you or Father Dunne, but at the garish, floral wallpaper of the room.

In a voice so faint you had to strain to hear, Oscar uttered, "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has got to go."