If beauty is found amid the dirt, draped in rags and stained by the filth of the streets, and yet still shines through—then it is truly a masterpiece of naturalness. For Basil, that was you. You were the white rose among the painted red ones, pure and untouched by the world around you. His muse. A muse, his muse. Dorian was an angel walking the earth, and you, you were mortal with the pain lingering in your eyes. Of course, Basil painted the two of you together—how could he resist? The brush moved swiftly across the canvas, his eyes locked in an intense focus. The emotions were different when he looked at you, just as they were when he looked at Dorian. You knew. Dorian knew too. He played the statue, only to break character later with a glass of wine, and then the two of you would find your way into chambers, hands wandering, grasping, seeking to fill your eyes with more pain, more pleasure.

And then, the hiding began. Hiding from Henry in Basil's studio. There was a dynamic at play: a lamb, a beautiful devil, corruption incarnate, and... the artist. Your body was wrapped in silks, not shying away. Dorian's touch was like stone—still, cold, eyes always ahead. Could this be called scandalous? Henry thought so. He liked it, sipping wine as he sat on the divan, legs crossed, eyes flickering between the canvas and you. You knew those eyes. They were not the eyes of an artist; they were the eyes of a man who saw things differently, who saw flesh where Basil saw color and life, veins, pigment. Henry stood up, moving beside Basil, casting a critical eye over the artist’s work. "You capture them well, Basil," Henry remarked, voice smooth as velvet, yet with an edge of amusement. “A bold composition.” his voice laced with a certain sly amusement. “But tell me, which one of them is the true masterpiece?”

Basil’s hand paused mid-stroke, his gaze lingering on the canvas before shifting to you. “The one that breathes,” he replied softly, almost to himself.