• adore beauty, despise perfection •

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CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: adore beauty, despise perfection

It felt as though a shadow was following Corey as he walked the short distance from Dorian's house into town. Maybe the dread was beginning to creep up on him in the form of a dark, foggy cloud — it was now only millimetres away from pouncing, claiming him as it's victim. That was, of course, the dread of seeing Arthur. He was scared about what he might do or say or imply. He was terrified.

But maybe the metaphorical shadow following him wasn't dread. Maybe it was shame. The shame of what he had done the previous night. What he had done with Dorian, cooped up in Mrs Wilson's study. He was ashamed that it had felt so good, guilty that he wanted to do it again, despite telling himself it was a mistake. They were meant to be taking things slow — not handing out handjobs the second they got a little tipsy.

But maybe the shadow was merely his hangover, lurking stubbornly at the back of his head, squeezing his brain and slamming it against the inside of his skull. No amount of paracetamol could fix it, it was adamant on hanging around to worsen his mood to the point of misery.

When he entered the small teashop, the bell above the door chimed playfully and he groaned internally. He was in that all too familiar mood — the one where he felt so wretched and dreary that no one else was allowed to be happy, not even a bell. If the sun shined, he prayed for rain, and if a child laughed, he'd crave the sound of a sob ripping through the soul of a lonely person who had learnt the true realities of life.

Arthur's dark eyes darted up as he entered, and a menacing smile tugged at his lips. A predatory expression crossed his features but it was only seconds before his mask went straight back up. He smiled, "Heya, Corey. Just on time."

Corey spared a glance at the pink clock in the corner. It was almost half past nine — he was thirty minutes late. "Hi."

"I'm just setting up. Come here, grab an apron." He gestured him over. Corey reached for one of the black aprons hanging on hooks behind the till, and slipped it over his head. "Here, let me help you with that." Arthur offered hastily.

"No, it's okay, I think I've got it—" He stopped dead, his words catching in his throat. Arthur was suddenly stood behind him, his whole body pressed flush against Corey's back. He grabbed the strings attached to the apron and pulled them tight around Corey's small waist, making him yelp in pain.

And as if nothing had happened, Arthur was stood beside him again, smiling brightly, "Right, let me show you the ropes."

Corey was on edge the whole day, flinching at the sound of Arthur's voice and trying not to stand too close to the older man. He quickly learnt that working at a teashop wasn't the most exciting job. They received few customers and everyone ordered the same thing. The only reason he wasn't bored out of his mind by five o'clock was because he had to remain alert every minute of the day, scared about what would happen if he let his guard down for even a second.

Arthur would continuously make him feel uncomfortable; brushing past him, pressing up against him, touching him, murmuring in his ear, making inappropriate jokes that made Corey's skin crawl. Once they'd finished closing up, Corey discarded his apron, punched out and practically ran out the door, preparing for his twenty minute walk home.

Home.

Dorian's house.

It was funny how quickly things can change. How one minute it was the house of the boy he resented. It was just a place he was forced to visit to work on a project. And now it was his home.

And Dorian wasn't the boy he thought he was.

From day one, he knew Dorian was wearing a mask of sorts; something plastered over his face, over his entire identity. It concealed his secrets with false optimism and unfaltering smiles. It was impossible to be happy all the time, to not have anything to complain about. No one could do that, not even Dorian Price.

And yet, Corey never once considered the possibility that Dorian's life may not be perfect. He liked to think his mind was wired differently, but in reality, he was just like everyone else. He too, saw merely the artificial bubble wrap that cushioned Dorian's entire existence. He saw the rugby player, the smiling jock, the popular boy with an unlimited supply of friends.

He didn't see he struggle, the pain, the secrets. He didn't see a lost boy trying to desperately hold everything together. He didn't see the neglectful Mother, the missing Father, the broken home.

Corey should have understood. He should have been the one person who saw Dorian for who he really was; an innocent ember of beauty, searching for something to cling to, something to rely on. He craved stability, affection, love, happiness, beauty. Just like Corey. And he should have seen that.

But he let his depression cloud his vision. He was bitter and angry and sad and pissed off at the world. Dorian represented everything that was beautiful. His glowing, radiant smile and dark, shadowed eyes. Maybe Corey was jealous — jealous that such beauty was dangling just out of reach, taunting him, killing him. And he let his ugly emotions distort the beautiful ones.

He saw Dorian as an object, a symbol of everything he hated; perfection. Because as much as he adored beauty, he despised perfection.

And at first, Dorian was just that.

But not anymore; now he was purely the embodiment of beautiful things, at least to Corey. Because he wasn't perfect; he was clumsy, he was forgetful, he laughed at inappropriate time, he tripped over his own two feet, he got jealous, he cried, and he didn't smile when he didn't want to.

And Corey was beginning to fall in love with him.

He'd tangled himself into such a complex web of emotions, he was startled when he realised he was already back at the house, staring at the front door blankly, as if waiting for it to magically open. He awoke from his trance and dug his key out of his pocket, unlocking the door and entering the familiar, cramped hallway. "Dorian! I'm back!"

He didn't receive a reply, so Corey peeled off his jacket and draped it over the banister before ascending the staircase. He noticed that the bathroom door was shut and faint sounds could be heard from within; the creaking of the floorboards mixed with Dorian's gentle humming.

He smiled to himself and turned to make his way to the bedroom, only to stop in his tracks when the bathroom door swung open. He spun around, jumping slightly in fright. "D-Dorian."

He looked just as surprised to see Corey as Corey was to see him. He'd just come out the shower; his damp hair fell past his eyes and his white shirt clung to his wet skin. "Oh, hey, babe, how was—"

"Babe?"

Dorian laughed, running his fingers through his wet locks, brushing them out of his face, "You don't like it?"

"No. I hate it. Don't ever call me that again."

Dorian rolled his eyes dramatically, "How did your first day go?" He asked, walking past Corey and into his bedroom, hopping onto the unmade bed. Corey followed and sat beside him, leaning back against the feathered pillow.

Dorian hadn't slept in his own bed since Corey had been living with him — he stayed in his Mother's room while Corey inhabited his. But despite never actually sleeping there, Dorian still came in and out constantly, grabbing clothes and books and just generally lounging around. Sometimes he'd sit on the end of the bed and watch Corey write poetry at the desk. He'd pretend to be completing homework or scrolling through his phone, but really, his undivided attention was on the other boy, observing his process in awe.

"It was okay." Corey lied, answering Dorian's question.

"I love how chatty you are sometimes." He teased, falling back against the pillow so they were laying side by side in the single bed, staring up at the crumbling ceiling.

"It was okay." Corey repeated. "There's nothing more to say."

"What did you have to do?"

"Serve people, make coffee, wash up."

"What's your boss like?"

Corey stiffened, "He's okay."

Dorian twisted his neck in order to face him. Corey did the same. Their lips were merely centimetres apart. "You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be sure?" Corey gulped.

"You tensed, I could feel it."

"I'm just a bit stressed."

"D'you wanna talk about it?"

"No." Corey turned away, focussing on the ceiling again, ripping his gaze away from Dorian's pretty face.

"Well, d'you wanna talk about last night?" Dorian sighed, glancing back up at the ceiling too.

"What's there to talk about?" Corey whispered.

"I just wanna make sure you're okay—"

"I'm fine. I think I need a nap."

Dorian leant forward and planted his lips onto Corey's cheek, then crawled out of the small bed, "Okay, well, I'll just be downstairs in that case." He smiled sweetly.

"I'm sorry." Corey groaned, rubbing his eyes sleepily, "It's not your fault, I'm just tired."

Dorian waved it off and headed for the door, "Sleep tight, babe."


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