Title: Never Late
Pairing: Dorian Gray/Tom Sawyer
Summary: Tom is annoyed by how much time Dorian always spends getting ready.
Warning: Slash.
Rating: T

I completely forgot that I had this story sitting on my hard drive. I guess that I'm just biased against it because it didn't come out like I had it in my head. It's still good though.
This fic covers an established relationship between Dorian Gray and Tom Sawyer. Therefore, it is SLASH. Two men together. You know how it goes.

"We're going to be late, ya know." He walked a short line back and forth across the rug, an indention already worn into its surface from his pacing.

"A gentleman is never late Tom," the dark-haired immortal answered from his position before his extravagant mirror. "Nor does he arrive in a disheveled manner."

"Do I look 'disheveled,'" the blond asked and came to stand in front of the mirror so that the dark eyes could take in a good look.

Dorian's response was caught in his throat. The younger man of course looked ravishing, he wouldn't be with him if he didn't. However, dark brows contorted into suspicion at the thought of a trick. Dorian hated Tom's tricks because they would occasionally end in the blond's head adorning another pillow at nights and not the ones they shared. It would then take a good week to convince him to come back into the master bedroom. The immortal chuckled to himself at how the American could be so masculine and yet throw such feminine punishments at him. Nevertheless, flattery was always a kind trick to pacify the other man. "You look lovely, as always. Though, if I must say, you could be a little overdressed for my liking."

Tom looked at his clothes in curious appraisal. Usually, the other thought his attire was never good enough, and he would actually end up dressing the blond halfway. Tonight, though, Tom thought his appearance was perfect. "Overdressed?"

He cast his gaze into the reflective surface that Dorian sat before. Tom saw the mirrored reflection of a devious grin play upon the fair features of the other man. "'Overdressed for my liking' I said." A meek blush grew upon the rough and boyish features of the gunman at the implication of Dorian's words. "However, I have no time to undress you to my standards. As you said, we'll be late." He gave an arrogant chuckle while the younger tried to return his face to a normal, tan shade. The ability to still make him feel embarrassed over their intimate nature, even after all their time together, was a skill Dorian held in high regard of himself.

"It doesn't really matter if I meet your standards now, does it? We'll still be late. But you agree that I look fine? And do you have any idea how long it took me to get ready?" Dorian raised an eyebrow in response and the blond answered with, "Thirty-five minutes. Now, way I see it, you just admitted that a 'gentleman' can get ready plenty fast enough and still look good."

"I did no such thing. Who says that you're a gentleman? Besides, I assure you that we will arrive on time."

"We never get there on time. We're always late. I think it's just because you like to draw attention to yourself that way." The blond huffed in an irritated manner and threw himself ungracefully into an armchair. "And then you spend the whole night ignoring me," he stated in an accusing and infuriated manner. "I don't know your fancy English society well enough to be left alone to them while you go running off to talk to some stuffed shirt."

Dorian sat his comb down upon the vanity and took another conceited look into his own eyes before turning them on the blond. "For one who doesn't know English society very well, you seem to be quite chatty with it. You speak like a victim, but I've caught glimpses of those little arms held in your own as you speak of your trivial American adventures. I take it they find your stories quite humorous by the sounds of their inane giggling that I hear across the room. And let us not forget the bow you take shortly before you ask them to a dance upon the floor and hold them close. If you are the victim in all of this, Tom," the blond's name was spat with a slightly venomous touch, "then tell me how I can remedy your woes."

The American rose from his brooding position in the chair. His head down, he walked the short length to Dorian's vanity and stood before the other man. "A remedy? A request that I can burden you with, you mean?" He looked up from the embellished rug, and the immortal caught a red tint on the boyish features. Whatever the child wanted, it had brought a blush to his cheeks. "I want to walk arm in arm with my love." Dorian flinched at the word. He longed for a day when Tom would cease to call him that. It was a word unfitting to a shadow. "When I tell a story to strangers, I want there to be someone on my arm who I actually care about the words reaching. And when I take my bow, I want to raise my head again to see dark eyes and a finely trimmed face agreeing to dance with me."

Dorian pushed off the speech and turned again to his mirror. Such romantic words rang as nothing more than idealistic banter in his ears. The declarations did nothing short of repelling him. They were sickening words that were no doubt the result of the boy's most recent hobby. "I see that you have once again been reading your romantic novels. A new one, or did you simply reread one from the extravagant collection that now poisons my library? With such inflated words as those, I imagine you are near the skill of writing your own."

From the corner of his eye, Dorian glanced at Tom's face in his mirror. He looked broken, dejected, and stared into nothing. The immortal once again rested his utensil upon the wooden surface before his mirror. He breathed in heavily, and the sigh that came afterwards sounded as though he had done this many times before. His words were too harsh for the innocent ears of the blond. He hurt and embarrassed the boy, always. What a masochistic fool he thought Tom to have only stayed and waited for more.

"You know," Dorian stood. He wrapped his arms around Tom and the boy leaned into his touch, always so ready to embrace his treacherous monster. "You know that we cannot do any of that. Society is not accepting of our sin." He brought a soft hand to blond hair, tied neatly into a ribbon for the occasion. Dorian pulled the strip out and ran his hands caringly through the strands of gold. The older man hated to display affection, but he loved the way Tom reacted when he did.

Tom pulled away. There was a grin on his face which didn't surprise the immortal. The boy recovered from his emotional moments so hastily that sometimes the dark-haired man wondered of the inner turmoil still raging inside. It was always no more than a passing curiosity though, as Dorian was much more content with a joyous Tom as opposed to one that he had to console.

The smile on the boy's face only grew wider as he spoke his next words. "Then, kind sir," his bow was low before he brought his twinkling eyes back up to dark, cynical ones, "may I have this dance?"

Dorian thought inwardly that there was no 'kind sir' before the boy but instead rested his palm in Tom's outstretched and waiting one. The blond led him over to the least crowded part of the room where furniture was absent. The only piece near was the phonograph that Dorian turned on before the blond's arm came to rest against his waist and pull him close.

The immortal leaned into the touch and took the gunman's hand in his. He rested his other fingers over Tom's shoulder, his arm bent between them. Dorian allowed the American to lead because he doubted that the other man knew enough of dancing to play a woman's part. It was quite different to all other aspects of their relationship when the boy was never permitted the upper hand.

The song was slow, and Dorian chose it intentionally. The longer and slower they danced, the happier Tom would be, for now. There was no telling how short a time it would be before harsh words were uttered, too quick to be stopped, and hurt him again. The boy would then flash him those big eyes and Dorian would be forced to display emotions that he had long since detached himself from and apologize.

Dorian didn't particularly mind dancing with Tom. He was an excellent dancer for someone raised in the middle of nowhere. The immortal did find fault in the blond's graceless stomping, but didn't feel the need to point out that he should step more on his toes. Dorian enjoyed the dance itself too much to say anything.

They twirled, and Dorian was dipped. Such feminine treatment was almost insulting. They circled again, and dark eyes looked into a lighter, innocent shade. Their steps slowed, stopped. Soft lips reached up to rough ones and placed a kiss. They pulled back and the American cast him a look of annoyance at ruining their dance.

"If I'm going to be pressed this close against you, I want to do something more enjoyable than dancing." He kissed the blond again, deeper. Tom grinned into soft lips at the humor of Dorian's hungry attitude. It hadn't even been that long since they last made the bed.

"We're…we're going to be late," the blond said. His voice spoke as if he didn't really care, never really cared, about going to the party, but he felt obligated to say it.

"I won't be long," Dorian growled and began to push the boy to the bed. He stripped the blond of his dress clothes and took special care that they hit the floor and chairs in a graceful way so as not to become wrinkled. He fell with Tom upon the bed and began the task of removing his own clothing.

"Wait, wait," Tom cried. "Get the oil."

Dorian gave him a wry, joking smile. "Well, if you want to do this the right way, we may end up being late."

"Fine, we'll do it your way. But only if you explain to everyone why I won't sit down at supper." Tom whispered his ultimatum upon the soft lips and ran his fingers through dark hair.

"I spoil you, Tom. You know that, right?" His fingers reached for the beside table as he tried to not move from his rather comfortable position.

"I know you do, Dorian."

.:o:..:o:..:o:.

The last glimpse of sun reflected upon the ceiling, but Dorian couldn't raise himself from his comfortable pillow of soft, damp skin.

"We're going to be late," Tom said tiredly. Pillows should not talk. It destroys the ambience.

"Then let us be late," Dorian mumbled into the blond's shoulder, kissing it afterward.

"You'll regret it later." The boy's shoulders flexed and stretched. He sat up and brushed Dorian off of him and into the sheets, then pinned the immortal underneath him. "Ya look right nice down there, Dorian."

"Well, don't get any ideas. I believe that I've played your woman enough for this evening." Dorian fought again for the upper hand, but found himself too tired for now to care any more than that.

"That was one dance. One dance through one song that we didn't even finish." He leaned in slowly, fully knowing the other man's wrath should he do something to the immortal's disproval. "You are beautiful." He knew the words were pointless; of course the man was aware that he was beautiful. However, Tom also knew that it was Dorian's favorite thing to hear him say, especially in his thick southern drawl that the man appeared to love. Flattery upon the vain was a great weapon indeed.

"We'll be late, Tom." Dorian's word were weak and broken when gruff lips pressed against his neck in a needing fashion.

Tom pulled away briefly and ran his hand lovingly through dark hair. "Now that is just absurd. A gentleman is never late."