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bat-besties · 4 years

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The Great (He)Art Heist

An art forger. An art thief. One last heist, then they never have to see each other again.

At least, that was the plan.

Roceit with art thief Roman and forger Deceit. - 8k

Edited and titled by the wonderful @rosesisupposes

Summary by @5-crofters-jams

AO3

The Mona Lisa was stolen by Vincenzo Peruggia on 21 August, 1911. Famous beforehand, the drama of the theft and celebration of its return is credited as the main reason for its fame.

The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein hangs in the National Gallery in London, and is considered to be one of the most technically accomplished Renaissance paintings.

Dorian found his name ironic, and greatly enjoyed that irony. It was why he'd changed it as he entered the murky world of fakes, forgeries and stolen pieces, to just his initial- “D.”- before a surname which sounded like it had also been lifted from the pages of a Victorian novel (because it had been): Mendax. Might as well be truthful about the fact he never was. The slightly arcane flair of it fit right in with his associates - St. John (pronounced 'sinjin', something it was embarrassing to learn by correction), de somethings, von somethings, double-barrels and echoes of fame- but even among them, he found 'Peruggia' a little on the nose.

But then 'Roman Peruggia' as he certainly was not legally named, had never seemed to acquire the subtlety Dorian had cultivated to survive.

Dorian knew he was not the best forger there was- he could name someone for each artist he knew who could beat him: Logos for M.C. Escher or the De Stijl movement, Andy Angel for heavy, brooding oil pieces, the list went on. But when it came to range he was unbeatable, and across the board he could copy so well that while they might not stand up to forensic examination, few had been suspicious enough to warrant that examination. He got the feel of the piece, that was the main thing. He wasn't a robot, he didn't copy lines down to less than a millimetre as Logos was rumored to do, he studied and daydreamed and looked at the paintings, he read about artists for pleasure as well as work, and when he was ready he let the mood of the painting overtake him. Loose brushstrokes or precise ones, sketched below the paint or freehanded, name any artist well-known enough for you to know them and he knew their technique.

He applied the same logic to himself. He fit in by careful planning and learned intuition. Which was why he was sitting in the café of the V&A in a checkered scarf and round tortoiseshell glasses with plain lenses, flicking through a sketchbook he'd lifted out of someone else's bag in the National Gallery a week ago. The owner was learning, and he supposed someone else might find that endearing. He didn't like the slight carelessness of the lines. He especially did not like one page where they'd given over to doodles, swirling flowers and eyes and curling armadillos. It wasn't neat, it wasn't nice, it wasn't respectful to a slightly-out-of-proportion Whistlejacket on the other page. He sipped at an overpriced coffee and closed the sketchbook. His contact was late.

A man slid into a chair by him, clattering a plate with a brownie on it. He grinned at Dorain. "Uh...Ethan, is it? Fancy meeting you here!" He did not look like one of the art students in the café as Dorian had taken such care to. He looked like an asshole.

Dorian smiled slightly. "Love the jacket, Tarquin. So tasteful."

The man ran a hand through coiffed hair and laughed. The jacket was bright red acrylic. His jeans were black and very, very tight, as was a T-shirt he was wearing with the name of a designer brand. "Oh, you think so? I saw the sale had ended on it and I was so sad but then I thought- why not! I have the money."

"Of course you do." Which was the point. Roman Peruggia had just completed a major job in New York, with the sale of the paintings rumored to be in the millions. His reputation for thievery and production of genuine paintings was flawless- a little red calling card left where paintings had been ensured that his work was clearly marked.

Roman picked up Dorian's sketchbook and flicked through it. "Ah, the master at work?"

"It's got all my work in it," Dorian said. "No item is more precious to me."

Roman's eyebrows raised, and he turned the pages slightly more slowly. "May I have a page of it?"

Dorian examined the nice leather gloves he'd chosen to compliment his disguise. "Rip it out, why don't you?"

Roman paused. "I...are you being sarcastic?"

"Totally," Dorian said in his most sarcastic tone, because Roman had been late and not kept to dress code.

Roman carefully tore out a page- Whistlejacket, with the doodles on the obverse.

"I was messing with you," Dorian said at the sight of the doodles. "That isn't mine."

"No?" Roman laughed awkwardly, as if he hoped Dorian was joking- or maybe he still thought he was. "These are cute!"

"I don't doodle. Not like that. You can have the whole thing, if you want it."

Roman made a mock serious face before laughing again. "So you don't doodle, you just make masterpieces from scratch?"

"Broadly."

"Huh." Roman sat back and started in on his brownie, pointedly not looking at Dorian as he waited for the next move.

"I presume you know," Dorian said. "Of a trick. Where one item is stolen, then multiple replicas are sold. Three, seven, eighteen- the price of that item multiplied over and over again."

He waited for a reaction, some affirmation or a comment, but Roman just licked the icing sugar from his fingers and watched Dorian. He couldn't read his expression yet, but he'd learn to.

"Of course, it's a dangerous game. In one case, the thieves even returned the diamond to the police. It might not seem as dashing as-"

"I have a reputation, Ethan." Red calling cards. Red jacket. Red lips, now Dorian noticed it. Lipstick, probably. Roman did have a reputation, yes. He must have enjoyed the work of constructing it. "I love the danger part of all this. But I don't do fakes."

"Then why did you agree to meet with me?"

"Curiosity, mainly," Roman said. "You have a reputation."

"Oh?" Dorian said, leaning forward just slightly. "And what is it about me that interested you?"

"You copied the Mona Lisa."

"So has everybody and their friend. I'm not special."

"It could have convinced me. None of the others could."

"It's not actually that complex," Dorian said. "There's one reason why it's so famous, one reason only...but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, 'Peruggia'?"

Roman shook his head resolutely. He ignored the jab at his pseudonym. "I don't think it was just the theft. They talk about Mona Lisa smiles, don't they? There's something special about the painting."

Dorian rested his chin on his hands. "And what's that, do you think?"

Roman only shrugged. "I don't know! Isn't that the fun bit?" He looked Dorian up and down, the way he bled into the background. "I thought you might have something to tell me about it. And...I was wondering if I might purchase a copy."

Dorian laughed through his nose. "Not going to follow in the footsteps of your treasured ancestor and steal it yourself?"

"I look forward to doing so!" Roman said. "Nonnino would be so proud."

Dark eyes, dark hair- Roman could be Italian. He didn’t have a hint of an accent, but he might have been raised here. And the original art thief had had a daughter, Dorian had checked. But the lie was too far-fetched. It was as though Roman didn't care if he saw through it.

"Then why do you need a copy? If you're just going to steal the original yourself."

"I'm impatient!" Roman said. "That's all. I think..." But he popped the last of the brownie to stop himself from talking more.

"The Mona Lisa is worth $850 million." Dorian said. "If you could find a buyer who'd give you even half the price you'd be set for several lifetimes- in money, and in potential prison sentences."

"They don't give art thieves life!"

"How many paintings have you stolen, again?"

Roman crossed his arms. "Oh, very rich, coming from you!"

Dorian wrote small and personal speech in his head about why that was not the case, breathed in, erased it, and gave Roman the final and most important line. "I'm careful."

"You've also done enough for...oh, maybe one lifetime, either way. Why not quit while you're ahead? Set up a nice little art gallery of your own work in the South of France."

Dorian adjusted his fake glasses. "I don't do originals."

"Quite the man of mystery, aren't you?" Roman said. "Ok- what's your favourite work of art of all time?"

Dorian smirked at Roman. "You are, of course."

Funny, Roman's cheeks went red now too. But he wasn't completely naïve. "Oh! Ha! A sense of humour."

"Here's the deal," Dorian continued smoothly. "I want to continue with my copies, but I'm ready to quit while I'm ahead. It sounds like you need to prepare for quite the big heist. You steal a painting I'm about to show you, I make four copies, we each sell two and keep the money. I'll even throw in a Mona Lisa copy, and another two paintings if you want them. Then our ways part."

If Dorian had told Roman what the painting was, he would have politely declined and walked away right then. But he was curious, and he didn't think Dorian would tell him here. So instead they got up, passed the statues to get to the Tube tunnel- "I always enjoyed how this feels like a secret exit!" Roman said, and Dorian let himself smile before he said, "Me too."

⁂

"You've got to be shitting me," Roman said. They stood side by side in the airy light of the gallery.

"Why?" Dorian said. He'd pocketed the glasses, they were beginning to annoy him. "Is it too hard for you, Peruggia?"

"Just call me Roman," the thief said, stepping closer to the painting to examine it. "Isn't it too hard for you?"

It was The Ambassadors, taller than they were, realistic, old, and masterfully painted. Dorian shook his head, looking up at it critically. "Nope. It'll be time-intensive, though. I need you to wait for me."

"How much is it worth?"

"I'm not sure yet. Just four copies will set us up quite comfortably, I think."

Roman looked at the painting's heavy frame, at the security devices all around, at how far they were from the exits. It would be a challenge. Some might say it was impossible. But if you could get a mechanism in- maybe by posing as workers-

Fuck. He wanted this, now. He wanted to know that he could.

Dorian suggested that they find another anonymous place to meet up in, but Roman needed somewhere secure to dramatically explain his plan. He also wanted to see how the forgeries are coming along. Dorian reluctantly invited Roman to his studio.

His studio was white-walled and had a wooden floor bespattered with paint. It was covered in forgeries- his favourites, like a Monet and an obscure little Elizabethan portrait hidden among pieces purely for work. It was...innocent, maybe, in a way which didn’t fit the murky tones of the underworld they both inhabited. But that was the way the light fell through the high windows, not anything the thief would notice.

It should be fine. So Dorian tried to put off the worry about the night until he was leaving his apartment to get there a little early. Except- he had to get dressed. Neat silk shirts, casual jeans, anonymous business suit, a sweatshirt with a bearded dragon he couldn’t quite bring himself to give away. He could have reprised his art student disguise, but he wanted to be clear it was a disguise.

Maybe he should match the thief? He googled Roman's jacket, and found it after a while. The model in the picture had the exact same outfit Roman was wearing, down to the brand of the T-shirt. Dorian was clearly not the only one wearing a costume.

That emboldened Dorian. Nothing scares a liar more than the truth - he would know.

So when Dorian came to open the door for Roman, it was in costume from an obscure Victorian opera he bought from the black market. Black and yellow, a bowler hat and capelet, it was Gothic and exquisitely made, and, importantly, still a costume. Even if it was what he wanted to wear, even if it was how he wanted himself to be, he reminded himself it was originally a costume.

Roman stopped to take him in, looking him up and down from polished boots to his bowler hat. "You look...is that original era?"

Was that a hint of a flush on his face? Oh, he could not be straight. Dorian would bet his whole studio of fakes he was not. Which was the only reason he let Roman clearly see him return the once-over he gave him. And the only reason he said: "Not so bad yourself, Peruggia. Oh, and yes. It's quite genuine."

"Oh. Well, I'll have to...up my game next time we meet," Roman said. He was still in a relatively generic designer outfit, still in his signature red.

"I look forward to it," Dorian said without thinking too deeply about whether that was true. "Come on up."

Roman looked around the studio in excitement. "These are great! Can I touch one?"

"No!" Dorian was horrified. "Do you touch the paintings you steal?"

"Of course not!" Roman put an offended hand on his chest. "What do you think I am, Mendax, an amateur? But I want to do it and I can't and it's so frustrating! Like popping bubble wrap!"

Dorian pointed at the background on the large canvas he'd started The Ambassadors on. "Once."

Roman very carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paint before stepping back, satisfied. "Thank you! Now, let me get the blueprints out!"

He took Dorian through the complex plan he'd devised. He was smart, Dorian had to give him that, and willing to explain wherever Dorian got stuck. The one snag was the exact route on the way in. "I'll have to fix that up," Roman said.

Dorian nodded and stepped towards the door. "Sure, I'll see you-"

But Roman hadn't moved, he'd just pulled a pack of white pencils out of his jacket and started drawing on the plan. Dorian coughed behind him. "Should you be going?"

"Oh, this won't take long!" Roman said. "Just get some painting done if you're bored."

Dorian stepped over Roman's legs to his speaker. "I listen to music. Classical. I have to have that to concentrate, you can't speak to me." He needed the freedom of privacy. This was his space.

"I won't! What music do you like?"

In answer, Dorian turned on his speaker and turned back to his canvas, ignoring Roman. He began to paint, uncomfortably aware of the man behind him. Would he- he turned, suddenly, to see if the thief might have some master plan to steal Dorian's pictures, but all he saw was Roman sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he sketched. He turned back to his work.

An hour or so later, during the break between pieces, Roman quietly asked Dorian to come and look over the plans again. He explained the new route.

"When shall we meet again?" Dorian asked.

Roman shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, it might need fine-tuning. Maybe give me another hour?"

"Well, I'm famished," Dorian said. "I'm going out for dinner now. I can't leave you in here."

"How about you ask me to have dinner with you?" Roman said, rolling up his blueprints. "I'll get the check, since you let me use the space today."

So they went to a little Italian place where the owners knew Dorian by name - a fake name, of course, but the sentiment was appreciated.

And, when Dorian tried to trip Roman up by getting him to order in Italian (because this was business, and Dorian needed to call the shots in business) Roman answered perfectly, and began excitedly chatting with the waiter.

"I'm glad you've brought a friend, Declyn!" She grinned at him.

Roman laughed. "Is he usually a lonely diner?"

"Oh no, we have nice chats, but I've not met a friend before!"

Dorian kept his cool. This wasn't at all embarrassing. "He's not a friend," he said politely.

Dot and Roman's eyebrows raised in one movement.

"I'll leave you two to it!" she said, before bursting into the kitchen to tell Larry one of their regulars had a date.

Roman laughed at Dorian's expression as soon as she left. "Your face!"

Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh. "A slip of the tongue. Can we move on? To...anything which isn't that."

"Why don't you paint originals?" Roman asked, all casual innocence.

Dorian took a sip of water to stall. "A lot of painters could do replicas. But the paintings I do, proper forgeries, have to be perfect. The right brush strokes, the right colour, the right emotions. I have to be a chameleon, adapt to embody other artists. I don't want to lock myself into one style."

Roman was quiet. He didn't fidget as Dorian had expected, he just sat still and looked at Dorian for a while. Then he said, "That doesn't really make much sense."

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"No." Roman gestured at Dorian's eccentric outfit. "Just because you like dressing like this, it doesn't mean you can't blend into the background with your stolen sketchbook other times. You can be yourself, as well as hiding. The two don't have to be discreet."

Dorian hummed noncommittally.

"Well? What do you think about that?"

He paused for a long moment before he opened his mouth. "I think-"

Dot bustled over with drinks and starters, and Dorian turned to her with a grateful smile.

"So...are we going to get a story, Declyn?" She put the drinks down deliberately slowly. "One sentence, I won't keep you guys long."

"We're colleagues with a shared art appreciation. Dreadfully mundane."

Dot knew her eccentric customer had a tendency towards sarcasm and opposites. So she just smiled knowingly before she left again.

Roman turned back to Dorian as soon as the kitchen door swung behind her. "What do you think about originals?"

"We should get our story straight before she comes back," Dorian deflected.

"Get it gay, don't you mean?"

Dorian gave him an unimpressed look; the smile didn't drop from Roman's face. "Come on," Roman said. "I had to do it. Let's see, I was devastatingly handsome, I courted you and you were spiky but then you fell-"

"-as of, oh, a month ago," Dorian finished smoothly. "Our first date was the V&A, of course."

"Oh it was, was it?" Roman said mischievously.

Dorian ran through a cycle of answers. In his art student disguise he'd be flustered, in a suit dismissive, in an art-show-fashionable dress he'd flirt back. He wasn't sure how a man in a Victorian opera costume should respond. Sing, probably. But he liked the idea of the dress, back in his apartment. It was red, like Roman. "You were smitten immediately," Dorian said with a smirk. "You tore a page out of my sketchbook and wore it in the pocket over your heart."

"I'm a thief," Roman said, stealing a piece of cheese from Dorian's plate. "You should be touched I asked permission first, I could have just taken it."

"You're not a thief in this story," Dorian reminded him.

"Ah, of course not," Roman said lightly. "Accountant pals, maybe?"

"That could work," Dorian said.

"Art enthusiasts, right?" Roman said. "Have you read about the cut to funding of arts classes pla-"

"There is nothing more indicative of society that is failing than classism in art-"

"I know right! It's not like-"

And then they were off, pausing only to thank Dot for their mains and barely pausing to eat- or breathe.

They got their dessert for free. A single tiramisu with two spoons. Roman paid for the rest of the meal.

Roman agreed to run the plans by Dorian three days later. He did. Then he laid his plans on the ground, and Dorian put music on, and they worked together again, despite Dorian's grumbling.

"You owe me for this, Peruggia."

"Mmm...dinner again?"

"I'm not making a habit of this."

But Dorian had always been a liar.

⁂

Six months later, neither knew each other's real name. But Dorian knew Roman loved Broadway, and had let slip he shared that love. A few too many references made it obvious Roman loved Disney, too. He said he liked Flynn Ryder, and Dorian rewatched Tangled that night. The day after their conversation about Broadway, Roman hummed 'Façade' from Jekyll and Hyde as he read up about how best to hack security cameras.

Roman stuck his tongue out when he concentrated. When Dorian took a break to stretch he went in time to his music, often without thinking. Roman bought whole sets of clothes off mannequins. It was easier, according to him. He declined the offer to look for actual clothes for himself. Dorian had a different name at every restaurant they visited. Roman had wanted to be an actor. Dorian had only ever wanted to paint. When Roman was stressed he was loud and big and full of nervous energy which needed to be burned off with a walk and giving him space to talk about everything and nothing. When Dorian got lost in the detail of the painting- it happened most often in the most minute detail - he wouldn't break for water or stretches or food. Roman had to steal his speaker and sometimes his brush to pull him away.

As the heist drew nearer, those little details seemed to take on greater weight. A few days before it, Roman became a notable absence in Dorian’s studio as he prepared. He would enter the building at eight, Dorian remembered, and he tried to paint as the clock chipped away at seven, five past, eight past, twelve past. His music tried to smooth the harsh seconds by dripping ornaments and glissandos over it, but even that became a distraction rather than letting him get in the right headspace like usual.

He flipped from the intense detail of a little landscape to preparing a frame. It wasn’t hard, but he didn’t feel like it was quite right. It was too easy to take his attention. He paced up and down his studio a few times, shaking out his hands. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and opened a news app to see if there was anything about the heist yet. Nothing.

If Roman got caught, as long as the thief didn’t tell, there was nothing to trace back to Dorian. And he wouldn’t tell. So there was no reason to worry. Sure, it was a waste of months of work on the forgeries but that was better than prison.

Dorian went over to look at the forgery. The small details had been hardest: Hans Holbein had written legible writing on even the tiniest of items. A whole cabinet of items to represent the two men and showcase their learning- he’d explained each one to Roman, at some point. The distorted skull was the hardest to do, but satisfying. He paced around it, seeing the skull form. Memento mori. “So,” he had said, “remember your place and don’t be proud. And be careful.” Roman had just laughed. “Ah, but remember...yolo. So don’t be too boring!”. Dorian laughed through his nose and shook his head. Roman was such an idiot, and he could be reckless. But he was a professional, he would return safe.

Dorian gave up on trying to concentrate and closed up the studio for the night, heading back on the Tube and letting his mind wander through the window and wonder in which style he would paint it. But the red lights of the signal, and a young woman in a designer T-shirt, and an advert for some kind of Disney on Ice event wouldn’t let him drift into the imagined simplicity of painting.

A few hours after he’d got home, his phone buzzed. He grabbed it from his side and opened it to see a single winking emoji from Roman. And he felt his insides go soft. And he knew it didn’t mean much, so he replied “Well done.” and let himself come down from his nerves to sleep. It didn’t mean much. It didn’t mean anything.

The theft broke on the news the next morning.

⁂

"I suppose this is goodbye, then," Dorian said, when Roman returned to his apartment the next day. "Don't miss me too much. Here she is-" He handed over a Mona Lisa copy. "And you can pick any other two. I like the Monet, personally."

"I do too," Roman said. "But that one's your favourite-"

Dorian laughed unconvincingly. "Oh, no, I-"

"You look at it when you're stressed. Like you want to be a little lilypad floating somewhere I can't annoy you," Roman teased.

"Would that I were," Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile. He was relieved in some ways, but it kind of hurt to have Roman reject the piece of himself he tried to give him.

"No, I'll take the Picasso, I like that new one!"

"Very nice. And the third?"

Roman didn't put on a show of casualness, he knew just what he was asking. "For the third, I'd like an original piece."

"What of, exactly?" Dorian asked, distant and cool.

Roman persisted. "Whatever you like."

The forger looked at his studio of replicas, like old friends, at his paints, his brushes, his paint-splattered speaker. Then he looked at Roman. His honest eyes, his liar's mouth, his impersonal armour of an outfit.

"I'm going to paint you."

Roman's eyes widened. "What- how?"

Dorian tilted his head and assessed him. "Come dressed how you'd like to be painted. Don't waste my time with $40 T-shirts and such. Wear red."

"The colour of love," said Roman with a grin, because Dorian had wrong-footed him.

"The colour of blood," said Dorian, because he needed the last word.

And because Roman wouldn't let him, he carefully put each painting under his arm and on the way out he asked Dorian if he'd seen Titanic, and Dorian rolled his eyes, and they got caught on the question of the male gaze and how much room was on that raft for an extra twenty minutes.

Roman arrived in a prince's costume. No crown, just his natural curly hair. The jacket was white, technically, but the red sash was...perfect. The red cape was perfect. The gold and white were perfect. Of course, Dorian reflected, saying so would only give Roman a window to tease him and he was already so nervous but- "I stole this whole ensemble from the V&A costume vault! Ah, memories."

He laughed. "You look- perfect."

Roman blushed, slightly, and Dorian laughed again. "Keep that red, darling, I have a theme for you." He'd set a stool up by a white wall, but the colour didn't quite work right with the prince outfit, they didn't contrast..."Could you lay down on the floor?"

"I am not getting paint on this!"

"Fine-" Dorian circled his studio a few times before holding his hand out. "Your cloak, please."

Roman took it off. Dorian hung it from some of the many picture-hooks on the wall, creating a backdrop. "Sit down, just there."

Roman did so, and Dorian tilted his head to assess him. The red made him stand out, but the sash was like a slash across his chest, like he was so much himself he was tearing apart. That couldn't be further from the truth. He took the cloak down again, not speaking to his sitter, and stepped back again.

The white kind of fading into the background, the red strong and vivid...that could work. Roman, bold and vibrant, letting his edges blur into the background...but there needed to be something more.

Dorian handed Roman a stem sharp with red gladioli flowers and positioned his hand to hold it like a sword, then shook his head. He stuck the tongue out of the corner of his mouth then put his hand over Roman's and moved them to be positioned over his heart. Better. Not perfect. And this had to be perfect.

Roman laughed softly and mirrored Dorian's expression, poking his tongue out of his mouth. "Copying my expressions now too?"

"Oh?" Dorian closed his mouth. "I didn't realise."

"'S cute," Roman teased.

"Thank you," Dorian said, leading Roman back up from the stool and into the middle of the studio. "And you've given me an idea. I'm sorry about the costume, maybe you can commission a copy from Pat Morgan with all that money you have now. Her work is lovely, they'll make something even realer than the original."

"I don't want a copy," Roman said, lying down on dusty paint stains and propping up his head on his chin to look up at Dorian. "If this one is ruined...so be it. Make me look beautiful in it! Maybe, just, accentuate my cheek bones a little-"

"No," Dorian said gently. "Now, kick your legs up behind you, and hold your flowers just under your chin- finger underneath your chin- There you are, just perfect."

"For the final touch..." Dorian went into Roman's shoulder-bag and pulled out a collection of plans and maps, spreading them on the floor in front of him, as though he'd just looked up. He laughed when he saw a few stacks of notes tied in bundles of thousands of dollars loose in the bag with them. He put a few among the plans. "A status symbol," he said. "Like in The Ambassadors."

"I'm my own status symbol."

"Oh, of course you are," Dorian purred.

"Now, you'll need to hold that there," Dorian said, turning a canvas around. "And I'm not sure which music would fit the mood. We'll have to be quiet."

"Alas!" Roman said. "I shall be dreadfully bored, just lying here!"

"Dinner afterwards," Dorian said. "I'll pay. Just hold that for an hour or so, think about all the ways you'll spend your money. Then - does Italian sound good?"

"Only if we get tiramisu,” Roman said with a little grin.

"We can only do that if you can convince Dot to bring two rather than one big one with two spoons."

Roman hummed. "Nope!"

"What?"

"Sharing is caring, Dorian Gay!"

"Pardon?" Dorian asked sharply.

"You know, like Dorian Grey? Okay, maybe you're Basil and I'm Dorian- but the thought kinda stands- you are gay, right?"

"Completely," Dorian said and turned his back to select a brush. "One tiramisu should be fine."

So Dorian painted in silence, looking at Roman. And Roman went red at his little glances and checks, just like Dorian wanted. Dorian didn't tease him for it, just reached for a line of red paints he'd set aside before and began mixing. Roman watched him, as he painted. He wasn't too sure if he should have kept a single expression, so he experimented a little. "Do you think I should wink? That could be hot."

"I know which expression I'm doing. I don't think I need help, but I'll tell you if so."

They went for dinner. Roman changed into a red sweatshirt and jeans for it. They shared a tiramisu and a bottle of wine and a round of inside jokes. The next day Dorian painted him again. Dinner that night was Chinese. Roman wore a T-shirt reading 'Clap if you believe in fairies'. When he got excited when a kid clapped at him and Dorian changed his mind about which expression he wanted to paint for a split-second. He was wearing a slightly oversized red sweatshirt because Roman had been boasting about how good a thief he was but hadn't been watching his bag.

They had to wait a week before they met up again, since they were selling the paintings, and they celebrated in The Ivy in Central London. They went to a musical afterwards. They didn't make eye contact during the love songs.

The painting was done in a month. Roman was bursting with curiosity by then, but he resisted trying to sneak a peek at it.

Finally, the day came.

The painting was light and airy, real details blurred as if by nostalgic memory. Except for Roman. He was just subtly bolder than his surroundings, colours brighter, lines more defined. He looked down at his plans, tongue poked out in concentration as his hair fell into his face. The flowers were an elegant slant which outlined the shape of his face and centred that everyday expression of his. He looked beautiful. He looked exactly how Roman felt when he was happy being himself.

A name signed the bottom corner on one of the plans: 'Dorian Smith'.

Roman took a long inhale of breath. He stepped closer and examined every careful brushstroke, every carefully chosen colour, every sign that...Dorian had made this, had painted this for him. "It's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," he murmured.

"You really think so?" Dorian said quietly. His voice sounded vulnerable, open, and Roman realised he must have sounded the same.

Roman laughed softly. "Now you've given me your name, you know I'm going to have to steal it. Especially since you took more than just my face to do that portrait. I was right with your name after all, wasn't I?"

"I suppose," Dorian said. "What do you mean about stealing my name? Marriage so soon, Peruggia?"

"Hyphenation suits me better," Roman said, turning to Dorian with that characteristic flush rising on his cheeks- "No, I'll show you'll how I'll steal your name. Could I hear you say it?"

A shaky breath in. His heart fluttering in his chest. "Dori-" And Roman stole his name before it even left his lips.

Roman wrapped an arm around him, muscled and strong enough to lift gilt frames and statues, and held Dorian close. A stupid flirtation Dorian had heard in galleries a thousand times popped into his head, the way silly things do when all you want to think about is this one irrepeatable moment- I can't hold your hand, babe, they say not to touch the masterpieces.

But he was. And Roman was.

And Dorian couldn't copy himself a thousand times or find a version of Roman he could risk wrecking. So he brought up his hand, able to tease gold leaf into place and just barely brush a canvas with loving detail, to rest on Roman's cheek with the utmost gentleness as he deepened the kiss.

When they came apart, they grinned at each other in a giddy moment of bliss.

"That was-" "Very smooth-" "Your hand is so soft-" "A wonderful kiss-" "A fantastic kiss-" "Shall we?" "May I?" And they kissed again.

"So..." Dorian said, usual composure kissed into slight breathlessness. "Now you have my name, what are you going to do with it?"

Roman grinned. "Give it back the same way, maybe?"

Dorian shook his head. "Hold it for just a moment."

Roman pouted. "We can't have a serious discussion on an unequal footing! I'm a thief, not an evil man! That would be wrong!"

Dorian hummed. "I do see your point. Alright, give it here."

"Roman-" He looked at Dorian expectantly, but he was waiting. "I'm sorry," Roman said. "Peruggia is realer than the name my family passed down to me."

"I like it," Dorian said quickly. "I'll take it." He tipped his face up and kissed Roman again.

The light filtered bright and glowing across their faces. Dorian asked, "What now?"

Roman replied, "How shocked do you think Dot would be if we started making out at our usual table?" Because Dot and the restaurant were routine, it was making this delicate sketch of the two of them together into something more permanent.

Dorian cackled. "I think she and Larry would come out with popcorn!"

"Then let's do it!" Roman tugged Dorian to the door. He laughed, just because he could. "Great galloping Gauguin! We can do that!"

"Can," Dorian shut the door behind them, "and shall."

"I think I'm going to kiss tiramisu off your nose," Roman said dreamily.

"If you try that I'll break up with you," Dorian threatened, before realising his threat had done the exact opposite of make him look reserved and casual.

"Break up, huh?" Roman nudged him in the ribs. "Is that so? Dear? Darling? My pretty painter?"

Dorian went as red as Roman's sash.

Dot and Larry watched Dorian tug Roman closer by the sash and Roman attempt to lace his fingers through Dorian's hair underneath his bowler hat through the window in the door from the kitchen.

"Ah, young love," Larry sighed. "Inept, but enthusiastic."

"They're both accountants!" Dot said, budging her husband out of the way so she could get a better view. "Not that young."

"Younger than us."

Dot sighed. "So are lots of people."

"You're more beautiful than the day I met you," Larry said. "You've aged like a fine wine...or a cheese."

"Oh." Dot raised a flirtatious eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Let's show those whippersnappers how it's done, Dot!" Larry said with dramatic flair, offering her his hand. "I shall take out the tiramisu with you, and it will be...unbearably romantic!"

"Oh, Larry."

⁂

A month later, 'Declyn' and Roman came to give Dot and Larry a final farewell. They were moving to Italy itself, but they both assured Larry nowhere in the country would have food as good as his.

Two months later, the news hit the headlines that the Mona Lisa had been stolen from the Louvre itself by none other than Roman Peruggia (he left his calling card).

And finally, four months later, the Mona Lisa was returned, completely undamaged, to a little Parisian police station in the dead of night. Those who thought they had purchased her were left with worthless fakes. But what were they going to do, call the police?

Six months later, a few paintings were sent to Dot and Larry. One was of their restaurant, a cheery little piece signed by ‘Declyn’. The other was of a hillside, done in a style remarkably like Van Gogh and even in a frame which had a museum code on the back of it. Larry and Dot thought of their Stitch doll, looked at the nice postcard with the painting, shrugged, and hung it up anyway. The postcard offered to paint Dot and Larry when they met Dorian and Roman again- accounting, they discovered, had never been their true passion.

Two years later, the sun picked out a hillside in Italy in red and gold. The watercolour wash of the sunrise faded into the glinting sea. Cypress trees were wind-swept into Van Gogh swirls; the susurration of their leaves stirred the cool morning air. A crisp dryness in the air promised that it would be hot later.

On the veranda of a spacious house overlooking the view, a man leaned over the railing to gaze at the valley below.

Another padded barefoot out of the house behind with a grin on his face. "Hmm, let me guess...another landscape? You're going to run out of green paint at this point, Basil too-many-Brushes."

Dorian didn't turn from the view. "Oh, I'll run out of paint and brushes a long time before this hillside stops demanding to be painted."

"No, you won't," Roman said with a cocky grin. "I'll buy you all the paint and brushes in the world."

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned to him with a grin of his own. "You know just what I mean, Roman. You haven't a sensitive bone in your body."

"No, I do!" Roman put a hand to his ear, and leaned out to the ocean. "The hill is saying...'Come inside! Roman's put out things for breakfast!'"

"You are..." Dorian said, as soft as the susurration in the trees, "an idiot."

"And which of us is bilingual?"

"Sto imparando," Dorian replied, raising an eyebrow. "And I was talking about art."

"Art, is it?" Roman teased, before holding his hands in a square shape, closing one eye so he could frame Dorian in them. "I think, if I could paint, I could do a nice composition of this. Only your hand could capture your beauty, but I'd make a valiant attempt!"

Dorian felt himself soften, and he didn't think to disguise that in his expression. The feeling was familiar, now. It was no less strong. Just rather than focussing on the choppy waves of flustering or blushing as he used to, he could feel the familiar tug of affection for Roman underneath it. The ocean had filled up his chest, now, and he breathed love as easily as he did air. "You flatter me, dearest."

"Flattery," Roman walked to the railing and wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist, "implies it is untrue." They were quiet for a moment, breathing in tandem as they looked over the view.

"And what will you do today?" Dorian asked Roman.

Roman hummed. "I'm going to try the tiramisu recipe again-"

"You're such a sweet-toothed child-"

"Shut up, I know. And then I'm going to have a look to see how Create is using our money. Maybe find somewhere else, do some in-depth research as to where it can go." Millions and millions of dollars and pounds and euros had been very appealing, but the scale of it hadn't much occurred to Roman when he began working for the thrill of the chase and a new persona for himself. Now, he'd decided to semi-retire and play the crooked philanthropist.

"I'll help you later, dear," Dorian said. "I might paint first...maybe I should paint myself out here. Would you take a photo?"

Roman popped inside for his phone, came out again and made Dorian pose, taking some pictures. He put it down, patting his other jacket pocket. "Love," he said, a little too casual, "you haven't done a self-portrait before. Why now?"

Dorian shrugged. He had an essay of reasons why, but he chose the simplest and final line because he thought Roman could guess at the rest quite well. "Whyever not?"

So he printed out the photo and set up his easel, and Roman lay on his stomach on the floor beside him, reading articles and sending emails. He wouldn't let Roman see it until it was finished, as with any of his original paintings - he was still something of a perfectionist.

A few weeks later, they were in much the same position, only the sunset was shining outside and Roman was watching Disney with earbuds in. Dorian swore lying on the floor like that couldn't be comfortable, but Roman was like a cat - he just wanted to be in the same space as his boyfriend and seemed to have a spine made out of rubber.

Dorian sighed and rinsed his brush, then rolled his shoulders out. "Alright, there we are."

Roman pulled an earbud out. "What- did you say- to-o me?"

"If that was meant to be 'I'll Make a Man Out Of You', I'm unimpressed," Dorian said, rolling his shoulders out. "I'm finished."

Roman's eyes widened. "Oh, all done already? That was fast!"

"Well, it is a tiny canvas. I just need to let it dry and sign it-"

Roman let out an audible sigh of relief, shutting his laptop. "I'm going to put this in our room! To charge it!" He bolted out of the room with his laptop under his arm.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, then a wicked grin crossed his face. He stretched his wrists out once more, then darted through to a side-table and slipped something from there into his pocket before stepping back to the side of his easel with an innocent smile.

Roman skidded back into the room before casually sauntering over to his boyfriend. "So, what are you going to sign the portrait?"

Dorian smirked and got down on one knee, pulling out a ring box and flipping it open. "I don't know, Roman. Dorian Peruggia-Smith has a ring to it, no?"

Roman's mouth dropped open. "You little-" He pulled out his own ring box as he went red. "You stole my line!"

"You stole my heart," Dorian replied smoothly.

"This isn't fair..." Roman whined, but he was fighting a smile.

Dorian plucked the ring out from its setting. It was a ruby inlaid in gold. He held his hand out for Roman's, but Roman replied by dropping to his own knee and taking out a gold band wrought like a snake.

"Dorian, you are-" he said quickly so Dorian wouldn't thwart him again- "You are- you are so perfectly yourself, now, and now felt so right because- you saw me, and I wanted to show how I see you- and I do, I see you and I love you- and I'm so happy you can see you and be proud of you too-"

He took Dorian's hand and slid the ring onto his finger.

"The ring is perfect," Dorian said softly. "Your speech was perfect. Could I show you my painting?"

Roman got to his feet, and helped Dorian up, watching the ring on his- his fiancé's hand.

Dorian was incredibly articulate. He could pull on a persona with a costume, talk about art history for hours, and flirt with Roman and tease him until he blushed. But the very big emotions? They were so hard to phrase. They felt like they turned to fakes in his mouth, so overdone they weren't worth anything anymore. So he took Roman's hand and led him to his original painting, and hoped he would understand.

The painting was of the photo Roman had taken, but it had widened to include Roman taking the phone photo too. It was looser and freer than his usual style, the side of his face was indistinct and Roman had his back turned to the viewer. The trees swirled, the sea gleamed, but the sunrise did not come from the east. Rather it came from Roman.

He glowed gold, and it emanated from him in a soft glow which faded to a gentle red. It picked out the detail around Dorian like a halo.

Dorian watched Roman's part as he looked at it, the soft, "Oh." of his lips.

"Do you understand?" Which is often the question we're too afraid to ask those we hope love us.

Roman shook his head. "You glow too. You're iridescent. It's not from me."

Just because someone loves us, it does not mean they can read our mind.

Dorian shook his head. "I know. It's that... you centre me. You help me see more clearly...I feel like- I am all myself, and I could be myself without you. But you help pick out the good parts in me, the real parts of me. I could do a twin of this, if you like? If you're so sure I glow?"

"I'd like that very much," Roman said, holding out his hand to Dorian. Dorian slipped the ring on. They held each other's hands and leaned in to kiss one another, and the evening sun slipped down into the cerulean sea and backlit them in a wash of light.

⁂

Dorian knew that he was a good forger because he could get the sense of any piece, he could disappear completely into another artist's thoughts and feelings. He was not the best at them. He could never study one artist well enough to become a master.

He was not the best at originals, either. He wasn't sure how he could be. They showed his own thoughts, his own feelings, and nobody could tell how accurate they were to him. Maybe Roman. Not always. There was no metric to measure them to, no guide to help him, nothing but his own intuition and decades of practice of different techniques.

But Roman had demanded painting. He thought that if he could paint Roman, he could paint anything in the world. When he looked back at that first painting, he saw how much of his husband he had left out. So, he practiced painting everything so he could finally capture his thief - a still life of a drooping rose for his cheeks, an explosive modern piece for his passion, a detailed cityscape to practice detail. He'd never got one perfect yet.

So he tried to paint Roman, over and over, and in his practice of landscape and abstracts and flights of fancy, Dorian ended up painting himself, realer and realer, every day.

#roceit #ts fic #roman sanders #deceit sanders #sanders sides #partners to lovers #thief roman sanders #forger deceit sanders

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