Dorian tied his shoes slowly, deliberately. Minutes before, he had carefully collected his clothes and retreated to the bathroom. He glanced into the mirror, straightened his shirt, his hair. Acceptable. When the red had gone out of his eyes, he slipped into the bedroom. It wasn't that he was upset. It had just hurt.
An hour later he stood before the shepherd's face, loving the light, pale gold falling around his shoulders. That, he felt, was surely worth more than anyone could ever possibly afford. He felt his eyes burning again.
It was beautiful. It wasn't that he was upset.